Shall I share with you his final moments?

His weakness, when we needed strength

His absence, when we needed him the most?

Everyone has the same story

Maybe not today, but certainly tomorrow.

And everyone offers the same consolation

"I know how you feel"

Because living means losing

And learning to carry on

But you will never have my memories

You can offer me one hundred dollars

Or one hundred lilies

And one hundred tears

I say to you, keep those for yourself

Tomorrow you will need them all.

What I've lost is mine alone

And it's not for sale.

1- Rose Marie

She could remember when he had been a nice boy, it really not having been all that long ago. What are four years, after all? They had even gone on a date once. Well, to call it a date might be a stretch, but they had gone to the movies, and had shared a popcorn and a Coca~Cola, so that to a fourteen year old girl it had felt like a date. He had held her hand. That was memorable, it being the first time a boy held her hand. She had spent a lot of time thinking about that “date,” but then shortly afterward a series of events had changed his life, so that if he still cared about movies, or Cokes, or the girl next door, he did not show any sign of it. All of that seemed like a long time ago, but four years really isn’t that long, is it? And she still spent a lot of time thinking about him. He was watching her this minute, so how could she not?

Rose Marie loved her garden. Gardening is a thoughtless task, leaving her mind free to wander. It was barely dawn, but he was already on his rambling front porch across the way, sitting atop his milk can. She could see his head above the overgrown holly bushes surrounding his porch, and through the overgrown privet surrounding his yard. He had also been there yesterday evening when she was dusting the rhododendron. She suspected that he was there to watch her, but that might be vanity, as he was almost always there, even when she was not. He was there so often that she found it curious when he was not. She found herself wondering where he could be? She found herself, in those lonesome instances, disappointed, as though he no longer cared about her, or cared to watch for her. To some his presence might seem creepy, but it did not bother Rose Marie. She chose to remember the nice boy.

Rose Marie could still recall that wintery night, those four years ago. It had been only days since their “date.” Back then the hollies around the Laurent home had been trimmed down below the window sashes, and the privet had made neat and orderly hedgerows dividing the properties. Police strobes had reflected red like Christmas decorations off of the white trim paint of his house, those lights flashing angrily in response to the confessed “cop killer” inside. Leery of the cold, Rose Marie had watched it unfold from her bedroom window, afraid to go outside, afraid of the swarming police. She watched the boy on his porch even as the police led his hand-cuffed father away. She and the boy watched from their respective distances as the policemen administered unusually savage baton blows upon his father’s back and arms. It had been a sad thing to watch. It had been sad to feel a tiny piece of his pain. It had been sad to see the boy himself be placed into another one of those police cars, and to watch that car drive the nice boy away for a very long time.

She had been so young, a sheltered fourteen. It had taken work on her part to put the story together, but there was always talk at the breakfast table, or over the telephone, when a mother did not think a child was listening. But Rose Marie was listening. For this particular “business trip” Mr. Laurent, Juste’s father, had prepared a “business trap.” You see, Mr. Laurent had a suspicious nature. For her part, Mrs. Laurent had fallen into the trap. In rushing to meet her lover she had led her husband to the very same spot, where it was proven that three is, indeed, a crowd. Once all were at the meeting spot, jealousy, rage, and a tire iron had teamed to do grisly work. Mr. Laurent had returned home afterward, his clothes soaked in the co-mingled blood of Mrs. Laurent and her lover, Sheriff Beauregard Tipton, while his teen-aged son slept in peaceful naivity in his second floor bedroom. Mr. Laurent had calmly called the police before returning to the cold night air of the porch, so as not to stain the beautiful hardwoods of his French-Creole styled home with blood. This fact had induced many a breakfast-table chuckle throughout Ascension Parish, where most of the citizens had known Leopold Laurent all of their lives. They knew of his compulsive tidiness, and of his attention to detail, and knew also of his unbending desire for control. “Well,” they grinned, “Leopold had given away all of his control for good this time, hadn’t he?”

Looking back Rose Marie could scarcely remember Mr. Laurent. His business kept him constantly away. Time seemed to him a small sacrifice for the good life it afforded him, but time was also needed at home, wasn’t it? It certainly seemed that Allette Laurent could have used some more of his.

On the other hand Rose Marie remembered Mrs. Laurent fondly. Allette Laurent shared Juste’s dark hair and eyes. She had been a beautiful woman, but mysterious. She was rarely seen in the neighborhood, or even around town, so that when you did see her she drew your attention. Rose Marie’s father would tip his head up when Mother wasn’t looking, the better to peek at Mrs. Laurent through the privet. Seeing her father do such a thing did not bother Rose Marie, as Mrs. Laurent wore the newest styles, and wore them well, the short skirts, and the high boots. Her mother also stole peeks at Mrs. Laurent through the privet, so why would Father not? Her age being close to Juste’s, Rose Marie had, on occasion, been invited inside the Laurent home. Allette Laurent had never failed to make her feel comfortable with her ready smile, and warm, low voice. Mrs. Laurent loved the radio. She danced to its music with her eyes closed, sometimes singing along, her body moving smokily to the beats, swirling upward and outward so that Rose Marie was hypnotized, struggling to pull away, wishing that her own body might move just so, even though she had been too young to understand why it was that she wished that.

II. Juste

Juste Laurent had, when still a boy, learned to tip the milk can onto its edge so that his back pushed comfortably into the porch’s inside corner. When correctly positioned the milk can was more comfortable than any of the rockers or swings scattered across the veranda. The can had the added advantage of seating him high enough to see the road, and the neighborhood. For Juste, an only child, this was important, as diversions are eagerly awaited by the lonely and the bored.

That same milk can showed a bit more rust four years later, but it was still Juste’s watch-tower. He had learned long ago to never assume safety, or security. One’s world can crash in upon him at any moment. It is best to be awake to that, and to see things coming, so Juste’s can had taken on a more serious element. Juste had learned the hard way that not all diversions are of an amusing variety.

In a night’s time Juste had lost his family, and his home. In its goodness, however, the state had ensured that Juste was there when it buried his mother, and the state also ensured that Juste was in the courtroom when it sentenced his father, and the state also made sure he was there when it served said sentence. Afterward Juste was led to a graveside seat when they buried Leopold Laurent. Juste was to miss nothing. The lessons were harsh, but they needed to be learned, so that the boy would not follow in his notorious father’s foot-steps. To kill an officer of the law in the Great State of Louisiana was to invite swift and terrible retribution, no matter the motivation.

Even from death-row Juste’s father had ensured that the house’s financial obligations stayed current. The money he had saved, and there was a good bit of it, would have served for the futures of three, but now those monies were only needed to support one troubled life, and they were plenty enough to satisfy that one. A business partner had kept the taxes current (while skimming a healthy percent for his trouble), but there was still plenty. Financially, Juste’s father had done well, but surely Mr. Laurent had known that it takes more than a house to make a home, and that it takes more than money to make a man. But Leopold’s options were limited at the end, weren’t they? He had no choice but to trust that his son could find his own way with a little bit of help. What else was there for the boy?

Juste was tired, his world shadowed. He was weary of the Foster System. He was weary of the way people looked at him when they learned his name, and the way they sneared, or walked away. He took to shopping far away from home so that he was not recognized, or even to taking delivery so that he didn’t have to go out at all. Every eye stared at him accusingly, as though he had himself wielded the tire iron on that fateful night. It did not need a lack of light to shadow Juste’s world, but when night did fall was when the darkness and the loneliness gathered their forces against him.

Nights in the great house were unbearable. Juste sat silent in it’s rooms, awaiting the creaks and groans of the house, the rafter’s settling as thrilling to him as a telephone ring. He imagined the noises as being a sneak-thief sharing his rooms. In his loneliness even a sneak-thief was welcome company. Or he would fantasize that he himself was a sneak-thief in some stranger’s house, watching a “normal” family live through a “normal” night with tooth-brushes, and pajamas, and, “I love you, too’s.” But there was none of that for Juste. There were only the shadows and the weighted loneliness that filled the rooms with the liquid consistency of stagnant bayou water, the loneliness rising arond him, threatening to drown him in its depths. There was no one who understood. No one to empathize, so Juste escaped the house to his milk can. He watched the constellations rotate through the night sky until they faded into the dawn. When that show was finished Juste watched as Rose Marie emerged with her clippers and her dusting can to rotate her way through her garden with the very same business-like efficiency that the starry night had used to rotate through its heavens.

Thoughts of home, and of his “girl next door” had gotten Juste through the state system. For three years Juste had swam with the current, paddling only enough to avoid the treacherous obstacles that a youngster alone encountered, and there were many. But dodge them he did until he was home at last, nineteen years of age, and a man that the state could no longer hold.

Home! Home where Mother had tucked him in. Home where he and Father had played catch. Home with the baby pictures, and the “girl next door”, and the swarm of warm and happy memories. If only home could be that again.

On Juste’s first night home he had taken his seat on the front porch milk can after the shadows inside the house had become too deep. Canis Major, the Great Dog, was directly in line of site to the East when the car pulled in across the way. The car was bringing Rose Marie home. A car driven by David Tipton. David Tipton, the son of the very same man Juste’s father had clubbed to death four years earlier, at the end leaving a tire iron impaled in the base of the Sheriff’s throat. Rose Marie had been out with the son of Sheriff Beauregard Tipton, the son of the man who screwed Juste’s mother. The man who fucked Juste’s mother, and Juste by association. The man who had destroyed Juste’s world. Juste watched Rose Marie and David Tipton as they kissed good-night beneath her front porch lamp, and then, just like all of his other dreams, that dream ended, too.

III - The Rocket

Juste did not think of it, but there was irony in the fact that it was a “Police” model pistol. Outside of the study there was a bright and beautiful morning, but it was a morning unable to tempt him with its multi-colored birds, or with its great, billowing clouds, or with any of its wonderful aspects of life. Instead, here in Leopold Laurent’s office the heavy, silk lined drapes created another mood, caging the sun, allowing only thin lines of brilliant radiance to squeeze in, just enough to accent the dust collected over the years by the still, stagnant air of the room and its trappings. Juste did not know what he was looking for. He was just prying really, digging through the no longer so important papers that had once consumed his father’s life, but he found it buried in the bottom drawer of the roll-top desk, still in its box and never fired. Beside it was a box with bold, yellow script proclaiming it to be ”.38 Special” ammunition. Justin opened the box containing the revolver first. He used cautious hands to lift it from its wooden sepulcher. It awoke dreamily, dangerously, like a canebrake rattler awakening from hibernation. It gleamed blue even in the snuffed office light. He raised the pistol to arm’s length, testing its heft. It felt good in his hand, adding two pounds of packed power to his palm. When he pushed the thumb tab the cylinder fell open like a magician’s hand, hinting of more tricks to come, as though it had been waiting in that drawer all of these years for this very thing, for someone to fill its belly, and to flex its muscle. Juste broke open the second box, and fed the cylinder its shells. He tucked the pistol into his belt, just to try it out. Juste had fired shotguns with Father since he was a boy, but a pistol was a novel thing. He was surprised to find that his father even owned one. It must have been a gift, as it would be unlike his father to purchase something so useful, or so pretty.

The pistol was not tucked in his waistband long when it began to feel good there. Juste became comfortable with its weight, and with the confidence it afforded him. He began to take the pistol everywhere; to town even, his untucked shirt-tails covering its walnut grips. At first he was afraid people would know the pistol was there, but that fear quickly passed, until he almost wished they would see it, and would know that he carried it, as it might help to keep their judgemental stares at bay.

At home Juste took to pulling the pistol out and sighting along the grooved barrel at anything that annoyed him, whether house fly, stray dog, or David Hartman on the morning television. He did not fire, but he might one day, you never know about something like that. He sat in the evening on his milk can, leveling the pistol at a cedar post that had once supported one of Mother’s bluebird houses. He would aim the pistol and wonder, “Who will come and take me to an orphanage now?”

Juste imagined a savage “POW” followed by the slap of soft lead against softer cedar wood causing splinters to fly, leaving an index-finger sized hole dug into the weathered wood. If only he did have the courage to fire it, but doing such a thing in this neighborhood would surely bring “them” down upon him.

With darkness falling over Ascension Juste was again perched upon his milk can. He was aiming the pistol into the starlight, its polished blue luster gleaming like a swirling Banfi Merlot through paper thin crystal. “Smith and Wesson on Ice, that’s Nice!”

Juste smiled at the turn he had put on the popular TV commercial. He wondered to himself, “if the pistol were aimed and fired straight up into the sky, would its tiny missile make it all of the way to the heavens?” Probably not, but perhaps he could fire it so directly, so straight upward that his little .38 Special rocket, tired of climbing and dissillusioned with trying to reach God would slow, and then it would pause on the edge of the stratosphere for one slowly counted second, so that if you could manage to be at that uppermost point in a balloon you could hang outside of the rattan basket and touch the warm bullet with a finger as it hung suspended at its zenith, or catch it in your palm even, with no wound resulting.

But there being no such balloon and the world needing its fair play, God would then get to have His turn in the duel. He, using gravity for gunpowder, would speed the bullet in a new direction, with a new velocity, sending it back, straight down to the Earth’s very spot where you were lying on your back in the tall, wet Louisiana grass, your shiny blue pistol still aimed upwards as the bullet, with His guidance, buried itself in your forehead with a solid “whack!” Juste smiled, “Oh to have an aim that true! What problems that would solve!”

But it was possible, wasn’t it? To have an aim that true? You only needed to shorten the firing range. Shorten it to say... an inch, or even less? It would not take the amazing aim of God then, would it? No, Juste could manage a target at that distance all by himself. Besides, God had never shown an inclination to help out Juste Laurent, had he? But perhaps Juste wasn’t being fair. Perhaps God did deserve his chance in the shooting gallery, despite His past inattentions. Having convinced himself, and incapable of going any longer without having fired the pistol, Juste hopped off of the can, skittered down the porch steps, laid himself in the tall grass, took careful aim at the highest and brightest star, and squeezed off a shot. The little gun bucked nimbly in his hand. The old pistol really worked! For the briefest of moments, it too was alive! The acrid smell of its powder wafted past his nose. Juste closed his eyes and laid his head back in the soft grass. It was up to God now, where the bullet fell.

Juste waited. How long to wait was the question? Seconds ticked by, but how long until the bullet slowed, spent, and fell? He tried to imagine the odds of a bullet fired into the heavens coming down to find the very same man who fired it. Those odds would be overwhelmingly against, wouldn’t they? But then, it only took once!

Across the way a screen door slammed. Juste heard Rose Marie’s worried voice. “Hello! What was that? Is that you, Juste?”

Juste didn’t answer. What was it to her?

4- The Lucky One

Who’s to say where the bullet went? Perhaps it made it to Heaven? Perhaps it floats in space this minute? It had not fallen on him, for sure. And unfortunately it had not hit her, as he could hear Rose Marie busy-bodily squeezing through the Ligustrum Hedgerow, or “Privet” as Mother used to call it, the Ligustrum grown wild now from neglect. Rose Marie was shouting with worry, her volume increasing as she neared.

“Juste! Are you all right? What was that? It sounded like a gunshot! Juste? Juste! I know you can hear me!”

He did not answer. He lowered the pistol to his side and waited. Perhaps she would miss him lying in the dark grass and go back home.

“Juste! What are you doing down there? Are you alright?”

Found! He could hear the fear in her voice. It shamed him a bit, so that he softened. “I am fine, Rose Marie. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What was that,” she asked? “Did you shoot at something?”

“Yes.”

”... well? What was it?”

“It was God, Rose Marie. I took a shot at God.”

“Oh no. Are you kidding, because that is not funny. What is funny is a loser from Ascension thinking he could be the one to shoot down God! Do you not know that other men... much better men than you I might add... have tried to do it and failed? Where would you even get an idea like that?”

“Rose Marie, I was not expecting to score a hit. I was simply testing His aim.”

It would have been difficult to miss the young man’s desperation, and Rose Marie did not. Juste needed help, probably more help than she could offer him, but she was the one who was here. “We do not test God, Juste, He tests us. God did not miss. Had he wanted to hit you, well...”

“Yes. I suppose you are right. He looked up at Rose Marie for the first time since she had intruded upon his target practice. She was wearing pink, satin pajamas and a white bath-robe. Her wet hair was combed straight back. She wore no make-up, not even lipstick. Her face shone alabaster pale against the silver moon, the face cold, and statuesque. Come to think of it, she’d always had a somewhat cold, statuesque appearance. He wondered if her face would be as cold on his fingertips as it appeared, or as hard? And he wondered if she would let him touch it to find out, were he to ask?

“I am going to church in the morning, would you like to come?”

“No, thank you, I don’t think I would be welcomed.”

“Don’t be silly, Juste. Everyone is welcomed at church.”

“And you are naive, Rose Marie. You should speak with your parents about it before asking me to come to church with you. See what they have to say about it.”

“All right, I will ask them! But no matter what they say, you are still welcome to come.”

Rose Marie was on her way home, squeezing once more through the privet. Juste laid his head back onto the grass. That was the closest he had come to an actual conversation in a long time, at least to an honest conversation, one with no lies, and no pretense. Juste and Rose Marie had been neighbors their whole lives. They had been friendly, but never really “friends,” per se. They had never been confidants. Cautious friends was an apt description. He always wanted to be her friend. He wanted to be her boyfriend, even. Juste had never thought Rose Marie was especially pretty, although she was certainly not ugly. She was just not pretty like the cheerleaders were pretty, with their ready smiles, and their brightly painted features, and coiffed hairs. Rose Marie did have a nice figure, and she had a wholesomely clean “glow” about her that was very attractive, but she was so self assured that she somehow seemed out of reach, just like the God that Juste had been unable to shoot down from Heaven. It was unsettling for a young man with a laundry list of insecurities to see such assurance in a girl younger than he himself was. Juste suspected that her personality was the reason she was not already knocked-up and married, like the cheerleaders were, as he was surely not the only boy who was put off by her poise. A mind is not an especially appealing quality in a high school girlfriend, but it is an extremely appealing quality in a wife. She might not be as popular as the cheerleaders now, and her self-assurance might put off the boys, but it would not bother the men. Rose Marie’s time as a “catch” was coming.

“Lucky her,” Juste thought.

By the time that happened Juste would more than likely be with his parents once more. He was even hatching the beginnings of a plan. He stood, and tucked the pistol back into his waitband. The lights from her house shone golden bright through the privet, making it look like a happy house, as only a home with a happy family inside can look. Funny how the outside of a house mirrors the emotions of those within it. Juste looked up at his own house, at the dark porch, the overgrown shrubs, and the peeling paint. Yes, funny that.

5- Metamorphisis

She went to church as promised. Juste watched them from his milk can as the family climbed into her father’s Cadillac. She glanced at him through the privet. He saw her look, but she neither smiled, nor waved. Neither did he, but he did notice her legs below her short, blue dress. He really could not help noticing them, as there was a lot to see.

Juste pulled the pistol from his waistband. He considered again what he had considered last night. He could hardly miss from short range, could he? He pulled the hammer back, and placed the tip of the barrel against his temple. The barrel was cold, hard. He hadn’t the courage to do it. He wanted to do it, but his body revolted, it being the victim to instinct, to self-preservation. Perhaps his instinct was stronger than his thought process? Thousands of years of genetic survival were a lot for a nineteen year old to overcome.

But Juste Laurent was not the first man to grapple with this problem. He soon fell upon a tried and true solution. He would fool his instinct. A game of chance would eliminate the surety of death. He would make it a gamble, a spin-of-the-wheel. Juste made his way inside to sit at the kitchen table. He jettisoned the cylinder. The casings rattled across the table. He chose the closest and re-inserted it, his fingers shaking from... what? Fear? He admitted some fear, but whatever awaited could be no worse than his current condition, could it? Juste was already dead. All he was doing was rattling around this big house like some ghost, and worse, like Ebenezer’s “Ghost of Christmas Past” Juste endlessly considered one particular Christmas Season and the horrors it harbored. If he were “really” dead he might at least find peace and rest, the two things missing from this current version of Purgatory. Besides, should there be another life after this one then perhaps he would meet his parents again elsewhere, in a place better for them all. Juste slammed the cylinder shut and gave it a hard spin. For a short while it spun like a casino roulette wheel, clicking off a quickly diminishing destiny which superceded any red-black, odd-even, lucky strike jackpot. Juste watched until its clicking stopped and the cylinder fell silent, the pistol smirking at him like an impatient blackjack dealer awaiting Juste’s next bet.

Juste formulated a plan. He would spin the wheel once per day, every morning, right after breakfast. He would make his gamble early, before the day’s heat, so that on “The Day” he would at least miss that. “It” could happen today, or “It” could happen tomorrow, but it would undoubtedly happen soon. His heart began a slow, steady beat. This would still be hard to do. He could not fool his instinct after all, but he would trust the plan. It was a plan that he thought he could carry out.

His next thought was silly, but it was something he needed to do. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He had never moved into the downstairs bedroom, it still haunted by his mother’s perfume and his father’s stern voice. In the deepest part of the closet was his white dress shirt, and his suit-coat and tie, hanging on their wire hangers. He brushed the dust from the shoulders and put it all on. It had been a while since Father’s funeral. The shoulders were snug, but would suffice. Today was a dress rehearsal, so he would go all out. Juste wanted to look respectable when found.

Juste headed back to the kitchen. Where would be “The Place?” He had “The Method” and he had “The Time,” all that was left was “The Place.” His method would be messy. Did he care about that?

Yes, he did. The kitchen would be the worse spot, for sure. It should not be there. The yard would be good, but someone seeing him on a day when “It” did not happen could lead to complications. The bathroom? A possibility, but not the environment he wanted to see and smell in his final moments.

The front room porch? Juste perked up at that thought. It was perfect! It was a small and nearly forgotten screened porch off of the front bedroom. The porch was where Mother used to sit before supper when Father was away, which he often was. It was a place where she could relax, enjoying her “whiskey-totty.” There was a wheeled recliner on the porch, and a matching metal table that served as a drink and ashtray stand. It would be perfect for Juste’s needs, just as it had been perfect for Mother’s, allowing her a place to drink, and to plan, and to do whatever else one does who is betraying those who love them. Not that she was entirely to blame for her indescretions. These things are rarely the fault of one. Juste’s earliest memories were of the nights when Father was home, of listening from his bed as they argued, either not knowing, or not caring, that their raised voices were heard. Juste would lie awake, their voices pounding his ears like fists upon his door, his Father with his accustations and assertions until Mother gave up. “You WILL do this, and you WILL do that!” It was no wonder Mother cheated. She was taking the blame for it regardless, she had might as well enjoy the fruits.

It was only a practice round, but Juste made it an authentic dress rehearsal. He sat on the recliner, his back very nearly upright, his tie pulled tight to his neck. He picked up the gun, hefting it, testing its weight and balance. The East facing porch was already bright with morning sunlight. Tomorrow he would start earlier. He had tossed the recliner’s cover into the corner, but he could smell the unhealthy smell of the mildew that had grown in its center where the rains had collected, and dried, and collected again dozens of times over the years. In the yard the jays screeched, and a robbin hopped. A tree frog honked rudely, desperate for a mate. Beside his head a yellow-jacket bumped the screen wire, searching for escape. Juste spun the cylinder. When it stopped he cocked the pistol and held it up for inspection. There was a bullet in the chamber. This could have been “The Day!” This would have been “The Day”!

6- Chrysalis

The cereal bowl and milk were still sitting on the table. Yesterday’s bowl and spoon sat dirty in the sink along with the ones from the day before. The kitchen was a mess. Hell, everything was a mess. Juste began to worry about how he would be remembered after “it” happened, about his legacy, so to say. At least, the little bit of a teensy legacy he might leave. After all, he knew it was as much “who would do the remembering” as it was, “what would they remember,” and no one would shed many tears for Juste Laurent when he was gone. In fairness, he was largely to blame for that. Since the night his father was led away in handcuffs there was not a single person that Juste could remember having tried to foster a relationship with. He hated them all. Every one of them. He suspected that they hated him, even the ones who tried to be kind, and there had not been many who tried. All of this meant that the only impression he had left to make was on those who found him afterwards.

Juste had become a lazy slob apparently, but he was not raised that way, and his parents needed every bit of dignity that he might help them retain. He supposed that his slovenliness had begun on “The Night” those four years ago. It would be easy to blame the government workers, or the Foster families, but most had tried to be kind, even if it felt superficial. Juste thought he was better than those people if only because he was raised in a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, but he had done no deeds that made him better, and that was the real test of “better,” wasn’t it? Juste started to throw his suit-coat over the back of the kitchen chair, but on second thought he took the stairs two at a time to re-hang it in the back of the closet where he had gotten it. With time seeming short he began to feel rushed, like he must accomplish something before he left, before it was too late. He took a minute more to make the bed while he was in the room. He seldom used the bed anyways, preferring to fall asleep wherever it was he was lying when he did sleep, which was not often. Back downstairs the dishes, countertops and table were quickly wiped down. One thing led to another. The floor was mopped, the refrigerator cleaned, and the light bulb above the sink replaced. It was soon late afternoon. The house was warm, so Juste made his way to the front porch, and the milk can. He noticed that the Cadillac was back in the driveway across the way. He could barely see it above the hollies. The bushes were invading the porch. If “it” didn’t happen tomorrow he would trim them down.

* * *

Juste was not on his porch when they pulled into the drive after church. Wasn’t it strange how she became uncomfortable when he was not there, as though she needed to know his where-abouts, the not knowing causing the same discomfort as discovering an abandoned spider’s web hanging over her bed. Where had the little devil gone to, and could he be creeping up? She recalled Juste as he had been the previous night, lying corpse-like, and skeletal, his long, brown curls splayed across the un-cut grass, his unshaven chin and his shadowed, socket eyes opened to the heavens. She wondered if he was eating, as he had a nearly rock star emaciation, and stench.

Juste was right about Poppa, though. Father had not been enamored with the idea of the long-haired freak next door accomanying them to church. His exact words had been, “HELL NO!” The words and tone had been shocking, but it was alright. There were other ways she could help Juste. Rose Marie had come down with a case of “Lost Puppy Syndrome.” She was well aware of it, just as she would be aware if she had contracted the flu, or some other catchy thing. Many women fell victim to it, and had even bothered to name it. She wondered herself at her desire to reach out and pet ineptitude, and to spend time caring for those upon whom caring was a wasted expense. She could not explain it. Perhaps it was some genetic, maternal instinct designed to give opportunity to the weak and sick, or perhaps it was merely teenaged stupidity that she had not yet outgrown. That thought produced a mournful sigh. Here Poppa’s library was filled with the widom of the ages, yet she had no answers for life’s simplest frustrations.

Once upon a time she had been in love with Juste Laurent. Perhaps she still was.

* * *

His was the only house still lit when Juste slunk from the milk can. He moved zombie-like to the bathroom. The mirror stared back with a disapproving critique of his reflection. He looked mean. No wonder people wanted nothing to do with him. He splashed his face with hot water and pulled the razor over his silky-fine, “Jesus” looking beard, trying unsuccessfully not to “catch it.” The razor was old and dull. It drew bloody grimaces at each swipe, but Juste scraped it all down to bare, tingling skin. Next were the scissors. He would miss the open rebelliousness of his locks, but he chopped them down, too. When done, what was left lacked precision, being both ragged and choppy, but it was a style, a unique style of distress that he liked, and that had the added benefit of comfort.

When Juste finally laid himself down on the sofa it was to a fitful sleep, with dreams of shouting, blood, and screams. In the dreams he pounded the tire iron against the smiling faces of Mother and Father, bashing them relentlessly, but he was unable to kill the smiles... those goofy, infuriating, stupid-fucking, “What do you know, silly boy?” smiles.

7- The Egg

The window grayed with morning. It was “The Day.” Today the game would begin. He pulled himself from the couch despite the cold, hollow knot pitting his stomach.

Juste moved to the milk can with dream-like slowness, as though his body was stalling for time. What a strange feeling it was! The ouside air was already thick with humidity, though the sun did not yet tell. The day would be one more in a long line of scorchers, but the squirrels were awake, and the mocking-bird pair. Their nest must be deep in the holly. Jays always choose the sharpest, hottest spots of Hell for a nest. The jays rule all that move in their little, staked out sections of the world. They are the sharpest of the birds, and the most aggressive. If Juste could fly, it would not be as a hawk, or an eagle, but as a jay, whether mocking or blue did not matter. It was the jays who ruled the air from the tree-tops down.

The sun appeared. It was time. Juste rinsed the cereal bowl carefully, using soap and water, appreciating the familiar task. He climbed the stairs on heavy feet, trying not to think that it was for the last time, that he might never see his room again. He buttoned the dress shirt overtop of his pocket T-shirt. He admired the crimson tie against the gray jacket in the bureau’s mirror. He admitted that the short hair was an improvement. He searched the eyes, but saw no fear. It was time.

Back downstairs Juste took his seat upon the recliner on the tiny screened-in porch. He sat the same, following the rehearsal the best he could, back upright and legs outstretched. He ran fingers through phantom hair. He was stalling, but what was the rush? Juste thumbed the button that opened the pistol’s cylinder, exposing the single, brass casing at rest in its chamber. In a moment he might be free.

His heart raced so that he feared he might die before “it” could happen. He snapped the cylinder shut, closed his eyes, and gave it a spin. His heart kept time with the spinning cylinder, gradually slowing, ticking the bullshit that was his life away, so that when it finally stopped he was resolved. His insignificance was appalling anyway. Try as he might he could find no reason to be here, no purpose to drive him forward, and so he floated like flotsam through the daily doldrums without picking up a paddle. Why bother when you don’t know the direction for land? And watching those around him flounder was sickening, rowing their boats with dogged determination, their eyes fixed on a moving horizon. Some zipped this way and that like water bugs skimming the surface, while others steered rudders into ever widening circles. Some actually built masts and hoisted sails into windless skies, all in a useless search for Shangri-La, all of them in a race to nowhere. It was sickening to watch, and Juste was sick of floating amidst it. He was nineteen years old. This could not go on for fifty more years. It was time!

The hammer gave a “tick” when drawn back, and it was set. Eyes still closed, Juste lifted the pistol to his temple. He squeezed gently, as you would squeeze a sore genitalia, making sure not to cause a rupture. Of course the gun did not fire. He squeezed harder, but still nothing. How hard WAS hard enough? He squeezed harder yet, the tension on the trigger now real, and pressing. He squeezed harder... and harder again. Juste could not see his grimace, nor hear the sound in his throat that increased in volume along with the tension in his hand, AAAaaagh!” He continued applying pressure, daring a response from the inhuman machine, the volume still growing from his throat and chest, “AAAaaargHHH!” When the hammer fell his scream was primal, rising up from the basement of his being, a basement we all have, but where we don’t allow our minds to wander until the moment is upon us, “AAAAAGGGHHHH!” The click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber sounded as a blast in his ear, as an evil ejaculation, as Satan’s gavel falling upon his soul’s verdict. As the release of the spring’s tension and its slamming hammer were reverberating through his temple Juste envisioned an invited Death with flowing robes and reeking breath come to call, pushing a bony finger to the bell, eager to enter for a morning visit, for the chance to break his evening’s fast. Like a hooked carp Juste gulped at the thick, humid air on the porch, his muscles spasming, heaving him like a drowning man breaking the water’s surface, desperate for breath. He filled his lungs once more, screaming at Death to go the hell away, “AAAaagHHH!” He was alive!

That fact came as a surprise. It was not time! “It” would not be today! Juste, his eyes still tight, found himself praying. It was “The Lord’s Prayer”, remembered after all this time. At the prayer’s end he opened them. El Sol burned bright, having moved higher in the sky, as if curious to see how the scenes played out on the little porch. At the back of the yard a doe had pushed her head through the heavy brush at the tree line, pausing there to watch and to listen, as though she were alerted by his screams and had come to see what was the matter? When she was satisfied that all was well she sliced easily through the brambles and the honeysuckle, her hair impervious to the thorns and hitch-hikers hiding there. A moment only and there was an equally careful fawn, dainty, painted up in tans and whites.

Juste was alive! Alive to see it! Alive to hear the squirrels bark, and to hear the jays yack, and to smell the mildew, and alive to feel. Oh, how he could feel it! He felt the soft breeze through the screens and he petted it, and he loved it, and he smiled.

Everything in site glowed golden, as if dipped in honey. It would, no doubt, taste just as sweet. Juste was alive!

8- Larva

Juste decompressed on the recliner, his body shaking out its Death’s grip, his mind awash in thought. He could not fathom time. Was it all a minute? An hour? Two? Time seemed to him a trick, a manipulation created by some evil soul centuries ago. A trick meant to rob us of our essence, and to consume us in its hours, and its days, so that in the end we have wasted our lives worrying about time itself rather than spending its moments on our backs in the cool grass, or with our feet buried in the hot sand while our souls’ revel in the innocent amazement of being. Juste looked again toward the sun, its energy producing his light, and his warmth. “El Sol” knows the way. Perhaps the ancients were right, after all, in offering their praise to the sun.

His body’s natural rythyms returned to normal, but his senses remained deliciously “golden”. A song, “Hang on Sloopy,” by The McCoys, provided a backdrop to the rushing thoughts in his head. He could hear it way back there, deep in the depths of his mind.

“Sloopy, I don’t care what your daddy do. Cause you know Sloopy-Girl, I’m in love with you.”

The volume grew. Like the kraken it rose, inching up from the depths as though a volume button was turned until it was all consuming, rather than just a background void filler. It was piercing, like Stravinsky in the dentist’s chair. The song pushed to the front, pushing away what had almost been, allowing him a return to the world of the mundane, and normalcy. It was a strange song to have in his head, as Juste was not a fan of it, and he knew no other songs by the band, but he could hear it, and he could feel it, the choppy guitar licks, and the Indian rain-dance drum beat, so that his toes tapped along.

“Shake it, shake it, shake it, Sloopy! C’mon, c’mon! Shake it, shake it, shake it, yeah!”

Juste set the pistol on the little table beside the recliner and he left it there, having no desire to pick it up again, as if doing so might change the ending. He was perfectly happy with the ending. Ecstatic even, with it. He was alive! He wanted to keep the deer, and the golden visions, and even, “Hang on, Sloopy” for as long as they would stay with him. His feet were light beneath him. He did a Chubby Checker “Twist” as he made his way into the house. Nothing seemed too silly. He climbed the stairs to return his coat and tie to their respective places in the closet, pausing long enough to open some blinds. Everywhere inside the house now seemed so disagreeably dark. He made his way back down the stairs, and to his milk can, but he could sit idly no more than “El Sol” could.

The view from the milk can did not change, but what Juste saw changed drastically. Things that escaped his notice yesterday stood out starkly today.The overgrown Holly, and Ligustrum hedges, the un-mowed grass, the sparrow’s nest above the porch column, the cobwebs in the high corners, the peeling paint. Juste saw this and more. He saw sadness and pain in the soil, brick and wood. Sadness and pain that belonged to him, not to the house. His pain had morphed onto the facade like a signal flag for help, but until today Juste’s flag was ignored by the world, and he left to flounder alone. Juste recalled Rose Marie’s words from the other night, “God does not miss. If he wanted to hit you...” God had shot Juste with a different kind of bullet this morning, a honey-dipped bullet that woke him from death, revealing the Heaven that is life, rather than the usual, lead variety of bullet that behaved in the normal, deadly style.

The shears and loppers were in the shed. They would need a whetstone, but there was no cause to wait. Juste hopped from the can onto willing feet. There was work to do, and he was up for it. It would be a big job, but he was young and strong, and his skin could use the sun.

Two hours later, his shirt soaked with sweat, Juste was half of the way down the holly in front of the porch, trimming it level to the handrail. Behind him he heard her clear her throat. She wore denim coveralls. Her worn, leather gloves held a leaf rake. Without a word she began raking Juste’s trimmings into neat piles.

“Thank you.”

Rose Marie did not stop working, but she smiled at him. The simple “thank you” was a surprise. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she was impressed that he accepted her help with no smart-assed comment, or attitude. She also noted the shorter hair, and the shaved chin. Something good might be happening here, but you just never knew with someone who had been through the things Juste Laurent had been through. She would hang out for a while to see how the wind blew.

El Sol was sinking when the front holly was done. Juste retrieved a tarp. They piled the clippings on top and drug them to the burn pile. Juste pulled out the garden hose. He showered his head and chest with the cold water, took a drink, and held the end out for Rose Marie. As she bent for her drink Juste stepped on the hose, cutting off the water’s supply. Rose Marie backed away with crinkled eyebrows. The water began to flow, but when she bent to drink it stopped again. Juste took the hose, holding the end up to his eye. “I think I see it coming!” He lifted his foot from the hose, allowing the stream of water to shoot into his face, sending Rose Marie into a fit of laughter.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Juste handed her the hose while he wiped the water from his eyes. “I was just playing with you.”

“Well, you are funny. I never saw that in you before.”

“No? I don’t know how you missed it. I’m usually a barrel of laughs.”

Rose Marie smirked. She dropped the hose and picked up her rake. “Let’s go!”

Juste was tiring, but was determined that she not see it. He finished trimming along the East side, and turned the North corner. Rose Marie was raking the trimmings from the shrubs when she saw the pistol on the table inside the screened porch. What could Juste be doing out here with a gun? She looked around. There were no houses, no roads, only the woods, and the Ligustrum hedge. Juste came around the corner. She smiled at him, and continued raking her little piles onto the tarp.

9- Pupa

Juste headed straight for the shower, but he did not get in. He could not. As tired as he was, and as hot and dirty, he looked around the bathroom and he set in to scrub. He worked naked, a can of Ajax in one hand and a sponge in the other. He sprinkled, scrubbed, rinsed and repeated over floors, tub and vanity. The room was not perfectly clean when he stepped into the gleaming porcelain tub, but it was pretty damned close. Juste scrubbed himself with the same energy he had used on the room, using the wash-cloth like sandpaper, scrubbing away the old and making way for the new. If God cared enough to renew his soul, he could take care of the rest himself. The tepid water felt wonderful, the water gently caressing skin pink from the sun. He stood perfectly still. The water ran over his head and across. It washed over his ears in a torrent, creating a “whooshing” sound not unlike blood pumping through veins. The warm flow of water and the “whoosh” like flowing blood recalled the womb. Juste either had a fetal memory, or he created one, he did not know which, where the blood of the Mother flowed loud in his ears, he enveloped in her safety, hearing and feeling for the very first time. Juste experienced the joy of “being” once again. It had been a long, long time. He smiled, and he started to sing, his song reverberating through the ceramic room.

“Well it feels so good! C’mon, c’mon!

You know it feels so fine! C’mon, c’mon!

Yeaaaaaaaa!

Hang on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on! Yea! Yea! Yea!

Hang on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on!”

The invitation was for after supper. He had asked her over for the “burning of the clippings,” which promised to be a show, as the pile had grown into a mountain by late afternoon. Having no idea what time Juste supped, Rose Marie knocked lightly before cracking the door open. “Juste?” She stepped inside. The great entryway was quiet, save for a bellowing from the upper balcony. She eased on tip-toe to the top steps of the marble staircase, climbing until she could make out the noises. She stepped onto the balcony. She heard it clearly from here. It was a very poor rendition of the popular song, “Hang on Sloopy.” While it was obvious that it was not being sung by a master, it was never-the-less sung with a healthy dose of enthusiasm. Rose Marie paused. She resisted the urge to take off her clothes, and to surprise Juste in the shower for a sing-a-long. Instead she tip-toed back down the staircase to return again in a little while.

The fire smoldered more than it raged, the wood being green. They stood off to the side of the thick smoke, Juste holding a rake in case the flame should try to drift.

“I came over earlier. I heard you singing upstairs.”

“Yea? I’m preparing for my next career.”

“Oh! Are you? Well, don’t quit your day job until it gets rolling.”

“There is no day job. A starving artist has no back-up plan.. It’s Rock-and-Roll, fame and fortune, or bust.”

“At least your house is paid for. You have that going for you.”

Juste’s laugh was out of practice. It felt out of place inside him, but the smile was comfortable, if odd. He liked having her here. He enjoyed her quick wit, even when it bit... especially when it bit.

“Juste, you have been home over a year now and not once have you knocked on my door. You never even waved across the hedge? You only stare from the porch like some kind of weirdo until my mother is afraid of you. Why did you never come talk to me?”

“Did I stare?”

“Stop it. Answer the question. I have waited a long time for an answer.”

“OK, but you might not like it. My first day back home I was excited to see you. I was out here watching for you, but you have to understand that I was different than before. I was nervous, because I wasn’t sure you would like the new me. Then when I saw you kissing David Tipton I wasn’t sure if I liked you anymore, or if I still wanted to talk to you.”

“That’s why? Really? David Tipton? He asked me to his prom! He’s a nice guy, and I wanted to go. All of my friends were going. You understand that I have a life, right?”

Juste’s smile faded into the black night. “I do understand, and you understand that I don’t?”

“Juste, David was hurt by what happened, just like you were. It wasn’t his fault. He lost his father too, that night. Look, I went to David’s prom with him. It was one night. I don’t want to talk about David Tipton, or who has been hurt the most. Can we talk about something else?”

“We could, but I don’t really know anything else.”

“I’m going home.”

“Ok.”

Inside the smoldering mound of clippings a tiny flame danced. Juste watched it blow and grow in the evening breeze. The song played in his head as he watched, keeping it all golden, the song and the tiny flame together tag-teaming the darkness.

“Hang on, Sloopy!”

The little flame stretched itself out, reaching for hand-holds and toe-holds amidst the branches and leaves, feeling for anything that might help it to grow and be strong, as though it knew inherently that the breeze could only sustain it for so long, and that it must have more than that to be.

“Sloopy hang on!”

Across the branch, on the other end of the same green stem, another tiny flame, dancing and blowing, reaching out. Reaching out for his little flame, seeing it there in the dark and inching towards it.

“C’mon, c’mon!”

It stretched toward Juste’s tiny flame, and his stretched toward it.”

“C’mon, c’mon!”

The flames walked the limb like a wire, reaching towards one another. As they closed they began to run, balanced on their slender stem before melting together into a larger, happier, more stable fire that grew itself outward and upward, finding the going easier together, the night not so dark.

“You know it feels so good!”

Juste would not make it alone. He needed someone, and that someone was here, now, and was about to walk away. Like the flame he would have to reach out.

“Sloopy let your hair down girl, let it hang down on me.”

“Don’t go.” Juste pulled his eyes from the dancing flames and looked into hers. Rose Marie had not moved. “Please don’t go.”

“Sloopy let your hair down girl, let it hang down on me.”

“I won’t.”

Juste reached for her hand, his tiny flame reaching through the dark... and hers reached back.

10- Imago

El Sol lingered in Ascension. It was once again, as it is one day every week, His day. Sunday. Juste climbed into the Cadillac, joining the happy family for their drive to worship. He was not Catholic, and would have preferred the antics of a tent Revivalist, but he had been invited to come with, and there was a debt.

His freshly painted house looked happy in the sunlight as they passed it by, it’s white trim nicely off-setting the slate blue siding. The hedgerows once again neatly divided, and singled out, the Creole-styled architecture from its Victorian neighbors. He had begun the painting on the front porch. Rose Marie had been the first through the privet, wearing her denim coveralls, a brush and roller in hand. Shortly there-after, her mother, and then her father had pushed through the hedge, both in work clothes and ready to help. Juste watched them come from over-top the trimmed holly running along the porch, the holly once more home to mocking jay and wasp, they needing their homes, just as Juste needed his.

On the East side, inside the nearly forgotten screened porch was the recliner, with its matching metal table. On the table the pistol laid where it was left, Juste still unable to pick it up lest the ending change, the ending as it was still perfect.

The church filled quickly. Catholics, being strong on ritual but loose on formality, arrived in all manner of attire... jeans and t-shirts mixed with slacks and suits. The family took seats near the front, the easier for communion. The organ started, the signal for silence.

It was surely a coincidence. The beat was common, and the rhythm. The organist had never even heard the pop tune, “Hang on Sloopy,” much less played it, but the words slid into the melody she was playing perfectly. Juste’s eyes were closed, his heart open. It was God who put the song inside him. He was in God’s house. He began to sing God’s song back to Him, the words reverberating through the high rafters of the church.

“Sloopy lives in a very bad part of town,

And every body there, tries to put my Sloopy down.

But Sloopy I don’t care what your daddy do,

’Cause you know Sloopy girl, I’m in love with you.

And so I sing out!”

Unsure of what to do, Rose Marie went with it, singing along with him.

“Hang on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on!”

Her mother joined in, and then her father.

“Hang on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on!”

It spread quickly, flu-like, young to old. Soon the pews were the choir. Those who did not know the words clapped along, clapping on the down-beat. Catholic they were, but still a good, Southern, Louisiana congregation, a congregation that knew “The Hayride.” The young danced, the old swung rickety hips as they sang and clapped to the beat. The little church rocked to a different kind of spiritual... to a song placed by God into a different kind of boy... into a boy who found God in a different kind of way.

A boy who found God in a hedge, in a house, in a girl, and in a bullet in Ascension.

I am modern society. Validate me for I am not myself. I am a collection of likes and reposts. I am a internet board of what’s trending and current. My personality is not genuine, I embrace the parts with the most likes and delete the parts that don’t get enough validation. If you like it, I will be it. Give me validation or I won’t know which parts of myself to showcase and which to hide away. I will work to remove every flaw that keeps me from getting reposts. Success is only measured in my feedback. My sense of style is whatever gets me the most comments regardless of my personal opinion on it. My opinion doesn’t matter. Only yours. I can be comedic, I can be deep, but this is only decided by whichever will get me the most attention today. If you like something, I will embrace it. Likes are more than a number, they tell me what is expected of me. Whatever gets the most likes is who I am today. Validate me, for I have no idea who I even am anymore.

I was 17.

We were by the coast, for the summer.

The White Cliffs of Dover.

We were alone, atop our very own cliff.

A blanket and some cheap cider.

The golden hour had just drawn in.

You know?

That hour photographers love, just before sunset.

Everything is, well, golden of course.

The day was clear, perfectly clear for England.

The sun’s falling glow was sprinkling little shards of pure white reflection all across the ocean in front of us.

Too bright to focus on any one spot of it.

She said she hated summer.

Hated summer?

Could you imagine that?

For an English woman?

I felt betrayed, I was in love with the summer.

But, I was in love with her much more.

Much, much more.

So, I agreed, I ignored the natural beauty all around me, the birds, the gentle breeze, the comfort of the thick green grass beneath me.

The warmth.

I told her I hated summer too.

She smiled, a rare glow.

Then stood up, her back to me.

She turned, still smiling and outstretched a hand.

I accepted and let her pull me closer to the cliff edge.

The height of it all made my feet feel light and my stomach heavy.

She dropped her dress, down her body, with the kind of slight of hand I imagined must have been practiced for years before.

I hoped that practice was alone.

“I want you to make love to me” she said.

I walked closer.

I went for a kiss.

She turned her face away and put her head on my chest.

I wasn’t very confident at kissing back then, this didn’t help.

“I hate summer” she said again.

For some reason this made me calm.

Her being so close, and her despair.

She must have sensed it.

She grabbed my hand and pulled it into her crutch.

Then walked us both back as she gave me that kiss I so needed.

It felt as perfect as you could imagine.

Then I paused.

I could feel the edge too close.

She said it again.

“I hate summer”

She got so close to the edge my amour immediately replaced itself with a biting fear.

She was too close,

She wasn’t even looking back behind her as she walked.

“Be careful” I begged

But she just smiled, a smile I’d never seen on her.

And then she stopped smiling and she stopped walking.

“My heart is not here” she said. “Life is a benign tumour teasing at death. The party trick of some wicked child in a universe light years away”.

Her words seemed rehearsed.

“I’ve seen something else..”

And with that she took one final step back, and she was gone.

Forever.

My brain reacted slower than it should have.

That feeling will never leave me.

It’s one of the most intense emotions I’ve ever had and it only lasted a matter of seconds.

That mixture of fear and of hope.

Fear of what had actually just happened, and the still present illusion of hope that it hadn’t actually happened.

You miss a million close calls with death, or your friends do, your pet does, whatever, where that hope usually turns to elation, dashing all fear.

But not that time.

Anyway,

That was my first and last time.

I’ve been here ever since.

Of course?

What did you think?

I know nobody in here actually admits that they committed their crimes.

But I, I really didn’t commit that crime.

But what witness?

What motive of hers, for suicide, in the arms of her loved one, on such a fine summer’s day, and naked.

Of course they didn’t believe me, of course.

She hated summer.

Of course they didn’t believe me.

What English man or woman hates summer?

Well, I guess, I do now.

I’ve hated summer since that day.

Actually, maybe before, I sometimes wonder if she ever said that at all?

That she hated summer.

Maybe I just wanted her to hate it too.

To hate it all too.

Like I did.

Maybe I scared her.

When she said her heart wasn’t with me?

That look in my eyes after she said that.

Maybe I made her jump.

Maybe I pushed?

The mind fogs...

But my memories of out there are all I have left.

They must be good ones.

They must.

“I will never be weak again.” Robert says.

Robert is a tall man, a bit muscular and bald. He towers over another man who’s on his knees, bleeding from his head and terrified. They’re in a hotel room, the place is completely trashed.

“Please… don’t do this. I’m begging you!” the scared man whimpers.

Robert cracks his knuckles, there are rings on his hand. A total of five. Each ring has a different colored gemstone and strange tribal looking designs on the trim.

“I’m sorry but you need to die. I need your power.”

The scared man also has a ring on. It has a red gemstone and designs on the trim.

“Please don’t! If I could take it off I’d give it to you!”

“I know you would.” Robert says with a friendly smile.

Suddenly Robert latches his hand around the man’s throat and lifts him up. He squirms and gurgles for oxygen.

“Goodbye.” Robert says, and crushes the man’s throat.

The man’s body goes stiff and his arms fall flat to his sides. The ring on his right hand falls off his finger and hits the ground. Robert drops the dead man. He kneels down and picks up the ring.

“Another one to my collection” he tells himself as he slides the ring onto his left hand.

Robert stands up. He looks at both hands. They’re stained with blood. He then notices a large cut on his right forearm. Robert focuses on the cut. The ring on his right hand with a white gemstone begins to glow. The cut on his forearm begins to heal and fade away slowly. His wound disappears. Robert closes his right fist and inspects the ring with the white gemstone. There’s sorrow in his eyes. He walks over to the bed and sits. He relieves a sigh.

“I’ll be strong… for you.” He mutters.

Memories of a beautiful woman appears in his head. She was gorgeous with luscious brown hair, green eyes and a smile that would melt anyone’s heart. Andrea was her name. Robert’s wife.

A year ago, Robert and Andrea have made a decision to live together. After learning she was pregnant, Robert proposed to her and gave her a ring he found. After cleaning it and making it look brand new, Robert proposed to Andrea on her birthday. She fell in love with it. The ring had a nice white gem on top with strange designs on the trim. It glowed when she first put it on. It was unique, something she never seen. However this ring was more than unique. The two lovers learn quickly just how special it was when Andrea was cutting up food for lunch one day. She accidently slices her finger, leaving a very deep wound. Blood is everywhere. Robert freaks out and goes to fetch some bandages. When he returns, he prepares to help close up her wound until suddenly, it begins to miraculously close up. It’s healing by itself instantly! He sees his wife’s face in shock. They can’t understand what just happen. They both notice her ring was glowing too. They at first decided to ignore it, thinking maybe they were just too tired. But as days went by, Andrea couldn’t help but think about that day. She couldn’t ignore it. So Andrea did something that completely scared Robert. She grabs a knife and stabs her own hand. She yells in pain.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Robert yells.

Andrea pulls the knife out and blood is all over her.

“We need to get you to a hospital!”

“Wait don’t! Just watch.” Andrea speaks. She shows her wound to Robert and to his disbelief, her open wound begins to heal just like the last time. He’s at a loss for words.

Andrea smiles and holds her belly. “Honey it’s okay. See? I’m okay, and the baby is okay. This ring you gave me. It’s a gift from God!”

Robert smiles. That ring truly did heal her. It was a miracle.

Months past, Robert and Andrea receive grim news on their last doctor’s visit. Andrea is already seven months pregnant, but learns from the doctor her baby has a high chance of dying during birth. Not only will their unborn son die, there’s a chance she will die too. It breaks both of their hearts.

“Honey… we have to terminate him.” Robert says, pain in his voice.

“No! I refuse!” she yells at him.

“But you could die!!”

Andrea locks eyes with her husband, tears running down her face.

“No… I won’t do it. I can save him.”

“What?”

Andrea points to her ring. “This blessing from God. If it can heal me, it can heal our son! I know it can!”

“Were not sure if it’ll work.” Robert claims.

Andrea turns her back on him. “I have to try. Please…”

Robert is torn. He doesn’t want to lose his son, but he doesn’t want to lose his wife either. He embraces her. “I’m sorry. We’ll go through with it. I just don’t want to lose you.”

Andrea faces him and smiles. “You won’t.”

There’s a loud knock. Robert snaps from his memories. The knocking becomes more aggressive.

“Police! Open up!” a man’s voice comes from the other side of the door.

Robert stands up from the bed. He takes a look around the trashed hotel room. The dead body of the man he killed lays there in a puddle of blood. The knocking continues.

“Last warning. Open up or we’ll break in.”

Robert cracks his neck. He opens up both of his hands. Two of the rings he has on begin to glow. Suddenly fire begins to emit from his left hand while at the same time, ice begins to form out his right hand. He faces the hotel door.

“We’re coming in!” The voice yells.

Robert closes his eyes. He looks back at his memories once more. Andrea’s image appears in his mind. First that beautiful face of hers that was full of life. Then the horrid pale one she had when he found her hanging in their bedroom. Andrea survived the birth, but their son didn’t. It emotionally destroyed both of them. However, it devastated Andrea, leading her to suicide. Maybe because she used the ring’s healing power as much as she can to try and save their son. But it didn’t work. It could heal her, but not their son. The amount of guilt she must have felt. He was dead in the womb before he was even born. Robert did everything to bring her back. When he found her, he desperately tried cutting the rope with a knife. During his attempt to do this, Robert ended up cutting himself. Blood was everywhere but he ignored the pain and cut the rope. He cried. Shook her and hope she was still breathing. That’s when he notice her ring was gone. He quickly looked around for it and finds it on the floor.

“Come on Andrea don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me!” he hysterically cries as he slides the ring onto her finger.

“Live dammit! Live!!”

The ring does nothing. In one last desperate attempt, Robert puts the ring on. He feels a sharp pain throughout his body when he puts it on but ignores it. He lays his hand on her chest.

“Please come back to me! Please!!”

The ring’s white gemstone begins to glow. Robert smiles. But then that smile fades when he notices the long cut he had begins to heal and disappear.

“No! No!! Not me! Her!!! Heal her!!!” he yells.

Robert lays there on the floor; crying, powerless and holding Andrea. He couldn’t save her.

Robert now stands in the middle of the hotel room. Three more bodies lay on the ground. Two burned to a crisp, while the other completely frozen. He looks around the gruesome scene he created.

“I will find a ring that’ll bring you back my love. Even if I have to kill every last person with these ‘blessings’ of God’s power.”

There are stories here, stained into this weathered rock,

Stories of the past lay all around you,

Lives of people remembered as nothing more than a red stain dried up long ago.

There’s pain here, marred straight into stone,

Blasts tore this land to screaming shards.

Perhaps one day a bullet will be found and claimed as a fossil,

The same goes for the bodies of these lost souls.

Shame, isn’t it?

All this death, scarring the land for years to come.

This once breathtaking field, marked forever by the stench of death.

See this mark, this petty stain over here?

That boy was nineteen, his brains lie somewhere over there.

A hero, they called him, for taking out thirtysix people with one toss of a grenade.

And over here, a caring nurse was felled.

Forty-one years young, she took a blade through the heart, her blood still spatters this spot.

A traitor, they called her, for daring to help a twelve year old child who had been labelled as the ‘enemy’.

Villains, they called us,

Every life who fought for their lives on this field,

So many souls never made it home.

A massacre, they called it, for the death of so many.

A tragedy, they called it, when they forced thousands to flee and die along harsh roads.

A thing of the past, they called it, as they built a bypass atop the sacred land.

Villains, we called them, for the desecration of everything we held dear.

Villains, we called them, once we were again forced to leave.

Villains, we called them, after even our pride was stripped away.

“Today I will be happy.”

That’s how each page starts. That’s how each day starts.

“Today I will be happy.”

It’s perfect. Hanni never has to think. She could. If she wanted, she could think. But why? It’s all written so well. When you’re born you’re given your book. The story of your life. What you will decide to eat every day. How many errands you’ll run. The people you’ll meet. Who you like. Who you hate. All of it foretold for you. Your first day of school. Your wedding day. The day you get your wisdom teeth pulled. The birthdays. The sick days. The lazy days. The memorable moments. All written down. Black and white. Clean page after neat, clean page.

And, “Today I will be happy,” atop every one of them.

“Today I will be happy.”

Hanni stretches. Because that’s what her book says.

“Today I will be happy. And to start today I stretch.”

She scratches her cat, Jax, behind the ears. She showers. Eats eggs. Makes her bed. Hanni dresses for work. She grabs a bottle of water and an apple and is out the door. Because that’s what her book says. And each day is just like this.

“Today I will be happy.”

Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Trip.

Wait. Trip?

Hanni trips. She glides down her front steps like every other day. Her office is 8 blocks from home. And at the third block, Hanni trips. Her arms reach out in a quick attempt to save herself, but it’s too late. She had never planned on tripping. The apple rolls to her right and her water bottle and book fly into the street. A car passes over the bottle and water explodes in every direction. And Hanni’s heart breaks. The book is drenched. She can’t remember seeing this in the book ever. She can’t remember anyone ever ruining their book. Hanni snatches up her book and returns home. No one calls to see why she’s not at work. No one has a book that says she will not be at work. Her life was simple. She had skipped ahead several times and she knew that she was happy. Her life, happy and unremarkable. She would stay happy and healthy until retirement. At which time Jax would pass. She would be happy though because he lived a long, happy life with her. And she would take her retirement money and travel. A new city to be happy and stretch and make the bed in every year until she died herself.

Unremarkable but happy. She could keep going on. She mostly knew the plan. After all, it was unremarkable...

Tomorrow Hanni would wake up and continue the way she had been.

Today I will be happy.

And Hanni’s doorbell rings. Before her eyes are even open, her doorbell rings. That has never happened before. She opens the door and finds a new book on her steps. A red ribbon tied around its leather bound pages.

This book does not say she will be happy.

This book is empty but for one page.

The words are scrawled in her own writing.

They are not neat. They are not even straight or centered. There are splotches where it looks like someone may have not only spilt coffee but also cried. And along the edges someone has inked in little roses and vines. And somewhere in the mess, in Hanni’s own script is just one message.

“Today I will live.”

I’m really doing it. At the ripe age of 45, I’m taking control of my life. All my life, I have called one place home. But now, with that home behind me, I feel free.

The magazine tucked away in front of me reads “Grand Adventures: Wilderness experiences in Alaska.” It’s the perfect place for me. I heard many people go to Alaska to run away. Convicts, mostly. But I’m no convict. I’ve never so much as jaywalked in all my years.

“Folks, it is 2:45pm and we have begun our descent into Anchorage. The current temperature is 59 degrees and we will be at the gate in about 20 minutes. We’d like to ask the flight attendants to now prepare the cabin for arrival. Thank you everyone for flying with us, we hope you enjoy your time in Anchorage.”

I intend to.

After deplaning, I follow the rest of the herd toward baggage claim. I have no baggage to claim but the backpack already on my back. I’m not the only one detouring past baggage claim looking slightly nomadic. I am the only one with evident wrinkles though.

Walking out the sliding doors, I am met by a slew of welcoming committees- none for me. There are shuttles adorning all the usual hotel brands and taxis in yellow and orange.

“You look lost,” declares a woman who appears to have come from the same herd as me. Dressed in jeans and a Patagonia shirt, she looks to be younger than me. Maybe 10 or so years short of my “over the hill” status.

“I don’t know where to go,” I respond.

“Are you looking for a specific shuttle?”

“No, no shuttle. I’m not sure where I’m staying tonight. Or any night.”

The woman laughs but I’m not finding this predicament funny. The freedom I once felt was quickly replaced with fear. I’m not the kind of person who does this. What did I get myself into?

“Okay, you look panicked now. Calm down. You’re okay.”

I looked at her. If she looked concerned before that was nothing compared to the look in her eyes now. I vocalize the thoughts I was just having.

“I thought I could do this. Go on an adventure on a whim, but I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s just not who I am.”

“Well you’re here now so it’s as good a time as any to make it who you are.”

Fair enough.

“Why are you talking to me right now?” I ask.

“It must be the small-town girl in me. And I happen to be a small-town girl with a spare room, what do you say?”

“Oh, um, are you inviting me into your home?”

“You don’t seem dangerous so I think I’m willing to take the risk, yea.”

I’d be insane to agree. I don’t know her or anything about her other than the fact that she’s from a small town. Allegedly. But then I guess I don’t really have any other options and she seems nice enough.

“I’m in.”

I say it aloud. There’s no turning back now.

A comforting smile spreads across her face and she leads me toward the parking garage.

During the car ride home we share stories and get to know one another. I can’t help but be distracted by my surroundings. We’re in the middle of a city, but the mountains look so close. We brake for a moose crossing the road. The mountains stand so beautifully, guarding this city I will call home. And we’re here.

Her house is amazing. A two story home overlooking the Inlet, right in downtown Anchorage.

“You live here by yourself?”

“Just me and my husband.”

She didn’t mention him on the car ride. But why wouldn’t she ask him before inviting me?

“Will he mind that I’m here? I can go elsewhere…”

“No, of course not! Why would he mind? Plus it’s guys’ night tonight. He’ll go out with his buddies and shouldn’t be back until late.”

She continues, “Anyway, tonight is summer solstice so we won’t even be here when he gets home.”

“Where will we be?”

“We are climbing a mountain!”

It’s my first day here, I haven’t climbed a day in my life and now we’re climbing a mountain?

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“Relax. It’s a groomed trail and children climb it. You’ve got this!”

Okay, that sounds manageable.

I drop off my bag in the spare room, change into something more comfortable, and grab my tennis shoes. I head back to the foyer where she is waiting.

We head to eat first and by the time we finish, it’s around seven at night. Sure, the sun is still out, but…

“Are you sure now is a good time to start a hike? “

“Now is the perfect time to start a hike.”

We get in the car and head toward the Chugach Mountains. After about a 30-minute drive, we arrive at the trailhead and the parking lot is packed!

We step in line with the crowd and head up the first set of stairs. The trail beyond the stairs is steep. I really need to step up my exercise regime.

The atmosphere is festive. Many are lugging small coolers or backpacks or both. The woman just ahead of me has a child on her back and still doesn’t appear to be struggling. Their added weight doesn’t seem to bother them in the slightest.

I’m taking it all in, breathing heavily, when the trail eases up on me. Looking around I try to capture the sights to memory. The next round of stairs are tough but I power through them, with the ocassional break. Gladly, I’m not the only one taking more than a few breathers. I am anxious to make it to the top. Another set of stairs. The closer we get, the rowdier the crowd is. We lose the groomed trail toward the top and begin to climb up some rocks. She didn’t mention this. Should I be worried that we never exchanged names? This is beginning to feel questionable.

She is very well versed in motivational clichés. You can do it! Slow and steady. Believe and achieve! Honestly, it was beginning to get frustrating, until at last I climb over the final boulder and reach the summit!

There is a huge party at the top. Everyone is talking, dancing, eating, and celebrating. A few groups have campsites set up. The sun is still up with no plans of setting anytime soon.

It’s loud, but the noise disappears almost immediately.

It is beautiful. No, the word beautiful doesn’t do it justice. I can’t believe I made it here. All around me I see the peaks of mountains; I’m on top of the world. Despite the party happening around me, everything seems so peaceful. Here, thousands of miles from home, I feel safe, secure, and free. There are limitless possibilities of what I can do, what I can see. Suddenly, I know I can do this. A firework shoots off!

I look at the clock. It’s two in the morning and I had fallen asleep at work.

I should be home. I finished my work here hours ago. Tedious, unfulfilling work. I sit still and remember that feeling at the top of the mountain and realize I can’t do this anymore. Or I won’t do this anymore.

I log on to my computer and book my ticket, one-way.