PROLOGUE.

Robert Tillman hurried through the house, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He didn’t know why it was happening; he didn’t even know what was happening. All he knew was that his wife Tricia had completely lost her mind. Brandishing an 8-inch butcher blade, Tricia rounded the corner fast after Robert who’d just darted behind the couch. Her eyes were wide, a feral red that looked as though they hadn’t seen sleep in days. She gripped the blade, holding it high over her head, her fist shaking as she took a slow step into the living room. Her lips peeled back from her teeth, oddly elongated and yellowed, still stained with blood—Robert’s blood.

Robert raised up on his knees, peering around the edge of the couch, just enough so that he could see Tricia coming into the room. Her blonde hair was thick with sweat, matted to the sides of her sallow face that took on an inhuman and sickly yellowed tint. The skin at her face and neck and arms looked like it had begun to rot, and the smell that rolled off of her was putrid. Perhaps it was his blood he smelled. She’d taken a good bite out of his arm. Robert glanced down at the blood pooling around the torn bite wound, already purpling at the edges and hoped he hadn’t left a trail, leading behind the couch.

He breathed in a shuddering breath, trying to keep quiet as he lowered back down to the floor. She’d caught him completely off guard as he’d walked in the door after work. He’d no sooner passed through the destroyed dining room with broken wine glasses strewn along the floor, when she came at him out of nowhere. As a teacher at South Ridge High School, he was only able to swat at her with what was in his hands before she bit into him. He looked down at the textbook he held in his hands. Obviously, it was no match for her or her knife.

What the hell was going on? What had happened to his wife? Tricia growled as she stalked forward and the sound that came from her lips didn’t even sound human. He had to get out of there or she was going to kill him. He had to call for help. Fingers shaking, he slipped a hand into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his cell phone. As he swiped left and then tried to pull up the dialer, the textbook fell from his hands and landed on the hardwood floor with a dull thud. Robert froze. An instant later, Tricia was screaming, lunging for the couch. Robert stumbled to his feet and dove for the hallway but not before Tricia sliced into his lower leg. He howled in pain, feeling the warm blood coat his calf.

Tricia lunged forward, with another garbled and inhuman scream, this time stabbing at Robert’s head. She was unbelievably fast he realized as he moved just in time. The end of the knife was buried into the drywall beside him.

“Tricia!” he called reaching to stop her as she tried to put her hands around his neck. 

“Stop it! What is wrong with you?” Tricia continued to thrash and scream, now biting at Robert like a rabid animal.

“Tricia!” he shouted again but there was no reasoning with her. She leaned in and bit into Robert’s neck, tearing away another hunk of skin. Once again, he wailed in pain. “Damn it Tricia!” he called and reached over to pull the knife free from the wall.

It happened so fast, he didn’t know what he was doing until it was over. The knife came down and the sick crunch of bone and cartilage could be heard as the blade went into the side of Tricia’s temple. In that moment, she stopped and all movement ceased as she slumped forward onto Robert’s chest. Her dead weight pushed him back and together they fell to the floor in the center of the narrow hallway.

“Oh, my God!” Robert said over and over again as he looked down at his dead wife, the blade of the knife still driven deep into her skull. “What have I done?” He cried, holding her still body in his arms and wept. On the dining room table sat a perfectly prepared dinner, complete with two empty glasses, beside a chilled bottle of wine.

ONE.

One Week Later

There was a buzz among the halls of South Ridge High and everyone was getting in on the action. The news flitted through the classrooms and bathrooms, between opened locker doors and across the open-air courtyards like winged insects. Within three minutes of stepping foot on campus, I too was caught up in the mayhem.

“Did you hear?” My best friend Bria asked in a heightened whisper. “The entire school it talking about it!” She leaned in so close I could smell the distinct fresh petals scent of her rose deodorant combined with countless layers of Vidal hairspray.

“What!” I chimed back, instantly annoyed by her excitement this early in the morning.

“Mr. Tillman!” Bria said, dragging out the word like it was painful to say. “He’s been arrested…for killing his wife.” At this, I stopped mid-stride. That had gotten my attention.

“What?” I repeated loudly but with a totally different inflection than the first time. A couple kids passing by raised their eyebrows at me and shook their head with the air of now another one knows, written across their face. “Are you kidding me?”

Bria hiked up her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Wish I was but I’m not. That’s why he hadn’t been at school.”

I bit my lip. Mr. Tillman was hands down my favorite teacher at South Ridge. He taught Chemistry—by far not my favorite subject—but he somehow made it fun. When you were in Mr. Tillman’s class, he had a way of making you forget it was work. It was never dry science with him but rather a fun look at creation and cause and effect. Soft-spoken, quirky, but nice Mr. Tillman killed his wife? No freaking way.

“I can’t believe that,” I blurted out and Bria held up her hands.

“I know right! It’s crazy! But it’s true.” She leaned in a little closer if that was even possible. “I heard he did it with a butcher blade. The police found him cradling her body in the hallway. He’d been crying over her like that for nearly two hours! The neighbor had heard screams and after sitting on it for a while, decided to call the police. His arrest was announced last night.”

I felt the chill work its way down my spine and arms. I wanted to ask Bria how she knew all of this but her father did work for the local PD so I’m sure she figured out how to eavesdrop and get the additional dirty details.

“Wow,” I simply said after another minute.

“Sometimes people just snap,” Bria said with another dramatic shrug.”

By lunchtime, the story had ballooned into Mr. Tillman killing his wife as part of a joint suicide attempt gone wrong. People were throwing him under the bus left and right saying things like they knew he was crazy and time bomb tickers never show their true traits until it’s too late. As for me, I still couldn’t believe it. The man they described didn’t sound like the man I knew. Then again, did you really know people in the end? In math class, our teacher screamed at us to put our phones away with the threat of expulsion because everyone kept checking their newsfeeds and YouTube for more info on the arrest and charges.

Along the halls, there were already notices put up about contacting the school counselor during this “hard” time. By the time school let out, I was thanking God for a chance to get away from all the madness. Mom drove me to school in the mornings but I took the bus home in the afternoons.

Bria slipped into the empty seat beside me.

“Did you talk to the counselor?” she asked as she swung her bag onto her lap and began riffling through it for something.

I shook my head. “Nope. Trying to avoid the craziness.”

“I did,” Bria said and finally yanked out a hair tie that had several strands of her brown hair coiled around it in knots. She yanked the hair free from the elastic band and dropped it on the bus floor. “I may talk to them for a couple of days. This whole thing has me freaked out. Plus, I get to miss PE when I do.” She winked and gathered her long hair up in a high ponytail, securing it in the tie, then pulled the tail apart to tighten it at the root.

I scoffed. “It isn’t an opportunity to get out of class, Bria. Someone’s dead now.”

Bria looked at me, her hazel eyes looking slightly injured. “I wasn’t! It’s been hard on the students too, Carrie,” she protested in a snarky tone. We’d been best friends since the second grade and she knew my moral ethics were way more centered than hers. Other than that, we were kind of two peas in a pod.

As we rode home, I looked out the window at my hometown and thought how fragile life was. Mr. Tillman’s wife was dead. I’d remember meeting her like twice, when she’d come to have lunch with him once and another when she accompanied him at last year’s science fair. It was just enough to remind me that you can be here one moment and then gone the next. Then just like that, everything changed. That was the precise day when the world ended.

My name is Carrie Montgomery and I’m 16 years old. Up to that point, I’d been your normal high school girl. I was a junior, went to school every day, did my homework, didn’t have a boyfriend yet— but that was okay because I actually liked school. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t looking forward to a couple of things. The first was my 17th birthday, which was in two weeks. The second was the end of school, which was in two months. And neither could get here soon enough, especially after just learning our science teacher had gone off the deep end and would likely face death row.

After waving to Bria and telling her I’d see her tomorrow, I began walking down my street toward home just like normal when I got my first clue that something was wrong. There was absolutely no one else on the streets. No cars, no dog walkers, no joggers, not even Ms. Mulberry who loved to garden at just about all hours of the day.

I mean I lived in the perfect pocket of upper middle class suburbia, in South Tampa, FL—a semi-ritzy neighborhood called Fairchild so I pretty much expected to see the same things I saw every other day. I’d no sooner turned the corner onto the road where my house sat at the opposite end, when I heard it. The crash was nearly deafening. It had been about fifty yards away but it was close enough that I nearly lost my footing along the sidewalk. The bus I’d just stepped off of had jumped the curb and crashed into a house toward the end of my street and was currently engulfed in flames.

TWO.

I remember just standing there frozen for what felt like forever. Then my next thought was Bria. The next thing I remember was running back the way I’d just come. The flames were getting worse by the second and I began trying to help kids get off the burning bus. I heard screaming as people burned, or were trapped or injured on the bus. I kept screaming for Bria, praying she wasn’t in there, burning alive. By then, the fire poured out the windows that were open, licking the yellow side of the bus and turning the parts it touched to a smoldering black. I don’t know how long I had been trying to open the back door but finally I was able to pry the emergency lever free as some kids pushed from the other side to get out. Once we got the door open, three boys fell out on top of me.

“Carrie!” one of them screamed to me and I knew it was Todd Milner’s voice. I hadn’t recognized him right away. The left half of his face was badly burned and his eye was swollen shut. I reached out and helped Todd sit upright.

“Oh, my God!” I shouted back at him, trying to make sense of what I was looking at. I still couldn’t process what was happening. The second boy who’d tumbled out had already took off running and screaming down the road. The third boy lay still on the ground, most of him so badly burned I was surprised he’d made it as long as he did. He was gone now, smoke still rising up from his charred clothing. The smell was like nothing I had experienced before.

“Carrie,” Todd repeated and I could tell he was in tremendous pain.”

“It’ll be alright,” I told him. “Help will be here soon. Have you seen Bria?” He only shook his head. My heart sank. I looked up at the burning bus helplessly. Was she still in there?

“What the hell is going on?” Another voice said and I glanced over to see Sophie Jenson stumbling around in the grass, her skirt torn all the way up to her waist. Her legs were badly scraped but aside from the gash on her cheek and messy hair, she looked like she’d made it out fine. The confused and distant look in her eyes was more from mental shock than physical injury, I figured.

“Sophie,” I called. She looked in my direction and then right past me like she saw more than one of me. “Have you seen Bria?” She and I had never spoken much before but we shared English class together. She always made fun of the teacher’s lisp when he spoke. Sophie shook her head like Todd had. Oh, my God, I thought. She was in there.

“Wait,” Sophie said considering. I think she might have crawled out the window. A few girls at the back made it out just after the crash. Me and Bria sat towards the back so a tiny sliver of hope filled me again. Bria was very petite and I could totally see that happening. I turned away from the bus, hoping that was the case. I had always thought of Sophie as a snooty bitch, but I was glad she was alive. And I held on to what she’d just told me, grateful for her words, hoping they were true.

Todd reached up and gripped a shaking hand around my upper arm and I remembered I was still holding onto him in the grass.

“Mr. Walsh…he lost it,” Todd said, his good eye rolling back in pain.

“Todd!” I called out shaking him gently. I glanced over at the bus’s front end, lodged at least three seats deep into the front of the house it had crashed into. I was pretty sure our driver Mr. Walsh hadn’t survived the impact, along with whoever was sitting in those first few seats. “What do you mean he lost it?” I asked as Todd opened his eye again.

“He started yelling at everyone. Started saying…we were all going to kill him.” He paused as if talking was the most impossible thing he’d ever had to do. “He… said he’d kill us instead. Kept hitting at the air like something was attacking him. He was crazy. Then he crashed us.”

“What?” I heard myself say even though I’d just heard every word Todd said clear as day. 

“He crashed the bus on purpose? Why would he do that?”

“Crazy,” Todd repeated and closed his eye. I tried to shake him again but when his head lolled to one side, my blood ran cold. And he just died right there in my arms on a stranger’s front lawn not even ten houses down from my own.

The screaming on the bus had stopped. I could see that most of the students had made it off but there were still a few figures in there who hadn’t been able to get out in time. Flames burst from the top of the bus and I stumbled back, landing right on my butt in the grass again. I looked down at Todd’s lifeless body, next to the other boy who’d died when he fell from the bus.

People were dying all around me. The flames were out of control, now catching onto the structure of the house and soon the roof ignited as well. Another burst had me scooting back along the grass and managing to get back to my feet. It wouldn’t be long before the bus tank exploded from the fire at this point. I turned from the flames, my cheeks still burning from the heat. I ran towards my house, leaving the bus and the blood and the burned bodies behind me. I had to get home and see if my little brother Jeremy had made it back safe. He was in middle school. 

As I ran, I saw my bag and yanked it up without stopping. Quickly, I pulled my phone out and tried to call Bria. She didn’t answer. Maybe she left her phone on the bus. Who’d think to grab it after a crash anyway? I'd call her parents next. As I reached the front lawn to my house, I tossed the bag to the ground in front of the shrubs and started up the walkway, and my heart sank yet again. All thoughts I had slipped away. The front door was already unlocked, and stood slightly ajar.

Carefully, I pushed the front door in. “Jeremy!” I called out, and was met with nothing but silence. In the foyer, I saw his backpack and shoes, dropped there in a lazy heap. Slowly, I walked further into the house. I grabbed the nearest thing I could—an umbrella of all things—and held it out in front of me. “Jeremy!” I repeated. Still nothing. I was about to round the corner, umbrella over my head when Jeremy all but ran into me. He wore his headphones, oblivious to everything around him.

“Woah,” he said holding up his arms in a gesture of peace. “What are you doing?” I yanked his headphones off. “Hey—” he protested but I interrupted.

“Did you hear?” I asked him quickly.

“Hear what?”

“The bus crash.”

“What crash?” he stepped back and looked at me, noticing me for the first time. I must have looked a mess because a sincerely concerned look came across my little brother’s face. 

“Carrie, what happened to you?”

THREE.

I had to practically hold Jeremy down to keep him from running toward the burning bus. 

“I’m calling the police,” I said as I picked up the house phone. It was surprising to me that I didn’t hear sirens or see anyone else running from their houses to help yet. Where was everybody? When I called 911, I got a busy signal. Never before had that happened. I tried again and still, it was busy. Next I tried my mother’s cell phone number. Straight to voicemail. “I can’t get anyone,” I said with frustration.

“Try Dad,” Jeremy suggested.

“Why would I try him?” I asked thinking about our father. He hadn’t been home in over three years. Ever since Mom found out about the affair, she hadn’t spoken to Dad for longer than five minutes. We had watched our mom nearly fall apart and then hold herself together at the seams by overworking herself just to take her mind off the divorce every chance she got. Mom hated us seeing her like that, but it was her way of dealing, we knew. We also knew she was ashamed that we saw her like that so we never talked about it. Over time, I learned to hate Dad as much as she did.

“Fine,” I finally said, picking up the phone again. Just like with Mom, Dad’s phone went to voicemail. At the very least, I’d have gotten a text back from one of them saying they were busy but this time, there was no reply.

“What do we do?” Jeremy asked, a perpetual look of concern on his face now. I shrugged and moved back into the living room.

“We should wait here until Mom gets home.” I walked over to the front door and pushed it shut. “Stay inside. And don’t do stupid things like this again.”

“What stupid things?”

“Like leave the front door open, Jeremy. It was open when I got home. Anyone could have just walked in without you even knowing it.”

Jeremy creased his brow. “But I didn’t leave the door open, I shut it when I came in.” he said. We stared at one another for several seconds as the realization came to us at the same time. I picked the umbrella back up and signaled for Jeremy to grab one of his baseball bats from the laundry room.

“Hurry!” I said in a whisper as he slipped around the corner. When he returned, we stood back to back, moving slowly through the first floor of the house, clearing one room at a time. When we were sure no one was downstairs, we both turned to the staircase, cringing in unison.

“Do you really think someone’s up there?”

“Right now, I don’t know what to think,” I said in all honesty. We padded quietly up the stairs, taking one at a time, our weapons at the ready. In the distance, I heard the distinct sound of sirens. I breathed a quick sigh of relief, glad that someone else on earth was finally coming to help. As we reached the top of the steps, we watched each other’s backs, slowly edging along the banister. Both of our rooms, two closets and the bathroom were clear. Now all that was left was Mom’s room and shower.

“Stay low,” I instructed and thanked God in that moment that I had a little brother who was too chicken to play hero and actually listened to me on this. Mom’s door was shut at the end of the hall. She always kept the door shut, kind of like her little warning sign to keep out. Sometimes I could hear mom crying at night behind that closed door. It was about Dad I was sure. God, I really hated that man for what he did to us. Jeremy was far more forgiving, still calling to see if he could watch his baseball games and “hang” out sometimes. I guess I understood that. It’s different for boys and boys needed their fathers—even if they are lying, cheating bastards that think it’s okay to screw their financial assistants, right? I shook my head as we came within three feet of the door.

“I’m counting to three and then we’re going in fast,” I said surprising myself at how confident I sounded, despite the fact that I was terrified out of my mind. “One…two…three—” I turned the knob and kicked the door open, jabbing the umbrella out in front of me. The room was still, not a single thing out of place, exactly how Mom had left it that morning. Great, I’d successfully murdered thin air. With another sigh, I lowered the umbrella.

I heard the scream before I saw where it was coming from. Then I was knocked forward, meeting the floor head on. I skidded forward about a foot, my cheek scrubbing along the carpet in what would later be a brutal rug burn. Behind me, I heard a scuffle, more screaming and Jeremy’s bat crash into one of Mom’s bed side lamps. The screams were definitely that of a female, although it could have been Jeremy at some points. As if in slow motion, I rolled over to my side and managed to get back to my feet.

Surprisingly, Jeremy was fighting off the young woman who kept lunging at him, clawing and snapping her jaw like a crocodile trying to snag its next meal. Was she trying to bite him? I’d never seen anything like that before.

“I won’t let you kill me! I’ll kill you first!” the woman screamed, her voice shrill and nearly incomprehensible. Kill us? It reminded me of what Todd had said about Mr. Walsh. He had thought the kids on the bus were trying to kill him, just like this woman did; except we weren’t trying to kill her at all. Jeremy shoved the woman back and crossed over the bed, putting a good five feet between them.

I took the chance to go at the woman with my umbrella. God, that was such a stupid weapon and I cursed myself for not grabbing something better downstairs when I’d had the chance. I hit her across the back with the umbrella but that only seemed to make her angrier than anything else. Now she turned to me, eyes wide, hair crazy and teeth bared like some dog with rabies. I saw the quick register of mortal fear and then the rage washed over her again.

“Carrie!” Jeremy screamed and threw the bat to me. I held it out in front of me and was instantly reminded of how terrible I had been at softball when I was Jeremy’s age. I may have struck out all the time but I could still swing hard. The woman lunged at me and I swung, hitting the side of her face just a little bit harder than I’d planned and she went down like a sack of potatoes.

FOUR.

“I’ve killed her!” I wailed, rushing to the woman’s side. When I realized she had a pulse and I’d just knocked her out cold, I was relieved but still horrified I’d done that to another human being.

“She came out of the closet!” Jeremy said rounding the bed. “Is she dead?”

I shook my head. “Just knocked out. Let’s bring her downstairs.”

“Why was she trying to kill us? And why did she keep saying we were trying to kill her?” I remembered the way she looked at me for that instant. She was truly scared in that second.

“I think she really believed it,” I said simply as we laid her out on the couch.

“Um, what are we going to do when she wakes up?” Jeremy asked.

We found some rope and decided to tie the woman up so that it would be difficult for her to just up and run or try to grab us again. We also made sure that no one else was in the house with us. I had so many questions in my mind as I glanced out the front window. It was getting dark outside. I couldn’t see the bus from where I stood, the smoke had made its way down the street, giving everything a gray haze. Off the smoke, I caught the flicker of emergency lights from the ambulance and police cars lining the street. Blue and red ricocheted off the pavement and bushes and danced along the outside of the window.

I wondered how many people died in the crash. How many more were injured? And I wondered if I should tell Jeremy about what I saw. I decided it would scare him too much. I decided to turn on the news. Maybe they had more information about what was going on. But what we saw was even more bizarre.

BREAKING NEWS: BLOODTHIRSTY ZOMBIES HAVE ARRIVED!

I stared at the screen in shock, at a complete and total loss for words. This was actually the headline across the top of the screen. This was actually what the news station was telling the public. I didn’t know why but in that moment, I called bullshit. 

----------------------------

Title: The Serials

Genre: YA Fantasy/Horror

Age Range: 13 - 17+

Word Count: 62K

Author: Carolyn M. Walker

Why a Good Fit: It is a provoking and unique spin on a genre that still fascinates. This YA horror explores psychological themes, societal issues, and the root of what humanity is and is not.

Hook: 16-year old Carrie remembers the day people started killing each other. An epidemic is on the loose but nothing is as it seems, literally.

Synopsis: In an overpopulated world, comes the sudden “outbreak” of horrific zombies rapidly feeding on the flesh of victims by the hundreds. As it spreads, those who aren’t yet afflicted, rise up to kill them—convinced that this is the only way to save the world… or is it? 16-year old Carrie Montgomery, her younger brother, and mother join a small group of uninfected survivors. But soon Carrie begins to question everything she thought she knew about the disease, its sudden appearance, and her survival. And what she discovers reveals a more sinister plan than she ever could have imagined.

Target Audience: Mature YA readers. Adult readers who enjoy psychological thrillers and dark fiction.

Bio: I have been writing for over 20 years and I am most active on Facebook, Twitter, and my blog. I hold a B.A. in English Literature from Florida State University, and have been a copywriter and editor for over ten years. My personality is quirky, inquisitive, and I love exploring new things. My writing style is a blend of dry humor, fluid detail, and pointed dialogue. My hobbies are a mixed bag of reading, writing, singing, beach combing, contemplating, and cooking semi-fantastic Italian meals. I'm from San Diego California, but now I live in Central Florida. I am 35. 

 I had a nightmare.

The couch I sit on is old, worn, stained in some places. There is very little light in the room I am in. Dark curtains hang in the windows, blocking sunlight from entering. There are pictures on the walls. They are hand drawn sketches, and they are unsettling. There is one of a man, peeking from behind a tree, his expression blank. Another portrays a woman, pulling a fetus from a gash on her stomach, surrounded by wolves.

There are lots of books, walls lined with bookshelves of varying sizes and designs. I approach one of the shelves to read the titles and I am startled by movement, a snake, patterned red and black, winding itself through the slats that run the side of the shelf. I reach forward and the snake slides over my palm and around my wrist, wrapping itself around my arm like a living, breathing ornament.

I move to the kitchen, open the cupboards, take a look inside the refrigerator. There is not much in the way of anything to eat, nothing to put together what most would consider a good, wholesome meal. 

The room is quiet, still. Never has the laughter of a child echoed through the halls, never will an intimate conversation be whispered in hushed tones with a lover in the bedroom. I am, however, not quite alone. There is the snake, bound securely to my arm. There is something else, too. I see nothing, hear nothing, but I know, there is something else.

I see it, then, slinking around the corner. The snout appears first, the teeth of its upper jaw exposed. It crawls forward, its large, lumbering, armored body moving from side to side, followed by its long reptilian tail. 

The alligator’s yellow eyes turn to me, and it comes for me.

I woke up, early morning sunlight streaming through the open window. The bedroom surrounding me was decorated in shades of ivory, sage, and blue, the quilt that covered me a patchwork of yellow and white.

Home.

I opened the bedroom door, stepped out and into the hallway. The walls were occupied with pictures of a smiling, happy family. I followed the sound of voices, laughter, and made my way down the hallway, hesitantly, afraid of what I might find when I turned the corner.

What I found was a man and two children, sitting around the large, pine dining room table, breakfast in front of them.

My family.

"Good morning, honey," my husband greeted me. He patted the chair next to him. "Grab yourself some eggs and have a seat."

I moved around the table, giving morning kisses. I started with my husband, moving next to my son and then to my daughter. 

"Good morning, mommy," my daughter said. Her hair was in pigtails and she smiled a big, toothless grin. My son grunted in response to my greeting, his eyes glued to the phone in his hand. He was a teenager, too cool for his family.

"Oh, and I made your favorite," my husband said, raising his coffee cup. "Pumpkin spice.”

I could not deny the joy this brought me. I poured a cup, removed a plate from the cupboard and added some eggs, a piece of toast, and joined my family at the table. After breakfast, I set to packing lunch boxes, my children's, my husband's, and my own, filling them with leftover vegetable lasagna from the night before, apple slices, a box of raisins, and a homemade, gluten-free blueberry muffin with flax seed.

Lunches packed, I took a shower and readied myself for the day ahead. I was a third-grade teacher in an elementary school. I loved my job, working with children, shaping the minds of the future. I dressed quickly, eager to get moving and out the door, pulling on a pair of cropped jeans and a pale pink blouse I'd purchased yesterday, on sale, at Wal-Mart. I slipped my feet into my shoes, white Crocs.

In the drive way, we said our goodbyes and my husband climbed into his Camry, pulling away while I loaded the kids in my minivan. We listened to a family-friendly station on the drive to school, singing along with the radio.

I arrived to my classroom just in time for the for the first students to begin to trickle in. I sat at my desk, grading papers, allowing the students the chance to converse before the morning bell rang. I had a great group of students this year, well-behaved and eager to learn. I looked up from my papers, thinking about this, my beautiful children, my husband who had just recently received a raise in his management position at the bank, our upcoming vacation to the Grand Canyon. My life, I thought, is a dream.

A wonderful, perfect dream.

"Ok," I said, clapping my hands to get the class' attention. I picked up the ceramic owl perched on the corner of my desk, a gift from a former student to honor our school mascot, Hooty the Owl.

"Who is ready to learn?"

I had woken with a start from this nightmare, my heart pounding in my chest. The images of the yellow and white quilt, the minivan, Hooty the Owl lingered in my mind. I shuddered, thinking of my husband in his dress shirt and tie, his sensible haircut, so pleased with his choice of pumpkin spice. Who likes that shit, anyway?

The kids, the gluten-free muffins, the family-friendly music. It was horrific. It was an omen, what my life could have been, what it could still turn out to be if I wasn’t careful.

I'm in the kitchen, now, Cora wrapped around my arm, her head resting beneath the shade of my hair. Buttercup is making her way in to join us, hungry for breakfast.

"Hi, big girl," I say, patting the top of her head, stroking her rough skin. "Did you sleep well? Any bad dreams?" I think of a nightmare an alligator might have. "Did you dream you were a common lizard, trapped in a terrarium in a classroom?"

She mutters a low, guttural, growl.

I stand, prepare to make her breakfast, the nightmare beginning to fade.

"Why would anyone want to go to the Grand Canyon, anyway?" I ask aloud, pulling the carcass of a pig from the refrigerator. "It's just a big fucking hole."

I set about chopping the remains into bite size morsels with a large cleaver. Oh well, I think. No reason to dwell on it. It was just a dream.

A horrible, miserable dream.

     So the raven reminded responsibly- Caw

   And then echoed like leaves dropping   

  violently- Caw

While answers are stars shooting stingers from space 

As worms wriggle, wrangling wreaths worn in their place 

Allowing for inclement weather, a breath,

Awaiting the moment, cocooning of death-

His beak is a totem of mealworms and manner- Caw

The raven is waving aloft hunger's banner- Caw

Until shiny objects adjourn the worm's plea,

Distracting and hiding, the bird in a tree-

The raven is flitting and sitting alone 

Uncertain of whether or not he is known

Wings flap

Bug trap

Beaten 

Eaten

Sigh

Die 

Pi

The Moon has a name, and it is Selene. She may rule the night, but she casts a sinful glare upon the earth. For the only reason she is seen; is by borrowed Light from the Sun. The Sun so freely gives the glow to the Moon asking nothing in return, but Selene hovers in silent animosity over the Oceans. Upon the rippling surface she stares at her own reflection, seeing herself basked in brightness that is not her own.

My first kiss was to a boy who pointed out my flaws about 10x more than he ever complimented my strengths. I look back now and cannot remember why I liked him, but I do remember how I moved on from him. It was because of the one who  I cannot let go of (almost a decade later). I know he hates to see me cry but I hate to see him walk away. Since I met him, I have not been able to date anyone else. He is my best friend. He is the one I pray with. He is the one I laugh with. He is both my shame and my pride. He is the reason I have the confidence to walk around knowing I am a desired creature but, he is also the reason I cannot stand to look at my reflection most days. 

Three summers ago, we were laying on my twin size mattress, staring at the ceiling as he held me. The act of holding turned into kissing, kissing turned into touching and touching turned into letting go of innocence. I thought about this moment for quite some time and from the moment I met him, noone else could play the role of my counterpart in those lustful thoughts. Still, I wanted to wait. We didn't. The hundred of times since then, we've closed the distance between "We shouldn't do this" and "Just one more time," it's been difficult to feel like I can be restored. That is after all what the faith teaches us.  Looking back now, knowing just last night we were staring at the ceiling and he was holding me again, I wish that someone could go back in time to convince me that no mater how good it feels, there is nothing like knowing you waited. Being on this side of the fish tank feels like I don't belong in the atmosphere of carelessness. Oh, how wonderful the feeling must be to swim in a pool of no regret. 

The truth is, I don't regret the sex. I regret that it reminds me of why I went to foster care and what my father went through to get me back home. They say that I had bruises in an area that no three year old girl should and being that this was a time of "Guilty until proven innocent" for immigrants, no one believed my father was the latter. After a full year of fighting and contesting the charges, my father listened to the lawyers and social workers who finally convinced him that saying he was "guilty" and seeking help was the only way the Foster Care system and Family Court judges would even consider giving him back his beautiful little girl.

 He spent seven years with predators and child molesters, listening and lying about unspeakable habits because this is what the officials believe "restores innoncence". It worked. Apparently, if a father rapes his daughter, years of counseling is supposed to make their home "safe" again. In truth,  he never touched me and no one believed that the bruises came from playing "horsey" with my cousins. Thankfully, I remembered and so, when I was old enough to comprehend what my father endured just so he didn't have to only see me once a week under supervised visits,  I could not understand why a man would do that. Could someone love me so much that he'd destroy part of his soul just for the hope, not even the garauntee, to be the one who wakes me up each morning? Eventually, he was able to do just that. I never bothered with my alarm clock because joyfully, dad was there, breakfast ready and car warmed up for my ride to school. Now that he has passed away, I can't help but wish I could restore his innocence. 

Last night's hug was wonderful and I feel as if I love this man--the only man my father has ever approved of--but sometimes I wish I could hug my father. Hug him before the world ever labeled him. Hug him inspite of the label. He was innocent. I remained innocent because he loved me. Now, I only want the type of love that a good man can offer. I realize now that the question I need to ask is not, "Will he still love me tomorrow?" The question is, "Does he want to be the one to wake me up every morning?" If not, I know it is worth waiting until I know the answer is yes. For when the answer is "Yes," I know that he will be the last person I kiss.

when softness surfaces within warm skin

when words become whispers on wet gentle lips

when hands are held in admiration of strength

when thoughts are shared through a silent glance

when love cradles intimacy upon soft sheets

you will find me there with my heart laid bare

wrapped in the simplicity of steady breath

innocence beyond any measure of mind

souls melt and fall slowly into lucid dreams

perfection revealed through the calm of our eclipse

The feverish jungle, a bungalow binge,

And the apes of the valley delight.

Amassing their arson, the parsons all cringe 

As the napes of their necks feel the bite.

Oh holy banana, the manna of trees,

As the fleas seem to hop on along

Infighting, igniting the apes that are biting 

Those bees as they sing of King Kong.

A hundred feet tall is the wall of the men

And a sinful release of the spear

Escaping the bin of the hundred foot spin

Thus applying their lying with cheer.

"Ah-ooh-ah," goes an ape as the head of the shape 

Of the stone spear endangers its spark.

And some other dumb fool in his foolhardy drape

Absolutely 'ooh-ah's' his remark.

The natives are restless, confessions debate 

All the while the apes gather their dead.

Subordinate clause in the claws of their fate,

And a villager loses his head.

Removed from the neck as the bees start to check

Acclimating, debating design.

As a hive, they survive, a revival on deck

For they sing as they sting, "Apes are fine!"

A thousand or more in the chore of the sores

And the numbering, slumbering sloth 

Awakens to aid in displayed forest floors

As the bees and the fleas gel as broth.

The African sonnet of bees in the bonnet 

And apes on the Cape Horn of nine

Combine in the shrine of the mine blowing pine

As the fleas stop and drop kick the sign.

The sloth calls aloud in the crowd of the  shroud 

And a lion out of Zion appears.

The jungle's own king comes to cling; the bees sting 

As he strengthens the villagers' fears.

"Away with your play and your villainous way!

Now away, or I say you will die!"

The roar echoed more as the lion on display 

Offered each human there in his cry.

The apes and the fleas and the bees in the drape 

Of the canopy stopped, held in awe.

The sloth, on his knees, bowed and plowed the disease 

As the humans all fled what they saw.

"The law of the jungle, for all- even fungal- 

The growth underneath the dead leaves-

Must never be broken as these words are spoken

Alas, mother ape, now she grieves ...

The humans are fuming; a vengeance is blooming 

Until they destroy every land.

Avoid at all costs their ridiculous frost

For the winter lives on in their hand.

We all have united; the spirit delighted; 

And the forest exalts us in joy.

Now go on, safely roam; travel deep in our home

For the menace the humans employ 

Has been seen o'er and o'er in mischievous lore

And I doubt it will not take them long

To return to this place with a hate spilling face 

So we must all now pray to King Kong."

The feverish jungle, a bungalow's bray,

And the apes and the bees and the fleas

And the sloth, on their knees, join the lion as they please

And to King Kong they bow long and pray.

"Death becomes you," so she said

While standing at my door.

Covered black, the eerie thread-

"Your soul, I so adore!"

Passed from skeletal design,

A midnight robe ablaze.

Living as its own divine

Encapsulated daze,

There I stood, a drooping heart

Insisting I should live.

Death said, "No, you must depart.

So take the gift I give."

Thinking of the many things 

That I had left to do,

Losing life, the feeling stings.

"I will not follow you."

Came from me, each feeble word,

And Death just stared ahead.

"Dear, you must not be absurd.

If I arrive, you're dead.

No goodbyes, no second chance;

Beyond the worldly gate

You and I will pass in glance;

For none escape their fate."

Pausing for a tear to fall,

I pondered o'er my life.

Death consumed me in her call,

She had become my wife.

Nothing left for me to say;

No utterance to pan.

Breathing in, I made my way

And left the age of man.

Gulping down the bittersweet,

Adventure would renew.

Taking hold her hand's entreat,

I heard her ... "Death becomes you."