He looked at the letter once more before entering the building.

From The Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna. It made him smile again. This could only mean one thing!

He knew his entrance exam had gone well. The two iconic and biblical scenes in the first section had been exciting to draw and the three hours in each session had flown by.

The examiners had loved his portfolio and seen potential that even he had not yet recognised in himself. He remembers them commenting on how pleased they were that he had chosen to study Art because they also saw a remarkable gift for design in his work and feared he may be tempted by the Academy’s School of Architecture.

They need not have worried.

He was an Artist. It was all he had ever wanted to be. And now, here he was.

On the edge of his dream.

Inside the building he found the door he had been told to enter. Knocking, he eased it open.

“Ah, come in, come in,” urged an excitable voice belonging to one of the two suited men seated at the table.

“Please, Mr Hitler. Come in and take a seat. It is so nice to see you once again.”

Hitler did as he was bade and sat down.

“I imagine you have guessed why we invited you here today,” said the second man.

“Well, I… one doesn’t like to assume,” blustered Mr Hitler.

“Well, of course. But on this occasion it would be a safe assumption. The panel unanimously admired your work. You have a fine eye for detail and a wonderful technique. A rare talent, in fact.”

“Thank you” said Mr Hitler.

“And, of course, we would like to offer you a place at The Academy of Fine Arts, here in Vienna. We are very excited about your prospects, Mr Hitler.”

Hitler smiled. He felt his heart was about to burst. His future was about to begin and his dreams would all come true. Art would be his life from this day forward.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I am honoured,” gushed the artist.

“And please. Call me Adolf.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paintings_by_Adolf_Hitler

Nobody ever gave a damn about Lovelin, West Virginia. Not that they should have. Some of the people in town might have been less committed asses if someone had tried. Might have been worth a shot.

My Grandma Nellie always had what she called “a touch of the third eye”. She claimed that somewhere out there was another reality where Lovelin was a better place. A place where shuttered windows were flung open and festooned with hanging flower baskets. A place where children walked openly and yet people were not afraid. She claimed that the fork in the road for Lovelin had all come down to one woman. Barbara Lester. She would never tell me the story though. Until now.

I'm twelve, I'm not a moron. When Grandma tells me to fetch her “Third Eye Juice”, I do so with the full knowledge that this is to actual juice what fast food is to actual food- that is to say better. Its better. Apparently, if Barbara had behaved decently, I would never have known this fact. I remain unconvinced that this belongs in that magical Better Lovelin category but I keep an open mind. I want to hear the story. Please and thank you, and here's your “juice”, Grandma.

I'm a bit too old for sitting on Grandma's lap. I tell her this but she insists that it is here and now or nowhere and never. She fears she may not have enough time left. I sigh but snuggle up between where her chin and the third eye juice will soon be staging their courtship dance. Back and forth, back and forth. Rocker and floor. Bottle and face. Its the Lovelin dance.

Grandma begins. “Barbara used to be a cute little thing. There was a developer came into town who went mad crazy for her.”..... Grandma stops. I look up. She has put the juice down and a single tear is rolling down her face. I don't know which is more alarming. Grandma laughs. I pee myself a little.

“Grandma?” I am almost terrified to ask. “What's the matter?” Grandma smiles down at me. “I've been a bit silly about Barbara. I spent all this time telling you all how one little woman's action could have saved us all. Really, there's nothing would have saved us. We're an awful town full of awful people. That's all. All that butterfly effect crap is just another way of avoiding responsibility.

I feel slightly relieved. Enough to gather courage for one more question. “Grandma?” “Yes dear?” Is there any reality where Germany didn't win? Grandma chuckles and pats the swastika on my sweater. “No dear, that always happens.”

April 13, 1958

“Line em up, Katherine. I said line em up now, or I’ll do it for you and put you in the line with them.”

When he whipped his belt off of his trousers, the little ears scattered. Sheltered by their mother’s hymns and from the rainy day, by living room blanket tents, filled with GI Joe’s, match box cars, barbie’s, assorted stuffed animals and laughter, the monster didn’t exist, until he removed their fantasies through the front door.

“I’m not gonna do it Joe. Leave them be. What did they do? They are babies, just having fun.”

“Don’t you dare talk back to me woman. Babies. Huh! When I was their age, I was hustling a buck everyday. They need to toughen up. Maybe you should use the strap on them before I get home and we wouldn’t be havin this conversation. You know better. The house is supposed to be clean when I come home from work. What the hell do you do all day, anyway?”

“Joe, I’ve got 5 of them to look after by myself, with an infant in my arms and one on the way. If you were around here more, you would know what I do all day.”

“That’s it woman!”

“No Joe no, please don’t. I’m gonna drop the baby.”

April 14, 1958

The walls of the hospital room and her memory said nothing when she woke up, and then her empty arms asked the first question.

“Where is my baby? Is my baby okay?”

“As far as I know you were delivered here last night by your husband after you took a nasty fall. Your chart says you’ve had a concussion and you were given a sedative to keep you still. And....unfortunately...., it looks like you also had a miscarriage.”

“A miscarriage!” The wetness between her legs confirmed the revelation. The six at home kept her so busy, there was no time to ponder who this child would become. But the loss was still palpable. She thought, “I should have bit my tongue, listened to his order,” and then said,

“Is there a phone? I’ve gotta check in about my babies. Please!”

“It’s down the hall but you are in no condition to get up. We recommend twenty-four hours of bed rest after a miscarriage, not to mention a concussion also requires you remain on bedrest.”

She surrendered to the instruction of the nurse and stayed put, leaning on her faith to confirm her children were safe and sound. No one would learn of the abuse. They would be seen around town as a hard working proper Christian family. She would justify his behavoir to herself over and over. "Joe is just tired from working too hard to feed us all, clothe us, keep a roof over our heads."

Teardrops rolled down her neck moistening the piping of her hospital gown. When she reached towards the tissue box, she realized it was just as empty as her womb. Placing her hands where the fetus no longer resided, she spoke from her heart. “Baby, I’m so sorry. He didn’t mean it. He just ‘spects a lot from us. He would have loved you, and oh chile’,how I would have loved you, too. All of them at home, and you, a gift from god. I’m so sorry I never got to hold you, name you. If you were a girl, I hadn’t decided yet on a name, but if you were a boy, you would have been Michael Joe Jackson. Forgive me baby and please, please forgive your Papa. Someday I’ll hold you on the other side.”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUaMzwNPgro

Special to the New York Examiner!

October 29, 1895

Samuel Byrnes, News Desk Agent

The horrifying train derailment in Montparnasse, France may be last week’s news, but this intrepid reporter has uncovered the truth. The “official” story is actually a cover-up!

The reports from Paris explained how the failure of the train’s air-brakes and the driver’s rush to get home for dinner, combined to create the disaster, which resulted in the death of Marie-Augustine Aguilard. The woman had been standing in for her husband that that afternoon, on the corner where he normally sold newspapers.

The truth is, that the “accident” was actually an assassination attempt on Messr. Aguilard, who had been uncovered as an English spy. The espionage agent had been passing state secrets from his street corner, and was within days of being arrested by French authorities.

Coincidence? This reporter doesn’t think so.

French authorities have declined to comment further, but rumor has it that the unfortunate woman’s husband is missing, and was most recently spotted in Switzerland. Make of that what you will.

Was he a madman, a consummate actor and prankster taking advantage of the similarity of facial features, or truly the person he claimed to be? To this day, I do not know for sure, but that encounter changed my life in a way. Until that day, I had been interested in English literature and was planning to make it my career, but the strange meeting sparked in me an interest in the Mexican culture. As a result, here I am, sitting in the verandah of a quaint old villa on the outskirts of Yucatan, drinking my morning cup of coffee and enjoying the beautiful view while my wife prepares the breakfast.

And I am remembering another morning.

On that fateful day several years ago, I was nineteen years old, had just finished my first undergrad year at the University of Western Ontario and was spending my summer vacation with my parents.

One morning, bright and early, I jogged to Harris Park and sat down on a bench near the water fountain. For some time I enjoyed the morning breeze playing around me and letting me cool down after the exertion of the long jog. Then I pulled out the copy of “The Devil’s Dictionary” from my backpack and started reading it. A little while later, I heard someone approaching me. I looked up and saw a man. He stopped near me, looked at me silently for some time then said: "Would you mind if I sit here with you for a while?"

That was a strange question. The bench was big enough for three people and I was not hogging it. He could have just sat down if he wanted to. It looked as if the man wanted to talk to me and the question was just his way of breaking the ice.

I looked at him carefully. I consider myself a pretty good face reader and this is what I guessed about him from his face: sharp, cynical and yet kindly, not given to pampering fools. Come to think of it, did I really guess all that or is my older self creating false memories? Oh well! At least my memories of his physical appearance are not false. He sported a distinctive moustache and a short beard; he was quite handsome and had a slightly tanned complexion. His age seemed to be somewhere around a sturdy sixty but I later surmised that it must have been around seventy two if he was who he claimed he was. He looked tired.

Normally, like a typical male specimen of humanity, I rarely notice people’s clothes or remember them if I do notice them, but somehow, I distinctly remember his dress. He wore brown trousers, a brown safari jacket and a panama hat. He carried a knapsack on his back.

"Not at all,” I replied.

He sat down beside me on the bench and there was silence for a while.

“Good to see that book is still around and still being read,” he said, pointing to The Devil’s Dictionary, “and you must be an intelligent young man to be reading it.” He had a strange smile on his face, as if he knew something that I did not.

“Thank you,” I said, for the want of anything better to say.

“My name is Ahmed,” I said, extending my hand.

“Ambrose,” he grasped my hand.

He removed his hat. His hair were receding in the middle. There was a nagging familiarity about his looks.

“New to this place?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Looks like you’ve been traveling a lot.”

“You don’t know how much.”

“What do you do?”

“Once, I was a writer. Now I am a traveler.”

I looked at his knapsack. “Traveling salesman of some kind?”

“No. I am a time traveler.”

“What?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course, I don’t. You are pulling my leg.”

He gave me that enigmatic smile again. “Just for fun, assume that I am telling the truth. What questions, if any, would you ask me then?”

I thought it over. This could be fun. Whatever he was, he was an interesting person.

"Okay, first question. How do you know our language so well? Is it spoken in your time too?"

"Yes," he said. "I am not that much removed from your time."

"Does it mean time travel is just around the corner?" I asked him.

He did not respond but he looked amused.

Then I asked him: "Tell me something about your time."

"Hmm?" He seemed to fall into a reverie. "Those were quite good times, you know," he said at length, rather wistfully, “even though my two sons died and my wife apparently cheated on me. Hope my daughter did well. Wish I had enough time to locate her.”

"What year do you come from? How far ahead in our future?" He turned and looked at me in a strange way.

"You don't understand," he said gently. "Time travel to the past involves paradoxes out of man's control."

"I know. Science fiction is full of them."

"And because of these paradoxes," he continued, ignoring my interruption, "time travel to the past is out of reach of common man within the boundaries of the normal universe."

Comprehension did not come immediately. "But - but - that means..."

"Yes, I think you understand now. I come not from your future but from your past.”

I assimilated this information. A thousand questions raised their heads in my mind. "Time travel was known in the past?" Somehow I was starting to take this man seriously.

"Yes."

"Then why is it not known today?"

"Even in those days, time travel was known only to a select few. Time-travel is physically not possible but it is possible metaphysically and is performed using esoteric methods. With time, and wars and disasters, humans totally lost the esoteric knowledge of time travel,” he paused, “as they seem to have lost several valuable things."

"What valuable things?"

"Values, for one."

At that time, I thought it was a corny statement. At that time I was young.

Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked at the burning orb in the sky. "I have very short time before my next jump," he said. "Already, the time to leave is drawing near."

"You are going back?" That made me think. "Wait a minute. Didn't you say that traveling back in time is not possible?"

"Yes."

"But if you are going back to your time from here, it means you are traveling to the past."

He smiled, and there was something both mocking and sad about his smile. "Whatever gave you the idea that I was going back to my time? No, my young friend. I am jumping forward some twenty years in your future."

I then had to ask the next question.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why have you left your time? What made you undertake this one-way super fast journey into the future? What is the purpose?"

This time, he was silent for quite a while. It seemed as if he was finding it difficult to give words to his thoughts. At last, he spoke.

"I have to leave you soon, so I will try to tell you about it as briefly as I can.

"In my time, a great scholar studied the sun. He found out that the sun was cooling down at an incredible rate. If this cooling rate went unchecked, we would have a dead sun on our hands within a matter of a dozen centuries or so.” He paused and I pounced in.

“Several decades ago, some scientists believed that stars cooled down with time but later discoveries about evolution of stars proved this wrong. Stars don’t cool down.” You see, I knew my astronomy even though I was not a science student.

He looked at me with what I thought was a grudging approval.

“You are generally right,” he said. “But the universe is not devoid of anomalies and our sun turned out to be an anomaly. It was really cooling down.”

“Who was this scholar and how far back was this?”

“That was in the early twentieth century and you would not recognize the name of the scientist. He was a recluse, living in a small village near Chihuahua in Mexico. Now don’t interrupt. I don’t have much time left.

“About the cooling down of the sun, after a lot of pondering on the matter by some of the greatest minds of our times, a decision was reached. There was one way to prolong the life of the sun. First of all, a tremendous source of energy was needed. It was a known fact even in my time that time travel to the future is accompanied by the release of great quantity of energy. So if someone were to start jumping forward in time, each jump would generate energy. The only problem was how to channel this energy to the sun. Once this problem was solved, there was a call for volunteers. Of those who volunteered, I was selected. So here I am. With my every jump into the future, there is a release of energy and this energy is siphoned off to the heart of the sun via a rune I carry. Here, let me show you." He undid the top buttons of his shirt and pulled out a chain that hung around his neck. Attached to the chain was what looked like a metal ball with strange markings on it. I looked at it, silently.

He turned the object around in his hand. “Round,” he said, “like time itself.”

He gave me a deep, studying look. “I don’t show this rune to everyone. Neither do I tell everyone my story. I like you, particularly seeing that you have good taste in literature.” He pointed to the book in my hand.

“So when did you make your first jump?”

“It was in the December of 1913. Mexico was in turmoil and Pancho Villa was busy capturing Ojinaga.

"I have left my times, my world, my friends, never to return to them, ever moving onwards, with no time to call my own, no home to look forward to. I have sacrificed a lot to prolong life on this planet. I hope the life on this planet does not disappoint me."

In spite of the bright morning, I felt a darkness fall on me as I tried to imagine the loneliness of this person, if what he was saying was true.

“Where do you expect all this to end?” I asked finally.

“At my death or at the time of the big crunch, if it is not very far off in the future.”

He paused, then said, "Farewell, my friend of a few moments. It was nice meeting you and talking to you. I find you intelligent and sensible and I think I can count you among those people who perhaps will not disappoint me. I may see you, or hear of you again, in twenty years from now. God be with you." He got up and started walking down the path.

Just then I looked down at the book in my hand. The back cover was facing me and it had a photo of the writer. I realized that this was the source of my sense of familiarity with the traveler. He looked quite like the writer in the photo, except that the writer did not have a beard.

Suddenly, all those bits and pieces of information that he had given me came together in my mind: a writer, was pleased that I was reading The Devil’s Dictionary, had a wife whom he suspected had cheated on him, had two sons who died, had a daughter too. A writer who was in Mexico in 1913, and had vanished without trace in the Mexican wilderness.

“Wait,” I blurted. “Are you truly Bierce? Ambrose Bierce?”

He turned, gave me a nod, walked down the path and seemed proverbially to vanish into the rising sun.

THE END

The Devil came dressed as a Saint,

“Be a good Christian,” He professed to the faint.

“Do the right thing, be kind to your mother,

“Deny idols, be good to one another.”

“Shower me with gifts, lie in my name,

Hide my secrets, expose no shame.

Build me a church, tall and proud,

The gothic sculpture must reach the clouds.”

And the people decided they had to listen,

All in the name of becoming good Christians.

They built a great structure, beautiful and strong,

But with an evil foundation, it couldn’t last long.

As the years went by, the little children suffered,

But as they grew up, they began to tell one another.

They told of their pain, and all of the shame,

They spoke of the Devil and who was to blame.

They spoke to their elders and tried to expose,

The Church and the Priests and the lies that were told.

“That can’t be true, don’t speak of such things,”

Was all the validation the elders could bring.

So time went on and more children were hurt,

But no man could stop the power of the Church.

And visitors would marvel with glorious wonder,

At the magnificent Church and the stained glass they sat under,

“Of course, this building was made for God!”

Exclaimed all the people, with their values at odds.

So on that day, a new chapter was written,

Much like the day, the apple was bitten.

God came down, and set the Church aflame,

And told the people, they had themselves to blame.

“Think for yourselves! This is not right!

You don’t need this book. It only causes fights.”

“Listen to the children. They do not lie.

Their pain is real. Hear them cry.

Do not sacrifice the truth for your pride,

Salvation only comes to those that don’t hide.”

Can you relate to someone that looks different than you?

Or do you stick to your own, cause that’s easy to do?

Do you listen to the pain of those not in power?

Or to money, greed and envy do you cower?

Perhaps the true test of God is not religion.

Maybe it’s not even your financial position.

It’s most definitely not your gender or creed,

But whether you can show love to a soul in need.

I was a sophomore in high school, and just starting to get into bad trouble. Part of it was the crowd I ran with. My best friend was Donny Storrs, the son of a man who was sent to the chair for murder. Storrs said his old man never did it, that he was framed.

I didn’t ask the circumstances. I was getting old enough to learn how much circumstances counted. Under certain circumstances, a person is capable of almost anything, right up to and including murder.

Storrs and I were only somewhat inclined toward crimes when it was just the two of us. We’d occasionally shoplift or maybe boost a car, usually making an effort to return it to more or less the same neighborhood when we were done with it.

But then we started hanging around with Jimmy Ayup. The chemistry changed, and we started to feel different about ourselves. More dangerous.

Jimmy was quite a bit older, a reedy man with long hair pulled and combed into a stiff pompadour style that was years out of fashion. His health was poor, his chest thin and racked with coughs that he would try to smoke into submission, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he hacked and rattled.

I think he got some vicarious strength from Storrs and me, horny teenagers bursting with muscle and energy.

​ Jimmy made it clear to us he was a serious man, and straight away told us he thought our criminal activities were kid stuff. “So-called crimes,” is what he said.

He said he thought we had potential. If we stuck with him, he said, big things would happen. Jimmy said successful crime was all in the planning. “You think a bank robber just walks in and takes the money? No goddamned way. A good robber plans the hell out of a job.”

He told us of several major scores he’d put together, naming dollar amounts that sounded impressive.

Jimmy taught us the most important things were patience and preparation, skills he developed when he was a sickly kid laid up for weeks at a time. Jimmy said the best way to pull a job was to watch a gas station or liquor store for as long as it took to learn the patterns—the busiest days, the slack times, who did what, and when.

He said that by the time he was ready for D-day, he knew the names of the guys he’d be robbing, where they lived, all their habits. He said knowing that information kept him flexible and gave him leverage. I didn’t know what he meant by this, and asked him. He just looked sly and told me I’d see soon enough.

​ Jimmy had the Stop n’ Shop on Perry Street in mind. His plans involved a period of what he called “intelligence gathering,” which was Storrs and me watching the entrances and making notes of all the comings and goings—the customers coming in and out, the different employees and so forth. I watched the back, Storrs covered the front.

Jimmy’s job was to follow the different employees home and note down where they lived. He got off on it, rolling along in his crushed-up ’61 Falcon that was so rusted at the bottom it looked like a piece of charred newspaper. He followed each employee home in turn, parking outside and making notes on a metal clipboard like the inspectors at the Caterpillar factory use.

Saturday morning a couple weeks later, Jimmy called a meeting at his apartment, which he called “the place.” It was cramped and bare of furniture, newspapers taped over all the windows so the light was yellow and greasy. We sat on beat-up metal folding chairs while Jimmy paced back and forth in front of a chalkboard easel, tapping it and puffing smoke like a worn out car. After a couple hours, we had our plan.

Jimmy had learned that the manager himself dropped off the deposits, but only twice a week—on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was a big fat guy, the manager, and walking to the bank took a lot of effort. I wondered how he stayed so fat, being on his feet all day, but I imagine he probably helped himself to the baked goods as much as he wanted.

Saturday was by far the busiest day of the week, since lots of people did their shopping not only for Sunday dinner but for the rest of the week as well—frozen dinners were popular with the factory workers and lots of people would plan the week’s menu right there in the freezer aisle.

Then he dropped it on us. D-day was tonight, Saturday. The market closed at eight, and most of the employees would be gone by nine. The fat manager would there with all the money from the past two days, including the thick Saturday stack. “You boys ready to put your money where your mouth is?” he asked.

“Hell yes,” said Storrs.

“Goddamn right,” I said.

Jimmy handed us each a pair of service station coveralls, the one-piece type with the name patch on the breast. Jimmy told us that the names would help confuse our identities and maybe direct the cops off our scent.

The name on mine was “Al.” Storrs was “Raul” and Jimmy was “Jack.” We also wore black nylon stockings on our faces.  Storrs had taken these from his mother’s dresser. Storrs’ mother always dressed in mourning since her husband had been sent to the chair, so she had plenty of these and wouldn’t miss them.

Storrs also had a .38 Police Special that he said had belonged to his old man. I wondered if it was the murder weapon, but then I figured that the cops would have seized it for evidence, so it was another gun. It was beat up, the bluing worn off and the grips dark with grime, but plenty serviceable. I looked down the barrel and saw the dull round heavy shapes of the bullets in the dark cylinder, solid and menacing.

​ It was 8:35 when we walked through the freight doors and into the office. The fat manager was sitting behind his desk, working on an adding machine and eating from a box of crullers. It was a shabby office with close walls, dingy paint and boxes stacked high in every corner. Storrs went quick and jabbed the manager under his fat chin with the snub of the revolver.

Jimmy asked him where the safe was, using a gangster voice, calling him Fat Man. The manager turned white—if you ever saw a person go white with fear you will know what I mean by that, blood draining out of his face like water from a sink—and said in a shaky voice that he didn’t want no trouble and that the safe was in floor. Jimmy told him open it and he said it was already open. Storrs jabbed at him until he got down on his fat knees, heaved back the little rug on the floor and opened up a round barrel safe set into the concrete.  He bent down with a sigh like a leaky tire and fetched up a canvas deposit bag with a leather top and handles, locked with a little brass padlock. Jimmy ordered him to open this, which he did with a little brass key he kept in his desk.

​ Jimmy looked down into it, nodded and told Storrs and me to tie him to the chair. We used the manager’s own necktie for this, plus some strings cut from a stack of aprons with the manager’s desk scissors.

As soon as he was secure, Jimmy told the manager that if he called the cops we would go and burn his house down for him, naming the address to show he was serious. That manger’s face started to twist at this, and his white skin turned red. He started to roar and pull at the knots. You know how strong fat men can be sometimes. 

​ I felt panic, and I wasn’t the only one. Storrs cried “Let’s git!” and ran out of the room, snatching the bag from Jimmy as he went. I was quick after him, hearing the splintering of the chair behind me as I cleared the office. There was a sound of something heavy hitting the floor, and I saw Jimmy knocked flat by the manager.

The man got on top of him and starting smashing Jimmy in the face.

“You murdering son of a bitch!” he hollered, flailing his fists. “Arson my house, will you?”

I tell you, Jimmy never had a chance. What looked like fat must have been muscle.  Plus, the man was mad as hell. Jimmy’s face was all over blood. It looked like that fat man might kill him.

I picked up a broken piece of chair leg and clopped it upside the manager’s head. He looked stunned, but kept on hitting Jimmy. I hit him again, and a third time. That one landed on his jaw and he toppled over like a bowling pin.

I looked up to see the butcher and the black kid who mopped the floors. The butcher held a big meat cleaver in his hand. He waved it at me and I dropped the chair leg. The black kid got between me and the door while the butcher dialed the cops.

​ The Judge sent Jimmy to Joliet for ten years. He had prior convictions, including one for sodomy. I was surprised to hear that. The service station coveralls were a bad idea, since the place where they had come from had been robbed—probably by Jimmy—and a guy had been killed. There wasn’t no proof Jimmy’d done it, but it didn’t look good to the judge.

It was only my youth that saved me from joining Jimmy in prison. I got sent up for three years to the Franklin Juvenile Facility down in Benton, which was plenty hard in its own way since the warden had been a priest before laying down his collar, or whatever they call it when a priest quits the church. Judging from how he was toward us inmates, I guess that he quit because he didn’t enjoy turning the other cheek. About this, the less said the better. 

As for Storrs, he got off scot free, and with the money too. I never said nothing about it. I doubt Jimmy did, either.

#fiction #fakehistory

She wasn’t really that tired. She had things to do. Things she wanted to do. She hadn’t really thought much about her journey home--but she knew that she was ready to be there. She knew she was ready to soak her feet in the basin. Maybe add some salt to the water. She knew she had a taste for neck-bones and collard greens. She’d add a bit of paprika to the water as it boiled. Maybe sprinkle some basil from her garden in it too. She knew she had some reading to do too. Just a little bit. Her eyes were tired. Staring at folks all day. Reading long lines of words which had nothing much to do with the things which mattered to her most.

Her shawl barely covered her collarbone--leaving it exposed to the harsh southern sun. And loose hair was constantly being tucked behind her ear for want of better views. Strands which did what they wanted when they wanted.

The bus didn’t appear to be crowded. Good. A few patrons greeted her with half-smiles as she made her way to the colored section. They were all tired. Lazy faces and eager hearts wanting home. Awaiting good meals and something refreshing to wash them down with. That’s where they were all headed. Home. The entire lot of them. And she knew this. And that was all right.

She spotted a seat available.

It appeared commonly comfortable.

She manuevered her way past the lady with the blue ribbon in her hair. A girl. Not quite a lady.

“Ma’am.” The girl politely whispered, shifting her legs to make room for her elder.

She sat.

And waited for home.

The man came on abrubtly.

He carried in his arms a case and a bottle of pop.

His forehead was wrinkled and his eyes harsh and unkind.

He demanded she get up.

Then the busdriver from his place up front demanded the same.

She contemplated--for a moment--resisting. And making her own demands. She contemplated for a moment--stirring the pot of hesitancy.

But she decided against it.

She longed for home.

So,

she peered out the window.

Adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder.

And manuevered herself around the man and his heavy shoulders and forehead wrinkles and harsh eyes--being careful not to mash the toes of the young girl with the blue ribbon.

He sat down gruffly.

She avoided his eyes the rest of the way--from her place in the aisle. Staring directly ahead. Lost in her own mind. One arm extended above her--maintaining balance. The other limp and ready for home.

Mama always spoke down about the Indians who are settled near our land. But I wondered if there was something more to the hate. After all, we were the ones who came from overseas while they've been here the entire time. Isn't this their home? Aren't we the ones invading?

Mama always looked down at me from her glasses whenever I questioned her. She would give me a little sneer as if to say, "what would you know?" After all, all I know is from her homeschooling me. But I've been learning more when I hide out in the forests with my Friend. He taught me all kinds of things, like how crops worked and about a thing called fertilizer. It was these days that really made me question my Mama. He was so nice to me. He taught me things. He allowed me to question him.

Then one day, Mama caught me sneaking away to play with my Friend. I knew that because the moment she saw even the smallest glimpse of him, she grabbed me by the neck of my shirt, pulling me back home. She yelled for my father, screaming on and on about the bad influences of those Indians and how they've "corrupted" little old me.

That night, Mama told me I wouldn't have to worry anymore. That I would be safe. I never felt unsafe, though. I could hear the footsteps of the men of the village outside my room. I wanted to look out the window, but my Papa closed it in a while ago when I began to use it to escape. I couldn't leave my room either. My Mama made sure of that. I'm sure she still has my siblings on watch as she cooks with what little food we have left.

I didn't really want to eat, though. I have an awful feeling in my chest.

Mama woke me up the next night. I don't really remember falling asleep. She seemed to be in an amazing mood. "My little girl," she spoke, happiness ringing out in her voice. "You'll no longer be tainted by those Indians. Your Papa and the other men disposed of them last night."

I stared at her, confused. "What do you mean by 'disposed'?"

"Those Indians are finally gone and dead" She responded.

There was the biggest smile I've ever seen present on her face, but I couldn't focus on that over the panging in my heart. Everything around me felt unreal. My Friend, my dear Friend, was dead. I don't know how, but I slipped away from my family and into the forest. I ran and ran and ran, never expecting to find my way back home. I ran until I could barely walk anymore. Once I hit those limits, I found the biggest tree I could find and a pointy rock. I used the knowledge my Friend lent me and carved into the tree,

CROATOAN

I just wanted there to be a way they would be remembered. That my Friend would be remembered. At that time, I never realized that that would be the last sign my parents ever found of me. But at least I got my wish, I was with my Friend again.

The paramedic collects the fragments

Amber and clear

From his shoulder

And that of the road

It was cold, icy

Couldn't see the truck coming

You should have been here by now

An eight hour drive

Michigan to Missouri

It's been twelve

It wasn't the plan

You wanted to confess

Your love, for me, to me

Repair our separation

A mistake

Now you knew

But without warning

Plans dashed

And so I will die too

Never knowing the love of you

Your intentions in shards

Along the shoulder of the highway

Sparkle hopefully in the headlights

As my eyes did for you

My heart, a brittle artifact

I'll collect it's pieces

And

I'll try to put them back together

But some were buried

With you

And the glass in your shoulder