Prologue

The Year 1900

The town of Solomon was the kind of town that existed only in books.

If you could describe it, the way most people like to describe a person, it’d be categorically introverted. It gave off a shy element of mystery; the sheer appearance of it, in its deep, dubious presence, was eerie and dark. It was the center of all things, and yet, to most people, it was nothing.

You see, the thing about Solomon was not that people were afraid of it. No, hardly anyone was afraid of it. It was mysterious, suspicious; but most people who entered saw it as beautiful rather than frightening. What they didn’t know was that Solomon was certainly the center of everything; the center of the whole world. And the one thing that made it so catastrophic was that people hardly ever took a second glance. It went unnoticed, undocumented on the maps, unidentified by science and by the very concept of the universe. It still looked, in all its complexity, simple enough to be thrown off the radar of the whole rest of the world.

It was odd, mostly because only certain people could see it. Some people walked past Solomon and simply saw dark, brooding trees with roots like tendrils and vines like witch’s fingers, wound around their trunks. These people would take one look at it and be afraid by its very presence, as if it made them feel unsound. They would run away as fast as they could, bounding back on their walking path, running like the wind until they could find a place that looked familiar again. But what they didn’t realize was that they were meant to see that forest. It was funny, because the first time one walked past it, they’d question its significance. Why have I never noticed this forest before? they would ask themselves, for their recollection of this land was only wide, breezy prairie, with the occasional willow tree here and there. It was the way the land had been known in their mind's eye, and so the first time they saw the forest there, as if it had just popped up out of nowhere, they knew something wasn’t right. That was usually why it looked so dark. It was the illusion. The unknowingness of the Solomon Forest alarmed them. The concept that they had never seen it before puzzled them; how had they never noticed this? Was there something wrong? Were they crazy? Hallucinating? But alas, they would blink, pinch themselves; and still the forest would be there, stewing like a storm cloud in front of them.

All they could think to do was run. It was their first instinct to flee; even if, in the aftermath, it was never the best instinct. The path of Solomon wound itself around in a circle, so that once someone saw it, they could never stray away. They’d try to escape it, but for the ones who ran, the path would wind around and around and around. They’d keep running, wondering when they’d reach home; but seconds later, they would be back where they started.

Some of them were so frightened that they’d take shelter on the remaining part of the land that still looked like prairie. Some would just keep walking until their feet wore to bone, or until the winter came and froze them enough to let them stop walking forever, in a circle that never had a destination. What they didn’t realize was that the true destination was inside the circle, in the circle of land that was contained inside the path; the forest that the path had so meticulously drawn. Once the Solomon Forest was seen, it was seen for a reason. But most people were too afraid to explore it. Most of them still never set foot in it, no matter how much it prodded them. The reason why was because these were the people who only saw the forest. The people who couldn’t see the glowing town inside of the circle of trees, beyond the familiar gravel path, beyond their small grey house in the clearing of the prairie.

Others walked past it and saw a patch of forest, glowing like a ball of sunshine, emanating radiance in the most enticing possible way. They’d look at it curiously, like a word they couldn’t quite sound out correctly, and suddenly they’d be so intrigued they’d be walking inside. When they were about three trees inside of the forest, they could see the little town. The little town of Solomon, bright and charismatic, with a breeze soft as an angel’s breath on your skin when it whispers to you; with youthful trees and colorful flowers and air that smelled like honeysuckle. They would take a few seconds to think, then make the decision to go inside. These were the Special Ones. The ones who knew the truth, even if they had never recognized it; the ones who held the future in their hands and had no idea just what they were carrying.

The whole population of Solomon was only about 700 people, but it still looked deserted from the entrance. The houses were tucked in the back, near the end of the forest on the other side, but looking at it for the first time, people could only enter in from this side. There was a small building like a town hall in the center; treehouse filled with fresh fruits and vegetables surrounding it; a small schoolhouse, beside it; and beside that, a tiny building. Now, the interesting thing about this building was that it changed. On Sundays, it was a religious place of worship for the people in the town of Solomon. On weekdays, it was empty and deserted, with dust in the corners and unlocked doors. On Saturdays, it simply wasn’t there.

Now, if you were a citizen of the town of Solomon, you’d leave your house on Saturdays for only a few things: to garden, to harvest, to gather food from the market, or to fetch water from the well. Nothing more, nothing less. But no one ever thought to go to the place where the church normally was. Where the empty building was on weekdays. Most times, people just forgot about it. They were busy planting and watering and cooking and shopping at the market. They had no time to think of the empty spot of grass in the middle of the open field in the forest.

But one girl was not so oblivious. She’d grown up in Solomon all her life; she’d gardened, shopped at the market, cooked, watered her tomatoes. But she was the only one who seemed to notice the empty spot of grass on Saturdays. When she was little, she would be at the market with her mother and father, holding their hands, pointing at the grass. “Don’t,” they would scold her. “Don’t let go of our hands. You’ll get lost.”

But when the girl grew up she no longer held their hands. She would watch them browse through the fresh produce at the market and wait until they found a good bushel of potatoes. And when they did, while the grocer took their ten cents, she wandered off into the woods, finding the empty spot of grass.

But it was no longer empty. It was a large hole, that looked to be almost as deep as a well, with a light as bright as sunshine gleaming through, up into her eyes.

She looked down for a split-second, long enough to peer into the depth of the earth and be blinded by the light, feeling its warmth, almost hot enough to burn her delicate skin. She glanced back, wanting to know if someone had followed her, but she saw no one. Stepping back from the enigma of the unknown, she tried to run away, but a fat, rotting tree root caught her toe and she slipped, falling headlong into the pit. In fact, it was more of a well; it seemed as if it had no bottom, no place to hit the ground when you were done falling.

The girl was never seen again.

The whole town was haunted by her disappearance; articles and signs were posted all over on boards and flagpoles. But nothing seemed to work. No one knew the whereabouts of the girl, and as the years passed and her family died, the girl still had not returned. They hoped somewhere in the afterlife they could find her, waiting for them. But no one of the living knew where she was.

And so, she was forgotten.

And the empty patch of grass still lay in the open spot in the forest, the only place where sunshine ever reached through the trees, unnoticed by the people.

Until one day, years later, the girl came crawling out, and it was as if not a second of time had passed for her. She looked the same and felt the same and talked the same, but Solomon was filled with a new generation of people, and the ones from her time had all passed. Though it was no surprise to her that they still told the legend of Violet Baker’s epic disappearance. It was never solved.

And Violet went along quietly, listening to the tall tales be told and the people suspect the worst and the ignorant ones to spread the rumors that were far from the truth. No one knew that Violet was still alive, or that she was back in Solomon as if time hadn’t passed at all.

But she never told them the truth.

It would destroy them, like it destroyed her.

at eight o’clock on a saturday night

in the middle of nowhere;

a lonely businessman stumbles into a haunting memory

his father used to come to this same bar

when life felt painful

and nights when his mother was crying in the middle of the night

he remembers coming here as a child, behind his father;

watching insecurity fester beneath lies of narcissism

and his father’s undeniable regret

somewhere in his heart the man always knew he was born to be a mistake

imperfect,

accidental

but he was never made to feel worthy

even when he realized

he never belonged.

the last time he was here was before his father drank away his last heartbreak;

before he climbed into a car at 1:00 a.m. and went home to an angel disguised as satan

and left his son alone.

now the son climbs

into his usual worn-out seat closest to the bartender

and calls for the bartender to bring him something strong

it’s four o’clock and he doesn’t feel like sleeping or loving or living

he drinks himself blind and the bartender caters to him tirelessly;

never mind the clock

he strokes his beard and blinks his eyes,

wrinkled from age and betrayal

at nine he stumbles out of his seat and trips on the floor.

he hits his head

and the world spins for just a minute;

no one calls a taxi for him so he just walks home

in a twenty-degree blizzard

he waits in the wind for satan disguised as an angel

to bring him somewhere—maybe to a place that tastes like home

he doesn’t know

what that tastes like

yet.

and to think,

the bartender never told him when it was too much;

just kept bringing him more

the bartender never tells the man when it’s time to stop swallowing his drowned heartache

until the man has melted too many of his thoughts in something foreign

and gone home to either heaven or hell—he can’t tell which.

and when the bartender stands in the shadows at the funeral

and watches the man’s son take his first sip of the hidden flask in his pocket

he begins to cry.

another life will become

devoted

to cramming emotions away in a crowded drawer

and to think,

if the bartender hadn’t kept unknowingly serving the man his own death

in a tall glass

the man would still be alive

and his son wouldn’t be drinking his future in a silver flask

and the bartender feels as if he is an accessory to a murder crime.

but it’s not

the bartender’s fault,

now is it?

If only I hadn't the obligation to ruin you;

For my presence is the very one that destroys your forevers

When I once wished I could be free in the meadows like the eyes that I turn black

I was born into a universe that needed an end to its fearful infinity

And so I stepped in, not knowing how much I would hurt you.

My long lost heart, my one true love--

Life

I wish we could live together in harmony again

But they keep asking me to take them

When you are too heavy to bear

And dear, I hate to watch them suffer

I must comply

I'll play this sick game over and over until

There's nothing left

And still

There will never be time for you to forgive me

-death

Sin is what brings most people

To feel eternal guilt within.

But the worst sin

I ever committed

Was kneeling at your feet,

Begging

For forgiveness.

I'd made it through the year that had followed my mother's tragic suicide. The waves enveloped me, and I let them, my face kissed by the sun and soul feeling free. I heard whispers and glanced across the water; my mother was waving at me. Her essence left me breathless as I was swallowed by water. I screamed, and she reached for my hand, saving me.

I was astounded as she lifted me out.

My reflection on the surface was faceless.

I live in a home of whose walls are hundreds of years old. I like to imagine what has happened within these walls for centuries; how many cries it's heard, how many deaths it has witnessed, how many beautifully suffering silences it has bore without the power to abolish them. Unlike some people, I am a thinker. I imagine that the way these walls listen are much deeper than I am capable of listening; for I cannot hear the sweeping of the beautiful girl's eyelashes against her cheeks when she blinks away her tears to hide her sadness; so I do not comfort her. I imagine that these walls are hopeless with lasting wonder for how deeply one can suffer within the silence of their own thoughts and the beating of their own heart. I believe these walls have witnessed many a heartbreak and much grief throughout the centuries. It has heard fires burn wondrous souls to charred remains as its flames crackle and lick the heart of its enemy; it has heard aspiring dreamers amount to nothing, stopped only by the interference of a mistake that was enough to shatter their faith; and their cries of helplessness, of utter discontent and sorrow, that erupt from their hollowed hearts and echo throughout these walls. These walls have eyes not to see a smile, not to tear with a griever, not to comfort a lost wanderer; but with ears, innocent enough to stay silent and yet robbed of their youth enough know what the world felt like from the inside out. It is quiet enough to observe the victims of passed destinies and failed dreams and powerful loss; and it feels compassion with a burning desire to empathize; but these walls are voiceless, sightless, tasteless. They feel only by the sounds they hear, the only things that indicate what it must feel like to live with senses; to be more than just an onlooker, and rather, a friend. I imagine these walls yearn to come to life in time to save the future from their foretold notion of inevitable doom; but alas, these walls, better known as life--listen to our cries, move along with the clouds, soak up every ounce of emotion they can get themselves onto. These walls surround us. They hear everything, feel with us the cries we wail, the longings for which we scream, the wonders for which we laugh. These walls are shelter, water, clouds, space; the air, the breeze, enveloping us in its effortless beauty, if even but for a moment; one moment, long enough to bring us company in times of solidarity, or simply in times of deep thought; but short enough to disappear without a trace, much like the very invisibility it possesses. It is fleeting enough to allow us to forget that we live within walls that can hear us.

It's a pretty big crowd for a Saturday

I feel it in the air

I've heard the hoot-owl howling by my window now; for six nights in a row

Home, keep hold of my heart

There's always tomorrow.

I go walking after midnight

Searching for you.