I believe sugar is good for you

I believe if a bag of money fell out of a truck, it's mine

I believe writing is a gift not bestowed on many

I believe there is another me somewhere who has already lived my life and is laughing every time I do something stupid 

I believe we are more resilient than we want to admit

I believe in extraterrestrials because one lives next door to me and let me tell you, we've got it all wrong 

Cora Claire Daniels was a girl who always failed, regardless of how hard she tried. It was like she was cursed; a goal would be set, she was determined, but in the end, she would crash and burn. Now only fifteen years old, she had finally given up. As her great grandma had told her when she was very young, “a black girl from Chicago never wins.”

Shaking the thought away, Cora forced a smile and walked out onto the streets. Everything was going to be okay. The young girl knew her great grandma had always been a pessimist, and she was not going to let that keep her from trying. Her mother worked at a café down the street from her family’s apartment around the clock to ensure Cora a decent life. She couldn’t give up and let all that go to waste.

Cora, an optimist from the start, hurried around the corner onto her street. “Excuse me? Do you have any spare change today, Cora?” one of the homeless men on her street asked politely. “Sorry, Willy.” Cora apologized, feeling her pockets, “Nothing today.”

“No problem, darling.” Willy nodded, looking up at her, “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“See ya tomorrow!” she smiled, heading off. Cora felt awful for forgetting Willy, but he’s a trooper. “Is that?” Cora gaped, seeing a flash of green on the ground, “No way! It is!” Whirling around, the girl snatched the ten-dollar bill and grinned. “Willy!” she called joyfully, “Here!”

Willy looked over at his friend as she ran over with the bill. “Here you go, Willy!” she offered, slowing down to a stroll, “Buy a sandwich and a coffee!” Smiling, Willy began to stand up to accept the gift as a police siren echoed through the city. The cold air grew stagnant as the wind let up. Willy looked over at Cora, but before he could thank her, a loud bang pierced his ears. Gunshots.

“CORA!!!” he wailed as she fell to the ground, “NO!!!”

Police men ran after the gunman, ducking behind their cars as the man began shooting. Several officers circled Cora’s body in hopes of saving her. “Do you know her?” one asked Willy. “Yes.” he replied, crying, “Her mother works at the place down the street. Will she be okay? Is she okay?”

“An ambulance is on its way.” the other informed, taking Cora’s pulse, “She’s got a pulse.”

The bloody ten-dollar bill drifted from Cora’s hand and rested on the ground as she rolled her head to the left. “It is going to be okay.” the officer assured halfheartedly. Cora groaned in pain. The bullet had struck her in the chest, just below the heart. Her top was soaked with blood, which kept flowing until the first officer held a bandage on the wound.

By this time, the shooter had been apprehended, the ambulance was rounding the corner, and Cora’s breath was gone. The wind began to blow again and swept up the stained Hamilton from the sidewalk and it blew high into the air as the doors of the ambulance opened. Cora Daniels had died, but her journey had just begun.

“The shooter charged with the murder of a fifteen-year-old black girl from Chicago has been sentenced to twenty years in prison,” the radio buzzed, waking up fourteen-year-old Landon George Goodwin, “the bail is set at–“ The clock radio clicked off with the push of a button and Landon rolled out of bed. Clad in a pair of grey pajama bottoms, Landon moseyed out of his room and went downstairs. Around 5 foot 4 inches tall, Landon was of average weight and build. His frizzy brown locks swooped around in all directions, bouncing around whenever he made the slightest movement.

Landon opened the fridge and poured a glass of orange juice for himself and his younger brother. “Grayson!” he shouted, “What do you want for breakfast?!”

“Waffles please!” a high-pitched voice responded, followed by quick footsteps down the stairs, “With extra syrup!” “You can put your own syrup on it.” Landon informed the blue-eyed redhead sitting at the kitchen table, “I’m not going to be around to baby you forever, ya know.”

Grayson was two years younger than Landon, although he acted as if the age difference was triple that. Landon made his food, did his laundry, and fixed his bed. He was essentially the “lady of the house” now that their mother was doing double shifts at the office.

“Dad!” Landon called, “Do you want waffles too?!”

Mr. Goodwin hobbled down the stairs fully dressed, plopped in his seat at the table, and scooched in as far as his gut would allow. “Yes, Lanny, that’s fine.” he agreed, “No syrup though, if I don’t stop gaining weight, I won’t fit out the doors to look for a new job!”

Their father had gotten let go from his job at Jim’s Contracting Co. two months ago, leaving Mrs. Goodwin as the primary breadwinner temporarily. He spends his days researching jobs and doing interviews, eventually coming home at the end of the day tired and reaching for a beer.

Landon whipped together the batter and poured it into the waffle maker. He was not one to eat those processed frozen toaster “waffles” and he definitely wouldn’t feed it to his family.

The waffle sizzled in the device as Landon grabbed a glass of milk and set it in front of his father. “Thank you.” he mumbled, taking a sip as Landon returned to the waffle, throwing it on a plate and passing it to Mr. Goodwin. “HEY!” Grayson whined, “I was here first!”

“Do you have an interview at 7:30?” Landon asked rhetorically, “Exactly.”

Grayson rolled his eyes and groaned. “Grayson Herbert Goodwin, don’t you groan at me!” Landon scolded, “You know I’m not afraid to ground you!”

“Sorry, Lanny.” the boy pouted, “I can wait.”

“Good.” Landon smiled, turning on the house stereo to an early 2000s pop station. Mouthing the lyrics as he worked, Landon was quick to make two more waffles for him and his brother. “Where is your interview anyway, Dad?” Grayson inquired, shoving the last of his waffle into his mouth.

“Um, some place upstate.” Mr. Goodwin faltered, taking a gulp of his milk and whipping away the mustache it left behind, “Why do you ask, Gray?” To that the boy simply shrugged, promptly excusing himself and heading upstairs to take a shower. “Any light to shed?” their father turned to Landon, “What’s eating at your brother?”

Landon really did not want to pull a stunt like Gray and run away, but he wasn’t about to ruin the morning with this conversation. “I gotta get my outfit around.” Landon blurted, standing up from the table, “We’ll talk later, good luck!”

Gray was a mommy’s boy no doubt, so when he heard Mrs. Goodwin complaining about their dad, he believed every word she said. It was the previous night in which Grayson heard his mom refer to their dad as a “lazy sack of hot air not even trying to get a job,” and instantly began doubting Mr. Goodwin’s determination.

“Gray?” Landon asked, knocking on the bathroom door, “You in there?” Despite hearing the water running, there was no response, so Landon opened the door and went in. Grayson was in the shower, curtains closed, and Landon looked at himself in the mirror. For a moment, he just stared into the sad green eyes looking back at him. “Grayson, I know things are rocky right now, but you need to trust that Dad is trying.” he spoke softly, “Mom sometimes overreacts a little; what do you expect from a woman working as hard as she does? It’s stressful.”

“I know.” a voice from the shower agreed, “It’s just that if he was trying, then why doesn’t he have a job yet?”

“It’s hard to find a job, Gray.” Landon reminded, squirting some toothpaste onto his toothbrush, “Economical stuff.” The shower turned off as Landon began to brush his teeth. Gray got out of the shortly after and grabbed his towel before leaving for his room. He was angry, and Landon knew it. His brother was always a passive aggressive one, especially when he thought Landon was taking sides. As they say, a house divided cannot stand. The Goodwin Household seemed to be on its last legs. Landon rinsed, and turned to face the opposite wall. He forced air out from between his lips, exasperated already and it wasn’t even seven o’clock.

Fifteen minutes later Landon exited the bathroom in his robe and walked across the hall to his room. “What are you doing?” Landon asked his brother, who was laying in the center of the floor. “Eh.” he replied, not moving.

The boy stepped over his brother and tossed the robe on his brother’s face with a grin, proceed to dress. Gray pushed the robe aside and sat up as Landon slid into his jeans and pulled a polo over his head. “Not bad, Lanny.” he joked, “Dressing up for your crush?”

“Crush? No!” Landon defended, gesticulating nervously, “I just like to look presentable.” Gray smiled and winked as if he knew something. He didn’t. Even Landon knew nothing.

Over the past few months, Landon’s life had fallen apart, but he didn’t tell anyone he felt that way. Everyone in his life had enough of their own issues that they didn’t need to have to deal with his too. In fact, Landon was so good at concealing his depression that some people came to him with their problems. He loved helping others, but it is near impossible to make someone else feel better when one wants to curl up into a ball and cry.

“C’mon, Gray.” Landon yipped, motioning to the door, “We gotta get going, it isn’t spring break yet!”

On their way out of the house, Landon was sure to see to it that every light in the house had been turned off, and that the house keys were in his pocket. Mrs. Goodwin wouldn’t be home until seven that night, so the two boys would need to be able to get inside after school.

Landon sympathized with his mother, for the most part. She worked hard to support her family, so it is no wonder why she was so stressed. Someone had to pay the bills, but Landon also thought his father was trying. It wasn’t right of her to chastise him for his unemployment when he was doing everything he could to get a job. Landon remembered the old days when everyone was happy and sighed at the romanticized times.

It was Tuesday March 14th, and while snow was beginning to fall in other places, it was fifty-five degrees and sunny in Beaver Falls, Ohio. The two brothers stopped by the middle school, the place where they part ways and Landon meets up with his friends to go down the street to Beaver Falls High School.

“Hey guys!” Landon greeted, bouncing over to where a frenzied boy and annoyed girl were waiting. The slender black-haired green-eyed boy was a few inches taller than Landon, and always looked as if he was behind some borderline-dangerous prank. “Lan the Man!” the boy shouted, causing the girl to step back. “Jake! You shouted in my ear!” she chided, slapping her hand over her ear, “¡Calmate!”

Jake frowned. “Sorry, Ally.” he apologized, “I forgot to take my meds this morning, so I’m a little hyper-er than usual.”

“More hyper.” Ally corrected, “Jake, I’m not even from America and I have better grammar than you!” Landon snickered quietly. His friends always brightened his day, despite the fact that their backgrounds seemed somewhat gloomy.

For instance, Jacob Douglas was motherless. She had left the family several days after he was born and never returned. When Jake turned six, his father went back to school to study law and shortly after, Jake was diagnosed with A.D.H.D. He can hardly stay concentrated with meds, but when he’s off them, it is ten times worse.

Ally, on the other hand, was a very calm and introverted Latina. Her mom met her dad on a business trip to Mexico in 1997. A few years later, they married and moved to Mexico for some time. It was in Mexico that the brown-haired brown-eyed Alejandra “Ally” Rodríguez was born, but they relocated to the states when Ally was two and lived there ever since.

The three of them together made for quite the group of misfits, but Landon didn’t mind. Everyone knew everyone in their small town, and most residents were tolerant and accepting of cultural differences. It was one of the reasons that made their community so much of a melting pot. One could visit three random houses in Beaver Falls and learn something new from a different culture at each one.

Queenie Monroe, strong-minded yet feeble in body, was ready to die. Some people desire to live forever but not Queenie. She wasn’t crazy. Didn’t take a genius to know when it was time to give up the Ghost. She’d seen plenty of life and plenty of death in her years. The coming journey held no mystery for her. She just wanted to get on with it.

On her seventy-ninth birthday she felt death hovering. The crow on her tin roof cawed three times and the rooster refused to announce the sun, his stunted bantam body standing motionless in the front yard, not even pawing the earth for worms. A cool breeze crossed her cheeks at noontime as the sun blistered above. Kneeling in the dirt at the foot of the porch, Queenie cast bleached chicken bones and shuddered as each pair crossed at their apex, thirteen times in a row. Clawing herself upright, the old woman sat on the lip of the porch and waited all day for Death to arrive. He did not.

At eighty, she put on the only dress she owned, a blue rag, braided her wild, nappy hair in two long plaits to wrap around her head, snapped in some ill-fitting dentures and picked up a Bible to hold. She rocked on the front porch of her shack, bear grease rubbed into her skin until it was slick so she didn’t have to swat or slap at mosquitoes. Long past midnight Queenie waited for Death to come claim her. But the bastard didn’t show.

When she was finally able to get out of that rocking chair and onto her small cot, Queenie was angry. Every joint in her body ached from staying in one place for so long. Her feet were swollen. Her mouth hurt. She’d even given up her last pinch of snuff for the evening because she wanted to be able to face Death properly, with some good smelling breath. Real ladies didn’t dip snuff. Didn’t spit either. Yesirree, Mr. Death was in some kind of trouble with Queenie Monroe. And most people in Lauderdale County, Alabama, knew better. There are just some things that you did not want to do. But then, thought Queenie, “Mr. Death must not be fully ‘quainted with Queenie Monroe. He sure don’t know me iffin he think he can leave me hangin’ ’round like this.”

Late on the evening of her eighty-first birthday, Queenie sat on her rickety porch again. This time she had no plan. Her hair was loose, falling about her shoulders. It still wasn’t quite all gray. Even at eighty-one there was enough black to be salt and pepper. But it was tangled, matted in the back, so nappy that you couldn’t pass a comb through it if you tried. Her skin hid her age also. Wrinkles appeared around the corners of her eyes, small fine lines that identified her as elderly but certainly not eighty-one. Her eyes were a different story. They showed every year, every humiliation, plus all the anger and despair a black woman can feel, wrapped up and multiplied by a thousand. Her eyes were ancient, brooding and green, a watery, rheumy color depicting years misspent and slipped away, of drinking and laying with low, common men, of loving, hard, fast and embracing hate just as voraciously as love.

Queenie dressed in an old pair of overalls, more tatter than cloth, no shoes, with barely a shirt to cover her low-hanging, belly-button reaching tits. But she did leave her teeth in. It didn’t seem right to pass with not a tooth in her head. She wanted the undertaker to be able to fix her mouth with a handsome smile. If she wore her choppers, save everyone the trouble of looking for them when they came to get her.

So now, here she was waiting for this fool to show up. There was no Bible, only a bottom lip full of snuff. That Bible had been a sore spot anyway. She debated about using it the last time but her idea to hedge her bets won. Last year she thought she’d carry it just in case she got a chance to get through the Pearly Gates. This year she thought about it long and hard and knew for a certainty that she wasn’t going to heaven. She’d put too many spells on people and fucked too many married men in her day. A body got to be straight, truthful, she figured. Heaven wasn’t the place for her. And, of course, the snuff was from a desire for that wicked weed, tobacco.

At about eleven she rose to go inside to bed, cursing under her breath. She stood there, in the dark, angry, cold and disappointed.

“Mutha fuckah, where is you? I knows you can’t be scared of me. I’s ready to go. Shit, come on with it.”She wasn’t expecting an answer and when it came she took a step back on the loose plank and almost tripped.

“Woman, I’s right here. Been here. Waitin’ on your sorry ass to decide you ready to go.”

He came round from the side of the house, where he’d been sitting in the dirt, brushing off his fancy clothes. He was a little bitty man. About half her size and so high yellow, his skin glowed in the dark and lit the whole yard up like a lantern. He wore all purple except for the strip of black felt around his furry derby. His shirt was a rich lilac and his alligator shoes a deep burgundy-purple. The jacket to his suit was slung over his shoulders, exposing suspenders and braces reminding her of days past. He looked more like a new time pimp than Death. In fact, as she peered at him even more closely, standing in front of her, with the glimmer of his face showing his features, she recognized him. It was River Jordan Williston. The only man she had ever wanted to marry, a man she’d fucked long and hard in her prime.

“What ya doin’ here River? You been dead for years. Know you can’t be for real.”

“I’se for real woman. Sure enuf for real. Now gits your stuff ‘cause we ’bout ready to head on.”

Queenie was suspicious.

“Now wait a minute here River. First off, I don’t recollect you bein’ place in no charge of me. Who is you now an’ why is ya here?”

River sighed deeply.

“I see you is gonna give me some trouble. Thought if I waited some you’d come right along, be tired enuf and through enuf to jus’ come on. But you jus’ as mule headed as you always were. Dammit, I wish you would do like I say for once.”

Queenie moved back over to her chair and sat down. She slowly bent and reached underneath the rocker, between one of the loose floorboards and pulled out a small tin can. She opened it up, carefully and slowly. Placing the top on her lap, she used her thumb and forefinger to pinch a goodly portion of snuff, her pinkie finger held delicately away. Her bottom lip naturally opened and the snuff dropped right into place. It tasted good, soothing. A much better feeling than store bought cigarettes.

River just watched until finally he’d had enough. He took his jacket from over his shoulder and rested it on the wooden porch ledge. He plopped his narrow ass on the top step and stretched out his little legs, relaxing.

“You is a might smaller than I remembers.”

“I ain’t no smaller. Your ass jus’ got bigger. A lot bigger.”

Queenie didn’t take offense. It was true. In the last ten years or so, since she gave up fucking, she started to eat more. Even with those damned dentures that spoiled some of her enjoyment, she could still eat at least a chicken a day.

“Well, is you gonna tell me why you here or not?”

“I ain’t no Death, if that’s what you thinkin’. I came to claim you, but I ain’t no Death.”

“Well, who is ya then?” Queenie asked but knew the answer already.

River looked up at Queenie and she saw the glint of pride in his eyes, matched by the glint of gold in his front teeth. He grasped his suspenders and puffed out his small chest. She couldn’t believe that at eighty one she still felt a hot surge between her thighs. This little man-thing recalled to her the nights of passion they’d spent together, the quick interludes behind the barn, out in the fields, wherever he wanted, whenever they felt the urge. She wondered if he could still use it like before. Was it still big?

“I been sent by the Devil hisself, sent to bring your ass on to him.”

River must have expected her to say something or act scared. He didn’t stop holding his suspenders, but his self-assurance fizzled and he looked at Queenie with uncertainty. She hadn’t even missed a beat in her rocking chair. She showed no signs of being impressed or even moved by the information. She just kept looking, mainly at his crotch.

“Stop that. I ain’t no man no more. I ain’t interested in no tail. ’Sides, even if I was, you looks like my old mammy now. Woman, you is old.”

Queenie shrugged. “Age ain’t no nevermind to me. I always be wantin’ it.”

“Some thangs don’t change, does they?” Then River gave her one of his sweetest smiles, trying to move her along. This time she did miss a beat, in her rocking and in her heart. Truth told, she had loved herself some River Jordan back in the day. She wanted to stay right on that porch, talking about the old times with him but she knew she had to go. Question was, where was she going? It’s good the Devil sent River, she thought. Maybe I can git a little somethin’ outta this ’fore I has to go.

She stopped rocking altogether and looked at River real hard, to make him know she was serious.

“All right. I’se gonna go with you, but first, before I get to the Devil an’ all, I wanna visit heaven. Just to see. Can you do that?”

River didn’t want her to know how low on the totem pole he was, but, on the other hand, he knew his limitations. He studied on her request, knew it was irregular, felt she was out to trick him but he didn’t rightly know how to handle Queenie. It was the first time he’d been sent to claim a soul all on his own. He was glad she wasn’t in a rush for him to answer.

“Well I gots to look into this. Be back in a minute.”

He rose from the porch stepped and stretched out his short body, arms over his head, grabbed for his jacket and started around the side of the house where he came from. She didn’t hear anything, not a rustle of leaves or a twig break. He was gone, just like that.

And just like that he appeared again on the porch, shaking his head in wonderment.

“Mr. Devil say he ain’t got no problem with you goin’ up there for a visit. We is supposed to wait here for a guide to show up an’ then we gonna go look ’round heaven.”

They made small talk for a few minutes, she asking about this person or that, him answering to the best of his ability. There was very little surprising gossip. All the people she suspected of going to Hell were the ones he knew about. But it was good to get confirmation, good to know that she was smart when it came to reading and studying people.

There wasn’t a sound anywhere. Crickets stopped their chirping, even the wind stopped moving. Everything was still, quiet. Then, all of a sudden harp music came from out of nowhere, playing softly. River looked at Queenie and shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. She heard him mutter,

“They’s always tryin’ to make some show. Shit, it don’t take all that.”

First a white shod foot appeared on the bottom step. Then a leg, an arm. A full body, all clothed in pearl-essence, bathed in a halo-light. Now Queenie was impressed. This had to be the finest young buck she had ever seen. He wasn’t little and puny like River. Nor was he anywhere near yellow. He was broad-shouldered and bespectacled, with little wire-rimmed glasses, the sign of an intellectual. His legs were about the size of River’s chest cavity and his smile gleamed, purely white, not a gold tooth in sight. He was more than a woman’s dream. He was a fantasy breathed into life. Her old heart danced a beat.

River saw her fascination and couldn’t resist a twinge of jealousy. He got tired of them heaven boys always being the object of desire. He said to Queenie, as loud as he dared,

“Yeah, he do look good on the outside, I give him that. But he couldn’t fuck worth a damn when he was livin’. I knows. I gotta hold to some stuff he was gittin’ regular. Man ain’t know how to treat the kitty cat. Not like I done treat yours.”

The guide looked at River with pity.

“That’s your problem,” he said in an educated voice, “always concerned with sex. There were and are other things in this world to worry about.”

River humped and hunched his shoulder away from the angel. All the while Queenie acted as if she was spellbound. She couldn’t hardly open her mouth for fear the new man might smell the snuff. She turned her head and spat in the bushes. Finally she got up enough nerve to ask, “What be your name, Mr. Angel?”

The man flashed a large beatific smile.

“It’s Jackson, Granny. May I take your hand to lead you to heaven?”

River was outraged. Before Jackson could touch Queenie, he threw himself between them.

“Ya ain’t touchin’ her. She’s mine to take with me. All you supposed to do is show her a little bit of heaven. I mean us, ’cause I’m going too. Then we, her and me, is going where we belongs. You got that pretty boy? Don’t try no funny stuff here. Don’t mess with me.”

Jackson did nothing more than raise one eyebrow at River, like he was observing some kind of low-life gnat.

“I understand Miz Monroe is headed, uh, elsewhere. My intent is to show her some courtesy, nothing more. I do know my job.”

Queenie literally pushed River out of the way and laid her hand on Jackson’s wide forearm while she twisted her big ass down the steps. She twittered like a little girl and Jackson indulged her, compassionate, like an angel should.

River followed, talking angrily to himself, mad at having someone else in charge.

“This shit ain’t right.”

Meanwhile, Jackson, up ahead, made small talk with Queenie. Referring to her as Granny, trying to soothe her fears. Although she didn’t feel grandmotherly towards him, in fact was trying to scheme on getting a peek at his private parts, she accepted his references gracefully. She just noted that had she been in a position to fuck him good, he wouldn’t be calling her no damn ‘Granny’. He’d be calling for her pussy. She knew that, deep down inside.

Queenie was so busy thinking about Jackson and sex that she hadn’t noticed the landscape change until he started to point things out to her. She’d reached heaven and paid it no attention thinking of what she would have enjoyed doing to and with this big buck. She didn’t care what River said about his skills. Besides, River had to be lying. How could this big, beautiful package not be skilled, not be the lover he looked like? She fluttered her rheumy eyes up at Jackson.

“Jackson, this here is such beautiful place. You thinks maybe I can speak to God a bit an’ see if I can stay?

She heard a roar behind them and turned to see River hopping up and down with anger. He was so little he looked like a child. Red smoke puffed from his shoes every time he landed on his feet. His hat fell off and she could see little, tiny, red horns sprouting on each side of his high-yellow forehead.

“You can’t do that, you can’t do that Queenie. You is supposed to go to Hell. I gotta take you, you gotta come on.”

Jackson grinned at River, watching as the pint-sized demon lost his temper. He turned to speak in a reassuring tone to Queenie.

“God would love to speak with you. It is never too late, never too late to repent. Just wait here one moment and I’ll arrange for you to speak with Him, Granny.” He glared over at River. “Don’t leave here with this woman or you’ll be in big trouble with my Boss Man.” Jackson disappeared just as he appeared, with harp music.

River walked up to Queenie and grabbed her arm.

“Woman is you crazy?”

Queenie sniffed and looked down her nose at River.

“No, I ain’t crazy. I’se feel like mayhap I wanna stay here ‘stead of going with you. Jackson treat me like a lady. He be holding onto my arm an calling me ‘Granny.’ Ya ain’t done nuthin’ but cuss at me since you came to git me. I prefers to be wid him.”

River looked at her and laughed. A real down deep in the stomach laugh. He picked up his hat from the ground and dusted it off, slapping it against his scrawny legs. He put it on his head at a jaunty angle so that one red horn stuck out, then flung his jacket across his shoulders again.

“Queenie, I can’t argue none with you ‘bout that Jackson. But you sure ’bout this? Sure you gonna be happy with this arrangement, ’cause you ain’t gonna be able to change your mind.”

Queenie was surprised at his laughter, surprised that he was taking things so well, especially after his display of temper earlier. But she didn’t want him to think she was hesitant or going to change her mind. She felt victorious. She had a chance to stay in heaven. All those years she thought she’d end up in Hell. “Damn, things was funny how they worked out.” She silently corrected herself. No more cussing. She must say things like “darn” now. She tried to imitate Jackson, his tone of voice as she condescendingly spoke to River for the last time.

“Yes, I am sure that I would like to stay here, forever.”

River grinned, a small, little queer grin and backed away from Queenie. He tipped his hat forward, blew her a kiss from the tips of his fingers and vanished, in a haze of purple smoke. Queenie, somewhat disturbed, looked around to find Jackson. She hadn’t thought it would be quite so easy getting away from River.

Jackson returned and if he noticed River was gone, he didn’t say a word about it.

“God said he didn’t have to see you Granny. He said that you are more than welcome to stay.”

Queenie could have jumped for joy. She rubbed her knotted, arthritic hands together in anticipation.

“Is I gonna be made to look like you, to be young again?”

“Oh no Granny. You will have to stay like you are.”

Suddenly, noise filled the air and a bunch of angels started strolling towards them, all of them men, all of them gorgeous and firm bodied. Shades of black, brown, tan. Thin waists, beautiful full lips, big thighs, big bulges where their private parts were housed. Queenie felt a stirring down below, and flush develop across her face. As each passed and greeted her, she was addressed as “Granny.”

At the end of the long procession, she thought she heard an echo of River’s raucous laughter. Here she was in heaven, dying of lust, never to be sated. She was going to be horny for eternity, non-stop. Heaven was to be her Hell. Jackson couldn’t contain himself, he smiled, his teeth causing an iridescent glow strong enough for her to blink and raise a hand to cover her eyes.

“Ah Granny, whoever said God doesn’t have a sense of humor was wrong."

Suddenly and silently, Jerry stopped moving. I nearly ran into him as I watched for tricky steps in the fading sunlight. He came to a halt at the edge of a small mesa, completely clear of the brush we had climbed through. In the center of the clearing was the telescope. It surprised me to see it, I suppose I had assumed it was still in the bed of my truck, but here it was.

I looked toward Jerry and he returned a thousand-yard stare. I looked at the telescope and back at Jerry. He was impassive as ever, so I slowly continued moving forward in the direction of the telescope. The wooden stand and bronzed exterior of the telescope were all familiar to me, but nothing else was. Looking around at the scenery, it seemed like I had travelled for months, over incredible distances, to get to this point. The only things I recognized were the telescope and Jerry, behind me, standing stock-still.

A telescope sitting alone on a mesa, assembled and pointed toward the heavens, is an invitation. It’s a formal invitation, delivered by snail mail, printed on linen paper with the pointless piece of tissue paper that flutters out of the envelope when you open it; the kind it’s nearly impossible to refuse. Who was I, then, to deny this telescope?

I lowered my head to the eyepiece and gazed through the lenses and mirrors out into the vast space, millions of miles away. I saw nothing, however. Just darkness within the telescope. I pulled back, checked the front of the telescope for a lens cover, and, finding none, looked into the eyepiece again.

Once more I was greeted by nothing but darkness, a black as black as any I had ever seen. When I pulled back from the telescope I found myself enveloped by the same impenetrable darkness. The mesa, Jerry, the forest, the night sky -- all gone. My surroundings were like a sensory-deprivation chamber, or at least what I imagined that to be. There was the blackness, myself, and the telescope.

Just then I heard something behind me, a knocking. I turned around and saw a door with faded white paint. I took a couple steps toward it and pulled it open, sticking my head outside. The blackness around me was replaced by twilight again, but I was not on the mesa with Jerry and the telescope. Instead I stared out at three children with beautiful black skin under ragged clothes, one wearing a “Cleveland Indians 2016 World Series Champions” t-shirt.

“Mr. Ulloa,” the tallest child said. I looked to either side of me, looking for another man, then back at him, staring expectantly at me.

“Yes?” I said hesitantly.

“Do you have any more meat for our family?”

I didn’t know how to respond. Did I? Why would I? Where was I?

“Not right now,” was all I could think to say. The kids turned, sadly, and retreated down the narrow street. I looked after them, noting the surroundings. In the distance I saw snow-capped mountains, in gaps between mud houses I could see a fertile river valley, and everywhere I saw people, Africans, going about their business, into and out of homes, crossing streets, and cutting between buildings.

I pulled myself back inside, half expecting the nothingness again, only to find myself in a small, rectangular, one-room dwelling. The room was actually a converted shipping container with a door at either end; inside I had a hot plate, cot, books, small television, and bottles of water, among other things in various bins and such. The “back door” was more of a curtain, behind which was an area covered by an ad hoc awning. The back had what I would graciously term a bathroom -- a three-sided curtained off area with a bucket and a water hose -- and a table, upon which a dead goat lay.

I did not linger at the back, retreating back into the hut instead. I set myself down on the cot and noticed a name tag next to the bed. I picked it up and immediately noticed my picture. The surprising part, however, was the Médecins Sans Frontières logo and the name: Drake Ulloa.

Then it hit me. I was living my novel: Dracula’s Miracles.

Drake Ulloa was Dracula’s vaguely Spanish pseudonym. Things were clicking now: the goat out back was not a goat, but a kudu; the village was somewhere near Homa Bay; I was in Doctors Without Borders. These things came back to me easily. I had researched them what I considered extensively, written and rewritten compulsively, and edited and pondered obsessively; the details I had created were ingrained in my mind. But I could not remember where I had left off.

Laying back on the cot, I tried to replay the most recent writing I’d done in my head. It had been a while since I had written anything. So long that I was struggling to remember the last time I’d put pen to paper. It was before Michaela had left, but how long before? The story had hit a lull after villagers discovered the drained kudu. My ideas of what would happen after that just failed to flow; my creativity was dammed up.

This was probably to be expected, as I knew so little about anything I was writing. I had not been to Africa, nor had I been any closer to Africa than the eastern seaboard of the United States. Ocean City, Maryland, was still more than 7,000 miles from Homa Bay, so my frame of reference was lacking, to say the least.

I did not lay back on the cot long before I heard a noise in the back. I stood, walked to the curtain, pulled it back and saw the children, drowning in their incorrect championship attire, poking at the kudu on the table. They were speaking rapidly, but not in English, in Bantu or Nilotic, I couldn’t remember, or, more accurately, had no way of knowing -- my rudimentary research couldn’t help me here. Their chatter got more excited and they leaned in close, they obviously had never seen the animal drained of nearly all its blood, nor were they familiar with the marks on its body from my teeth. They hummed with a nervous excitement until a small boy noticed me and screamed, turning on his heels and running away from my residence as fast as he could.

The other boys looked up and shot looks of sheer panic my way before following their friend, flying away in old Nikes, some without laces. I watched the boys flee and felt the blood drain from my own head as I realized they’d tell their parents or other adults and bring them back here, where they would question me and would no doubt become upset at my lack of adequate answers. I didn’t want to find out what would they might think to do after the questioning, so I grabbed a water bottle and went out the front at a brisk walk.

I strode with purpose down the dusty brown streets, looking all around me for signs of anything untoward, but avoiding staring at anyone thing for too long. I turned at corners randomly, only making sure I was not going in a circle and headed away from the direction the boys were running. The humid air, my pace, and my nerves took my breath from me quickly, leaving me panting and dripping sweat as I walked randomly.

My meandering course eventually wound to the business district of town, where the color of my skin stood in stark relief to the natives. I felt extremely conspicuous and slowed my pace, passing the market and bank at a more comfortable click while I tried to control my breathing. A group of men gathered outside the mosque before afternoon prayers gave me a sideways glance, but none came forward to halt my progress.

As the busy section of town started to fade out around me, I felt a little more at ease. I could see the bay of Lake Victoria ahead of me, with its green-brown water lapping gently at the beach, a noise that drew me toward it. At the beachhead I veered hard to the west and found a secluded spot under the cover of some scrubby plants to sit and rest for a moment. I opened my water bottle and greedily chugged at least 10 of its 20 ounces in a couple deep glugs.

Thirst contented, I laid back in the brush and looked into the sky. I tried to tell time by the sun, but I had no idea what day it was, nor where the sun typically was this close to the equator. I knew it was after noon, but that’s all I knew. A soft breeze rustled the brush around me and cooled my skin and surrounded me with the fragrance of mud and aquatic plants. The fertile field around me swayed in the breeze, providing a white noise that eased my nerves. I was not wholly confident I hadn’t been followed to my peaceful lakeside spot, but I allowed myself to close my eyes anyway.

I don’t know how long I laid on my back, but after some time I was awoken by a gruff yelling.

“Over here! He’s over here!”

Ha,

I want to write about writer's block but am blocked by the wanting.

The wanting of what?

To impress?

The pressure of impressing pressing words into blocks.

I'm a ghost. Light as a feather, almost like I never existed at all. I saw my own funeral take place. It was lovely. Now what?

"Nice dress you have on today." Startled, beside me was a man. Very attractive in a black suit. "I'm sorry do I know y-, hold on! You can see me?!" He smiled.

"Come along now. It's time to go."

"Go? Where?"

"Can't say. You need to be asking someone of higher power for that one." 

"I can't follow you. I don't know you!" 

"Should've thought of that before you quickened your death date."

"Hold on, are you a grim reaper?"

"I would prefer to be called an Angel, love. Angel of death at your service miss." He winked and gestured his hand to his heart. Bloody hell I'm not going anywhere. So I ran and took over a body of a 13 year old. 

Making chocolate chip cookies, doing the laundry, walking the dog, watching the game, eating a meal, going to the post office, washing the car, cutting the lawn, going to the beach, going to Starbucks. Texting friends, emailing your mother, reading every article you can find on the internet on how to be a better writer. Reading the blurbs on Amazon of the same genre your currently writing and you say, "what trash, I can do better." Looking at the first three paragraphs of your first draft and decide it's shit. Crying to your significant other that writing might not be for you and when they agree you go into a fit of anger. 

You have all of the makings of a writer it's just that for the last five years you have had a case of "Writer's Block."