Bronze skin catches dying light. Her muscles flex, heaving at the end of the chase. Another hanging narrowly avoided. Her breath slows, though she is anxious still. She waits for the woods to darken --she moves best in the moonlight-- and to her left, she catches a glimpse of a familiar bush. She smirks, pinches a berry from the bush, and crushes it in her teeth. A curious winds sifts through the trees and the light shifting in between the foliage starts to bounce from the leaves, echoing opalescence through the heaviness of night. The seer embraces disorientation and allows herself to fall into the fragrance of jasmine and pine. The moon focuses its glow upon her sun-beaten brow, and she directs her gaze toward the milky stars.

INT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL HALLWAY, PAINTED TEAL. MID MORNING

C/U HANDPRINT PAINTINGS TAPED TO THE WALLS, AN IGLOO MADE FROM MILK JUGS

BLACK FRAME

TITLE APPEARS:

Chapter One: Second Grade

CUT TO:

C/U CHILD'S HAND PULLING AT HER DRESS

SUBTITLE APPEARS AT BOTTOM:

"Greenview Elementary, 2001"

CUT TO LITTLE GIRL, FULL BODY

An ethnically ambiguous little girl of about six or seven is standing in the hallway looking around nervously. She has messy, near-black curly hair, hazel eyes, and is wearing a purple overall dress, a pink t-shirt and glitter jelly sandals that light up as she anxiously shuffles her feet. She is at the head of a line of twenty-one first graders. A TEACHER, a heavyset middle aged woman with roller-curled ashy blonde hair and a thick southern accent, ushers them into a classroom.

TEACHER:

Okay, kids. Let's head inside. Did everyone have fun in art today?

CHILDREN:

(a cacophony of little voices says "Yes, Mrs. Randall")

MRS. RANDALL:

Okay, Marissa. You're the line leader. You ready?

The little girl, Marissa, nods quietly and walks into the decorated classroom.

C/U MARISSA'S SANDALS FLASHING COLORS AS SHE WALKS INTO THE CLASSROOM

CUT TO:

C/U ON MARISSA'S EYES

THE SCENE ZOOMS OUT TO SHOW HER FULL FACE

CUT TO MARISSA, FULL BODY:

Standing in the hallway looking around with confusion and mild panic. She is wearing the same outfit as before. Her shoes light up as she shuffles her feet.

C/U ABSTRACT SHOTS OF HANDPRINT PAINTINGS, THE IGLOO MADE FROM MILK JUGS, TEAL WALLS.

CUT TO MRS. RANDALL, STANDING BY THE CLASROOM DOOR.

MRS. RANDALL:

Okay, kids. Let's head inside. Did everyone have fun in art today?

CHILDREN:

(a cacophony of little voices says "Yes, Mrs. Randall")

MRS. RANDALL:

Okay, Marissa. You're the line leader. You ready?

Marissa, trying to shake the eerie feeling swelling in her chest, doesn't answer right away.

MRS. RANDALL:

Marissa? You okay, hun?

Marissa breaks from her thoughts, mumbles in acknowledgement, shoves her hands into the pockets of her dress, and walks into the classroom. Mrs. Randall watches her curiously.

C/U MARISSA'S SANDALS FLASHING COLORS AS SHE WALKS INTO THE CLASSROOM

FADE TO BLACK.

Small hands grasp at fraying rope. Tiny cries tumble through frigid air. I reach out for the emaciated frame dropping down the cliffside. She screams. I watch. She crashes. I sob. I think to run. She is gone, and the thought of her crumpled body is too much to bear. The cold wind whispers to me and robs me of doubt. Go, it insists. Fate follows down the mountain trail.

The moon, ambivalent. Mockery and encouragement are for me alone to find. I take my descent through darkened trees, whiplashed by the reluctant foliage. I know what I've seen. What I believe to be true. The wind cares little for my inconsistencies.

My splitting shoes skid on the bulging rock face as it bleeds into browning grass. A contorted figure shudders amidst the wilting wildflowers. The breeze moves softly, arrogant in its perceptiveness, and pushes me toward the jutting angles.

Bloodshot hazel eyes flash open at my arrival. The little girl gasps with stolen life, and tugs at my dress with a stained yet unbroken hand. I lean down, and as our sister cheekbones graze together in the moonlight, she whispers her desires into my frozen ear. Silently, I think her to be a fool. Breathlessly, she implies that I am one.

I lift her body into my arms and imagine myself a mother carrying her young to bed. Icy earth crunches beneath my weighted feet. The moon shrinks behind a slender, viscous cloud, reluctant in its illumination. Mountains guard us on each side, urging me to walk with purpose. The child rests her head upon my shaking breast and watches me closely, blind faith reflected behind her drooping eyelids.

The wind ceases, and spares us a moments free of its knowing chill.

You, there. Help. Pull these thorns from my feet.

What? No. Don't be ridiculous. It's your turn. Quit whining. It's a rite of passage. Why? Because you're an idiot. A dense, adolescent, ignorant little fool.

I've been in this wood for near a century now. My bones ache, but at least I know how to treat them.

What? I don't know why you have to go. No, I'm not telling you why I did either. You don't need my bundle of confusion, you've got plenty of your own. Excuse? You're not confused? HA. Just wait until you hit your thirteenth year by the twisted river. You'll stare into the bubbling foam until you forget the purpose of your birth. Your own mother's face will melt into the void and you won't know whether to hold onto the image of her weeping face or let her tears melt within the rocks.

Cleansers never tell you that part. They know better. Go on, now. You'll know what you're looking for when you find it. Hurry, it flashes for a moment only.

Well, detective. I guess we'll start at the beginning.

I spent most of my time in the background of her favorite haunts. She’d pretended not to see me. But I caught the glances. She looked for me in every room she entered but didn’t leave even when she'd taken note of my presence. There were times I thought about giving up and leave her to her ways but truthfully-- I was drawn to her, too. I leaned into the trappings of predatory youth, into the allure of fishnet stockings stretched over Rubenesque thighs and chapping lips smeared with black and stained with wine. She caved, cat in heat, arching her back to the demands of a carefully crafted personality. She’d turned delusion into an art form.

I had a slew of plans. A thousand ways to end the beastess of burden. Then one night, I caught her walking alone. So I struck up conversation. She was hesitant. But greeted me with warmly. With trust. She complimented my appearance- Those boots with that dress-soft, but unapologetic. I wish my curls were like yours. I returned the favor- Did you cut that shirt yourself? I used to love that band. How long have you had the dreadlocks? We talked for an hour. In that time, I came to know her more than she knew herself.

As we strolled through the burgeoning moonlight, I lured her into the depths of a nearby forest, mulling over the moments that would be her last. And wouldn’t you know-- all it took was a few cold words spoken into the darkness of a broken, vulnerable moment. I watched with fascination as she spiraled into the rabbit hole, fleeing from invisible monsters hidden in shuttered moonlight. She ran wild. No direction. No purpose. Finally, a persistent root caught her old sneakers and brought her neck onto a slab of granite jutting from the mountainside.

I dragged her body through the trees until I met the edge of the Reedy River. For a moment, I considered tossing her body into the water. It was part of at least half of the plans I made. But it felt too cold. I didn’t mourn her. But I no longer hated her. Kinda missed her, in a way. Anyway, I grabbed a sturdy branch and hacked away at the grass until I’d dug deeply enough to cover her. Ripped my dress on the rocks. In hindsight, lace wasn’t the best attire for the occasion. But It was still a funeral, after all.

On my way back, I found her bag on the ground. There was an old notebook with a bunch of pages torn out. The ones that were left were beaten all to hell. I could indentation of the some stuff she’d written, this stream of almost-there epiphanies, a messy search for meaning in a void. Killed me to read. I returned to her gravesite and buried the notebook there, too. Threw the rest into the river.

Visited her now and again. I think in a different life, we could have been much closer. Last I saw, a bunch of flowers were growing there. Someone was bound to notice. To make connections.

She’s buried beneath the willow tree. And the last time I saw it, it seemed different, too.

Yeah.

In a different life, we would have been much closer.

First, it was the man they interviewed. The one who owned the patch of land. Known locally as the happiest man in town. The reporter asked him what the secret was. He said it was to get outside and walk amongst the flowers. He invited everyone to join him. All were welcome to share in his land, to share his happiness and vigor. Then the reporter asked where he could possibly go from there. His happiness was one that people spend their lives trying to achieve, what more could he do? Something cracked behind his eyes. The glimmer dimmed. He continued to smile, but said he didn't know.

He launched himself out of a third story window. He left a note, but all it said was that he didn't understand. Two weeks later, the reporter scurried into the road, stiletto heel cracking in the headlights of a city bus. The camera crew on site the day of the interview went by poison, gunshot, overdose. The reporter's assistant disappeared while hiking. They found pieces of her at the bottom of a ravine. She hadn't been wearing hiking boots. Her class ring showed up in animal droppings about a mile away.

Accidents, they said. Unfortunate circumstances. Surely a sign of the times. A park was built in the field, in memory of the lives lost. Despite all that happened, it was a beacon of hope in an otherwise dark and polluted city. Wildflowers sat across the way from the benches and swing sets. Couples strolled hand in hand, strangers tipped their hats and did small favors for their neighbors. Artists set up easels, and buskers headed home with jars overflowing with tens and twenties. Rejuvenating, they said. The man who used to own that plot of land had the right idea. Walk amongst the wildflowers, that's the key. Tragic, they'd muse. Sometimes the happiest ones have the saddest hearts.

The deaths didn't stop. Congressmen, judges, police officers. Grocery clerks, butchers, schoolteachers. Dropping like flies. They'd all had the best few weeks of their lives just before ending it all. Productive, creative, enlightening days immersed in energy and optimism. Some left notes, some didn't. All expressed confusion and sadness. The light disappeared as quickly as it came. There was nothing left. They'd reached their peak. Things would never be the same. Every last one of them spent time in the park. But then again, most people did.

Theories floated around. Government said terrorism, Russia probably. True crime nuts claimed there was a killer on the loose, one who clearly hated his mother. Environmentalists blamed the smog and held protests at city hall. Psychologists couldn't agree, but that was nothing new. We became fearful of optimism, put off by the happiness of another. The sudden desire to create, to express, to love, was laced with ominous tones. Was it true happiness? Or just the rise before the fall? Physical touch was a social sin. Hugs, kisses, lovemaking, their roots were suspect. The park grew quiet. No couples, no children, no dogs chasing balls. Sometimes the saddest hearts have the happiest memories.

It took a long time to look toward the sunny petals that swayed innocent and unassuming in the springtime breeze. It was nearly fall when a single brazen biologist decided to scream into the void. Pheromones, he claimed. The flowers had evolved to attract bees in the strongest way possible. The bees had evolved to handle the surge but since their population declined, the flowers went into overdrive, desperate for pollination. Humans were not equipped to handle the command, he said. Our brains failed to process the flux in its chemicals, and our inner worlds became tumultuous. Our only choice was to destroy the flower colony. Could we prove it? No, not really. Pheromones are hard to detect, especially when it comes to humans. Were we willing to try it? Yes. Russia denied involvement. Investigators had no leads. Environmentalists were self-satisfied. Psychologists had nothing to say. The beauty of the flower patch would be gone.

The suffering would be gone, too.

Hazard crews came in, suited, masked and gloved. They ripped the flowers out by their roots and hauled them into bins that would be sealed and sent to an incinerator. They salted the earth, poisoned the soil. A tall fence was placed around the patch of land, and the bodies of the recently deceased were exhumed and studied. Teams have been assigned to watch over the land carefully, just in case the flowers decide to return.

Nature has been known to persevere.

It is nearly the end of winter, close to a year since the interview. Citizens have begun to return to the park, though its former warmth has yet to be revived. Artists become frustrated and slam their kits shut, stomping through the grass with canvas and easel. Buskers head home unheard and empty handed. No children come to the park. Strangers stay strangers, and keep to themselves. The previous mayor was not re-elected. The governor wasn't either. Their responses to the incident were criticized, as if we were not guilty of the same ignorance and disbelief. When the earth is scorched, there is little hope of going back. We are back to the status quo, even bleaker than before.

I long to see a bee floating its way between the chain link to greet an infant bud. I lament the loss of beauty, even with the price that must be paid. Momentary pleasure is not worth the dimming of a life, but pleasure it is still- a ray of sun in the frigid winter air.

I writhe on the ground, life draining from my contorted body. I'm tired. Was tired.

Sinking, sinking, sinking into the sand, set thick with briny water. I am one with the granules beneath this decaying form.

The tide rolls in. The tide rolls out. The waters join me with all that is, all that could be.

The thoughtful ocean rages, turns over.

I rage, turn over.

The ocean calms. I start again.

I stretch into the sun, bathing in familiar rays. Life brims from every step I take onto the shore. I am one with the granules melting beneath my tender heels.

The sky, the earth, the trees, they call to me with fondness. I trek heavily through the sand toward the fertile jungle.

It begins again.

I knew it was you. Your eyes are always the same- no matter the color, no matter the size. I find you in all your old haunts. Some things don't change. Even through lifetimes.

How many times will we partake in this dance? You scurry, I chase close behind and grab your hand before you stray too far. I pull you to me and with a single look, it all comes rushing back. Those nights, that day, last year, this century. All these numbers mean so little.

Our star-crossed eyes have met again.

I'll bet you feel this place is familiar.

No, you didn't see it in a dream.

And before you ask (for the seventh time in two millennia)- yes, my dear. I very much believe in fate.

I'm with a friend, exploring some dockside town, watching people load up ships and boats, the town is dark and eerie, a shell of itself-there was a time where it was a quaint seaside destination but now it's fallen to the wayside, kept alive by business over pleasure

we leave

i'm driving through country roads

i keep closing my eyes, thinking they are open

i fade in and out of consciousness, thinking i am awake

i feel like i am falling asleep, but realize i've been drugged

My friend is calm, she trusts me. I become more alert. I'm still exhausted.

We get to our destination. It's a maze. I walk in, my friend is gone. She hasn't abandoned me. Her leg of this journey is over. I walk into a room and see a different friend.

Her daughter and mine begin to play. There is a room of employees meeting in the background. I have flashes of driving on 501. The employees come out. They're taking a test. We leave to let them focus.

I walk out and am met with a brick interior. There are others. I'm told I've passed the test and am allowed to leave. I walk out into an empty field. There is gravel on the ground. Train tracks nearby. I hear a familiar song.

i follow the song

i realize i am chasing the train

this is not where i need to be

i turn around, continue on my way

I find a replica of the tin man and it becomes my friend. It is bulky, but light. The weight of tinfoil with the sturdiness of steel. I pick it up and carry it awkwardly until I reach a fenced in building. I walk through the fence and offer my tin man to the people I meet. They are hardened but amicable and appreciate the gift. A woman says "You're one of us, take this" and hands me a membership card. In a different time, she was a Marine. A man approaches. He's former Army. They encourage me to take a seat.

There are school desks littered throughout, and I notice the building looks like my Papa's workshop. I sit in the back right, and those around are warm and welcoming. After a time, those who are single and would like to be matched are asked to stand up. I stand up with them.

i remember my husband and daughter

i sit

i wonder about these weird worlds

how they got left behind

The dream ends naturally. No interruptions. No rude awakenings.

But it feels incomplete, a cliffhanger in a long, plot heavy book-