Perspective of Insignificance
Jayme Moyer
Twenty-seven hours. Traveling from Butler, Pennsylvania to El Paso, Texas took twenty-seven hours of driving. I spent 1,838 miles crammed in the backseat of a Subaru Impreza, only stopping to sleep in lousy three-star hotels or to eat, and for those three days of rumbling highways lulling me to boredom, I lived off of fast food and gas station snacks. Alan, one of my brothers, lived in Fort Bliss, the Army base on the Western most side of Texas. He had been stationed there near the end of 2021, and the last time I saw him was a year and a half prior. So, in the last few weeks of May, 2022, my parents and I packed the car.
The backseat cushions were fairly comfortable, but for the most part, my legs either stretched across the seat or folded up to lean on the passenger side in front of me. Long legs were always a positive until you were shoved into the back of a compact car. I contorted myself in every weird way to find a comfortable position for the majority of the road trip but usually ended up cross-legged and claustrophobic. Although, however many times my legs cramped up or my neck turned stiff, traveling fulfilled something in me nothing else could satisfy. Homesickness struck easily sometimes, but exploring the endless miles of the country excited me to no end. When we set forth on a two-week long road trip, I dreamed of nothing better. Mile markers passed, and thousands of strangers drove alongside us, each one to a different location. I wondered how many children would win their license plate game just by seeing our car.
Within the first minute of our meet-up, Alan wrapped his arms around me, and I froze but hugged back. My parents far from coddled us growing up. Hugs rarely occurred, and emotions stayed hidden until they exploded from us. However, the outer world stopped meaning anything in that moment because here I stood, hugging my big brother again, and everything was going to be okay. We didn’t really talk; calls were nonexistent, and texts were only received on birthdays or really special holidays. Every hug felt like a shift might happen, like we could start to become siblings, but nothing changed. I accepted it, but I never lost hope. I wished he hadn’t either.
The space in the backseat halved, but the claustrophobia left, replaced by giddiness. Glances toward the window now shared their time with sneaking looks at the boy–man–next to me. A new tattoo adorned his forearm: the Grim Reaper in a beautiful black and gray landscape. A scruffy, sharper appearance covered Alan’s long-gone baby face. He was only three years older than me, but at twenty, he seemed too old. Maybe the years I missed while he traveled took their toll, or maybe it was due to the fact that he left home when I was fourteen. I guess the world kept revolving for him as he moved on while I remained in my small, rural town.
We traveled through run-down El Paso, even heading to New Mexico to ride UTVs in the sand dunes, but the scenery trumped all else. Pennsylvania roads are lined with woods, dead deer, Amish buggies, and more dead deer, so Texas offered endless new sights with the added plus of being free of decomposing eight-points. The best view lied on the Franklin Mountains off of the Trans-Mountain Highway. A little lookout lined with red barriers held the greatest observation point in the whole city. From this spot, it’s easy to see that El Paso may be surrounded by miles and miles of empty desert, but their engineers decided backyards were bullshit and crammed each house on top of one another with, at maximum, two feet in between.
Why they didn’t make apartment buildings, I had no idea, but the short-storied homes were a sight to behold at sunset.
Muffled music played in my head as I stared into the quiet expanse. On the drive down, we listened to Blackberry Smoke, a Southern rock band, who released a song called “Sunrise in Texas,” and although I never woke up early enough to see it in full, I could understand the fascination from my sunset view. White sand laid flat from the edge of the mountain all the way into Mexico, covered in suburbs that dared not shadow the pink and orange paint in the sky or the marigold sun. Scared the barriers homed scorpions and tarantulas, I inspected the stone thoroughly before deeming it safe and sitting next to a hardworking line of ants. Taking in the broad world around me, I grounded myself, but the ants were in such a rush. They lived for a fraction of my life, but they looked like they were changing the world more importantly than I ever had.
My parents grew bored and ushered me back to the car so we could find a nice restaurant for dinner. The sun continued to dimly shine through the window, illuminating my brother’s face in a golden haze. His pale skin still looked as if it felt Western Pennsylvania’s weather and absence of sunlight, but no matter how much I wanted to believe he hadn’t been in Texas for that long, I knew his uniform was the sole cause for his lack of tanness. He left home three years prior, and relatives repeatedly assured me he was only one text away, but that version of Alan stayed in the house we grew up in. He left his footprints in the forest trails, driveway slag, and kitchen linoleum, but the Alan who sat across from me now was an adult. I didn’t know adult Alan, and he didn’t know me. I watched him bring home his license, but he missed when I passed my driving test. In freshman year, I made my school’s dance team, but he stayed in Georgia during my football games. His AIT graduation happened to be the same date as a mandatory parade for the team, and I bawled when my parents forced me to stay and perform. I doubt he cried for me.
After dinner, the sun fully abandoned us, and no plans were conjured. I suggested driving back to the lookout off of the Trans-Mountain Highway, and they thought the night view may be nice to experience. When we arrived, I pulled out my phone’s flashlight to inspect the barrier again before sitting down. Ants scurried along the stone. What would it be like to be an ant? They seemed so insignificant yet encompassed by the need to survive. From the corner of my eye, something white flashed across the ground, making me jump, but as it slowed, the blurred form turned into a small, white cat searching for food. Dirt covered its sides, and it hopped toward me and stared, sitting a few feet away from my dangling feet. Any attempt to draw my hand toward the poor animal spooked it, so we stayed seated in our respective spaces. The darkness covered all but the cat’s bright, reflective eyes. How could something live out here, unknowing of where their next meal would come from?
The cat meandered its way back to wherever it came from on the side of the mountain, so my gaze wandered upward. The indescribable blue right before the sky fell into its darkest black forced an ache into my heart from its beauty, and the cloudless skies let me gaze upon any star I desired. The city lights below shined weakly, remaining too low to pollute the night sky, and the world went on forever.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about, kiddo?” my dad asked from my left side. Honest moments sparsely littered my childhood, but the end of my high school days neared. There was no use in hiding the feeling in my chest.
“I like it. Makes me feel small and unimportant.”
His eyes widened as he scoffed. “Of course you’re important.”
I shrugged. Being unimportant relieved me. Bad test scores, mistakes, and accidents seemed so tiny in comparison to the world around me. Tens of thousands of people laid before my eyes, each living a separate life, and I would hear none of their names as I grew up, and most would never hear mine. There was nothing wrong with being an ant.
“Yeah, but it’s not a bad thing. Kind of nice to feel insignificant,” I finished. He stood near me, unable to understand as I faced the desert again. Nothing mattered, and nothing I did mattered. What a melancholy, depressing notion would be to most consoled me. I couldn’t think of a reason as to why anything had to be important enough to rest on my shoulders and crush the world. The missing homework I left behind in Pennsylvania was just that—left behind. I mentally forgave my brother and hoped that wherever his life led him, he wouldn’t let the mundaneness of Pennsylvania hold him back, even if it meant more years of missing him.
As for my dad, I couldn’t understand his problem with insignificance. Why should I feel greater than any ant or cat roaming the mountains, trying to survive? Humanity is plagued with an idea that everything must mean something and can’t be enjoyed before it’s deciphered. There is no question in my mind as to why things are how they are: everything simply is, and I simply am. There is no cure for being human, so the least we may do is be comfortable in the space we take up. With this in mind, I will continue to sit under the stars, perhaps in El Paso again someday, and understand that space is very big, and I am very small.
The backseat cushions were fairly comfortable, but for the most part, my legs either stretched across the seat or folded up to lean on the passenger side in front of me. Long legs were always a positive until you were shoved into the back of a compact car. I contorted myself in every weird way to find a comfortable position for the majority of the road trip but usually ended up cross-legged and claustrophobic. Although, however many times my legs cramped up or my neck turned stiff, traveling fulfilled something in me nothing else could satisfy. Homesickness struck easily sometimes, but exploring the endless miles of the country excited me to no end. When we set forth on a two-week long road trip, I dreamed of nothing better. Mile markers passed, and thousands of strangers drove alongside us, each one to a different location. I wondered how many children would win their license plate game just by seeing our car.
Within the first minute of our meet-up, Alan wrapped his arms around me, and I froze but hugged back. My parents far from coddled us growing up. Hugs rarely occurred, and emotions stayed hidden until they exploded from us. However, the outer world stopped meaning anything in that moment because here I stood, hugging my big brother again, and everything was going to be okay. We didn’t really talk; calls were nonexistent, and texts were only received on birthdays or really special holidays. Every hug felt like a shift might happen, like we could start to become siblings, but nothing changed. I accepted it, but I never lost hope. I wished he hadn’t either.
The space in the backseat halved, but the claustrophobia left, replaced by giddiness. Glances toward the window now shared their time with sneaking looks at the boy–man–next to me. A new tattoo adorned his forearm: the Grim Reaper in a beautiful black and gray landscape. A scruffy, sharper appearance covered Alan’s long-gone baby face. He was only three years older than me, but at twenty, he seemed too old. Maybe the years I missed while he traveled took their toll, or maybe it was due to the fact that he left home when I was fourteen. I guess the world kept revolving for him as he moved on while I remained in my small, rural town.
We traveled through run-down El Paso, even heading to New Mexico to ride UTVs in the sand dunes, but the scenery trumped all else. Pennsylvania roads are lined with woods, dead deer, Amish buggies, and more dead deer, so Texas offered endless new sights with the added plus of being free of decomposing eight-points. The best view lied on the Franklin Mountains off of the Trans-Mountain Highway. A little lookout lined with red barriers held the greatest observation point in the whole city. From this spot, it’s easy to see that El Paso may be surrounded by miles and miles of empty desert, but their engineers decided backyards were bullshit and crammed each house on top of one another with, at maximum, two feet in between.
Why they didn’t make apartment buildings, I had no idea, but the short-storied homes were a sight to behold at sunset.
Muffled music played in my head as I stared into the quiet expanse. On the drive down, we listened to Blackberry Smoke, a Southern rock band, who released a song called “Sunrise in Texas,” and although I never woke up early enough to see it in full, I could understand the fascination from my sunset view. White sand laid flat from the edge of the mountain all the way into Mexico, covered in suburbs that dared not shadow the pink and orange paint in the sky or the marigold sun. Scared the barriers homed scorpions and tarantulas, I inspected the stone thoroughly before deeming it safe and sitting next to a hardworking line of ants. Taking in the broad world around me, I grounded myself, but the ants were in such a rush. They lived for a fraction of my life, but they looked like they were changing the world more importantly than I ever had.
My parents grew bored and ushered me back to the car so we could find a nice restaurant for dinner. The sun continued to dimly shine through the window, illuminating my brother’s face in a golden haze. His pale skin still looked as if it felt Western Pennsylvania’s weather and absence of sunlight, but no matter how much I wanted to believe he hadn’t been in Texas for that long, I knew his uniform was the sole cause for his lack of tanness. He left home three years prior, and relatives repeatedly assured me he was only one text away, but that version of Alan stayed in the house we grew up in. He left his footprints in the forest trails, driveway slag, and kitchen linoleum, but the Alan who sat across from me now was an adult. I didn’t know adult Alan, and he didn’t know me. I watched him bring home his license, but he missed when I passed my driving test. In freshman year, I made my school’s dance team, but he stayed in Georgia during my football games. His AIT graduation happened to be the same date as a mandatory parade for the team, and I bawled when my parents forced me to stay and perform. I doubt he cried for me.
After dinner, the sun fully abandoned us, and no plans were conjured. I suggested driving back to the lookout off of the Trans-Mountain Highway, and they thought the night view may be nice to experience. When we arrived, I pulled out my phone’s flashlight to inspect the barrier again before sitting down. Ants scurried along the stone. What would it be like to be an ant? They seemed so insignificant yet encompassed by the need to survive. From the corner of my eye, something white flashed across the ground, making me jump, but as it slowed, the blurred form turned into a small, white cat searching for food. Dirt covered its sides, and it hopped toward me and stared, sitting a few feet away from my dangling feet. Any attempt to draw my hand toward the poor animal spooked it, so we stayed seated in our respective spaces. The darkness covered all but the cat’s bright, reflective eyes. How could something live out here, unknowing of where their next meal would come from?
The cat meandered its way back to wherever it came from on the side of the mountain, so my gaze wandered upward. The indescribable blue right before the sky fell into its darkest black forced an ache into my heart from its beauty, and the cloudless skies let me gaze upon any star I desired. The city lights below shined weakly, remaining too low to pollute the night sky, and the world went on forever.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about, kiddo?” my dad asked from my left side. Honest moments sparsely littered my childhood, but the end of my high school days neared. There was no use in hiding the feeling in my chest.
“I like it. Makes me feel small and unimportant.”
His eyes widened as he scoffed. “Of course you’re important.”
I shrugged. Being unimportant relieved me. Bad test scores, mistakes, and accidents seemed so tiny in comparison to the world around me. Tens of thousands of people laid before my eyes, each living a separate life, and I would hear none of their names as I grew up, and most would never hear mine. There was nothing wrong with being an ant.
“Yeah, but it’s not a bad thing. Kind of nice to feel insignificant,” I finished. He stood near me, unable to understand as I faced the desert again. Nothing mattered, and nothing I did mattered. What a melancholy, depressing notion would be to most consoled me. I couldn’t think of a reason as to why anything had to be important enough to rest on my shoulders and crush the world. The missing homework I left behind in Pennsylvania was just that—left behind. I mentally forgave my brother and hoped that wherever his life led him, he wouldn’t let the mundaneness of Pennsylvania hold him back, even if it meant more years of missing him.
As for my dad, I couldn’t understand his problem with insignificance. Why should I feel greater than any ant or cat roaming the mountains, trying to survive? Humanity is plagued with an idea that everything must mean something and can’t be enjoyed before it’s deciphered. There is no question in my mind as to why things are how they are: everything simply is, and I simply am. There is no cure for being human, so the least we may do is be comfortable in the space we take up. With this in mind, I will continue to sit under the stars, perhaps in El Paso again someday, and understand that space is very big, and I am very small.
The Wine Bottle and the Tree
Katy Pennington
In the summer time the Ludlow mansion got hot and sticky. The mansion didn’t have a central heating system yet, Ruth had been planning on getting it put in in August, but that was a month away. Even with windows cracked open, it did nothing to dissolve the heat. Sweat was building up on Ruth’s brow and armpits that would leave her looking unkempt for the company that crowded the long corridors. The crowd of people left cups and trash on the ground wherever they pleased. The foyer was packed with, what seemed to Ruth, hundreds of people who were twenty years younger than her, people she didn’t even know. Her daughter, Diane, had hijacked a once joyous day and twisted it into something for herself rather than celebrating her mother on her birthday. Ruth was fifty seven years old today.
Ruth watched the people from the balcony just to the right of the steps leading down to the foyer. She had a glass of wine and herself, which was all she needed these days. Diane had been strategic when planning the party so her mother didn’t find out. She told Ruth she was treating her and took her to get a makeover. Diane took Ruth to get her hair done leaving her black hair in a style that resembled that of Jackie Kennedy’s in the early 60s. She got her nails professionally done and painted navy blue. Diane even took Ruth out to get a new blue silk dress. All of which was paid by Ruth because she had the money and a lot to spare. Diane lived off a weekly allowance from her mother because of how much money she had. Ruth longed to still provide for her thirty year old daughter. As Diane “treated” Ruth, Diane’s husband and Diane’s two close friends had gone into the mansion and decorated it in Ruth’s favorite colors, blue and silver streamers intertwined around the railings of the steps and around the tops of the curtains. Blue and silver helium filled balloons were tied around on the chairs and on the end of the stair railings. Then there was the banner that hung over the entryway to the dining room, a banner with her name on it. It made Ruth’s heart swell with love for her daughter. She hadn’t smiled like that since her father passed away last winter. But all that joy went away when Diane ushered her mother up the steps to put on the new silk dress because Diane’s party guests were coming any minute now. At that moment, Ruth knew the party had never been for her.
The people, Diane’s “friends”, all flooded in. Each person entering the house was a person Ruth didn’t know – none of them cared about Ruth. Diane broke out the wine, the Wine, with a capital W because it was the wine her father had saved after coming home from the war in 1945. It was the wine he had gotten when stationed in Germany. It was the wine he had planned to drink with his wife on the fiftieth anniversary of the war ending, an anniversary neither of them had made it to. Her father was just three years shy of the anniversary. When her father passed last December he had passed the wine to his only living daughter for her to enjoy when she pleased, which was going to be on the anniversary just like her father planned. Now the bottle was being passed around the room like they were stranded in the desert and this wine was the last drop of water in the canteen to share with the entire caravan.
Ruth felt tears prick her eyes as she watched as everyone disregarded the bottle that meant so little to them but so much to her. When the bottle was emptied it was tossed aside by a large man with platinum blonde hair who looked like he was trying to be Jay Gatsby. A cigar hung from his lips as he stumbled away from the bottle and in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to find some kind of food. She watched as a drunken woman came twirling across the foyer kicking the bottle as she danced to music playing in her head – it didn’t match whatever pop music Diane had decided to blare on the record player. The bottle rolled and glided along the
floor where it got caught up underneath the feet of a couple swaying together. They tripped over it and sent it gliding underneath the bottom steps of the spiral staircase.
Ruth left her glass of wine on the balcony railing and ran down the steps. She shoved by the masses and dove under the steps to retrieve the bottle. She grabbed it by its neck and held it close to her chest, rocking it like it was a newborn. Nobody paid her any mind. They didn’t know who she was, Diane didn’t bother introducing anyone. Diane opted to show off the mansion, dragging out the fact she had grown up here. She didn’t live here anymore and hadn't for the past ten years.
With the bottle secured in her arms, Ruth exited the mansion. There were even more people stumbling around drunk in the parking area and front yard, so Ruth cut through the yard. Behind the parking area and the garage was a beautiful garden full of flowers and plants. Blue Irises lined the perimeter of the garden with Poppies and Orchids sprinkled in throughout. Nobody would be in Ruth’s garden. Her garden held something more special than any of the flowers. In the center of the garden was a tree that was now forty three years old. Barbara Ludlow, Ruth’s older sister, had gotten her an apple tree for her fourteenth birthday. To this day, that present has been the most special present she’s ever gotten because Barbara knew Ruth had always had a love for gardening and nature. About three weeks after Ruth’s fourteenth birthday, Barbara was gone. A car accident. That tree had gotten Ruth through that tough time. She cared for it and watched it grow and after two years of long hard work, the tree finally produced fruit.
Now the tree isn't just for Barbara. It was for her father and her mother. It was for Diane, for the little girl Diane used to be. That tree reminded Ruth of how simple life could be and how rewarding it could be with hard work. Something Diane has never known because of her family's riches. The tree reminded Ruth of her failure as a mother to Diane. She had truly created a monster, and that monster was thirty years old and set in her ways.
“Hey guys,” Ruth mumbled to the tree, or rather to the memories it held. She sat on the ground in front of the tree, groaning as she bent. Her joints popped as she moved. “It’s been a crazy year, I miss you all.”
She propped the bottle against the base of the tree. Her gaze flitted from the bottle up the bark where the engravings were. One for Barbara, made on Ruth’s fifteenth birthday, Barbara’s initials and her dates of birth and death. The family could have dwelled in what they lost but focused on celebrating the life Barbara did have rather than the one she would never have. A little below Barbara’s engraving was an engraving of the initials T + J, for Tom and Jessica, carved into a flimsy little heart. A concrete proclamation of her parents' love for one another on their twentieth wedding anniversary. There was a letter “D” which Ruth herself carved after Diane was born, and there were so many other carvings to symbolize the important things in the Ludlow family’s life.
The only thing not carved in this tree was a full name. Leaving a name would symbolize ownership over the tree. Long ago, Ruth and her parents had said that the tree was all of theirs. But they were gone and only Ruth was left. Ruth picked that bottle back up. She admired the nearly fifty year old glass. The glass was once perfect. Now there were chips and scratches along the glass. Ruth hugged the bottle one more time before she raised it over head and smashed it against the tree. The shards were large enough for Ruth to hold and use.
She tore off a small piece at the bottom of her dress and wrapped it around a piece of broken glass so she wouldn’t cut her hand. She stood so she was at eye level with the tree. She pushed the glass against the tree just hard enough to carve the tree without the glass shattering. In huge block letters, she carved into the center of the tree:
RU LUW
Ruth smiled, because that tree always made her feel better. It held all her deepest secrets and desires like a diary. Only this diary wasn’t something someone could steal and read. The secrets stayed in the roots, in the branches, and in the fruit grown. This tree was hers. Even after Ruth was gone and Diane inherited the mansion, this tree would still be hers.
“Mom!” Diane’s voice reached from around the garage, Ruth didn’t have much time left before she was dragged back into hell.
“Thank you, Babs. You gave me the best gift,” Ruth whispered.
Diane was going to find her in seconds so Ruth took that time to really enjoy her handiwork. Her grandkids in fifty years might not know the story behind the tree much like Diane didn’t know the story of the wine when she handed it out, but they would know whose tree it was and that was enough for her. She left her mark.
Ruth watched the people from the balcony just to the right of the steps leading down to the foyer. She had a glass of wine and herself, which was all she needed these days. Diane had been strategic when planning the party so her mother didn’t find out. She told Ruth she was treating her and took her to get a makeover. Diane took Ruth to get her hair done leaving her black hair in a style that resembled that of Jackie Kennedy’s in the early 60s. She got her nails professionally done and painted navy blue. Diane even took Ruth out to get a new blue silk dress. All of which was paid by Ruth because she had the money and a lot to spare. Diane lived off a weekly allowance from her mother because of how much money she had. Ruth longed to still provide for her thirty year old daughter. As Diane “treated” Ruth, Diane’s husband and Diane’s two close friends had gone into the mansion and decorated it in Ruth’s favorite colors, blue and silver streamers intertwined around the railings of the steps and around the tops of the curtains. Blue and silver helium filled balloons were tied around on the chairs and on the end of the stair railings. Then there was the banner that hung over the entryway to the dining room, a banner with her name on it. It made Ruth’s heart swell with love for her daughter. She hadn’t smiled like that since her father passed away last winter. But all that joy went away when Diane ushered her mother up the steps to put on the new silk dress because Diane’s party guests were coming any minute now. At that moment, Ruth knew the party had never been for her.
The people, Diane’s “friends”, all flooded in. Each person entering the house was a person Ruth didn’t know – none of them cared about Ruth. Diane broke out the wine, the Wine, with a capital W because it was the wine her father had saved after coming home from the war in 1945. It was the wine he had gotten when stationed in Germany. It was the wine he had planned to drink with his wife on the fiftieth anniversary of the war ending, an anniversary neither of them had made it to. Her father was just three years shy of the anniversary. When her father passed last December he had passed the wine to his only living daughter for her to enjoy when she pleased, which was going to be on the anniversary just like her father planned. Now the bottle was being passed around the room like they were stranded in the desert and this wine was the last drop of water in the canteen to share with the entire caravan.
Ruth felt tears prick her eyes as she watched as everyone disregarded the bottle that meant so little to them but so much to her. When the bottle was emptied it was tossed aside by a large man with platinum blonde hair who looked like he was trying to be Jay Gatsby. A cigar hung from his lips as he stumbled away from the bottle and in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to find some kind of food. She watched as a drunken woman came twirling across the foyer kicking the bottle as she danced to music playing in her head – it didn’t match whatever pop music Diane had decided to blare on the record player. The bottle rolled and glided along the
floor where it got caught up underneath the feet of a couple swaying together. They tripped over it and sent it gliding underneath the bottom steps of the spiral staircase.
Ruth left her glass of wine on the balcony railing and ran down the steps. She shoved by the masses and dove under the steps to retrieve the bottle. She grabbed it by its neck and held it close to her chest, rocking it like it was a newborn. Nobody paid her any mind. They didn’t know who she was, Diane didn’t bother introducing anyone. Diane opted to show off the mansion, dragging out the fact she had grown up here. She didn’t live here anymore and hadn't for the past ten years.
With the bottle secured in her arms, Ruth exited the mansion. There were even more people stumbling around drunk in the parking area and front yard, so Ruth cut through the yard. Behind the parking area and the garage was a beautiful garden full of flowers and plants. Blue Irises lined the perimeter of the garden with Poppies and Orchids sprinkled in throughout. Nobody would be in Ruth’s garden. Her garden held something more special than any of the flowers. In the center of the garden was a tree that was now forty three years old. Barbara Ludlow, Ruth’s older sister, had gotten her an apple tree for her fourteenth birthday. To this day, that present has been the most special present she’s ever gotten because Barbara knew Ruth had always had a love for gardening and nature. About three weeks after Ruth’s fourteenth birthday, Barbara was gone. A car accident. That tree had gotten Ruth through that tough time. She cared for it and watched it grow and after two years of long hard work, the tree finally produced fruit.
Now the tree isn't just for Barbara. It was for her father and her mother. It was for Diane, for the little girl Diane used to be. That tree reminded Ruth of how simple life could be and how rewarding it could be with hard work. Something Diane has never known because of her family's riches. The tree reminded Ruth of her failure as a mother to Diane. She had truly created a monster, and that monster was thirty years old and set in her ways.
“Hey guys,” Ruth mumbled to the tree, or rather to the memories it held. She sat on the ground in front of the tree, groaning as she bent. Her joints popped as she moved. “It’s been a crazy year, I miss you all.”
She propped the bottle against the base of the tree. Her gaze flitted from the bottle up the bark where the engravings were. One for Barbara, made on Ruth’s fifteenth birthday, Barbara’s initials and her dates of birth and death. The family could have dwelled in what they lost but focused on celebrating the life Barbara did have rather than the one she would never have. A little below Barbara’s engraving was an engraving of the initials T + J, for Tom and Jessica, carved into a flimsy little heart. A concrete proclamation of her parents' love for one another on their twentieth wedding anniversary. There was a letter “D” which Ruth herself carved after Diane was born, and there were so many other carvings to symbolize the important things in the Ludlow family’s life.
The only thing not carved in this tree was a full name. Leaving a name would symbolize ownership over the tree. Long ago, Ruth and her parents had said that the tree was all of theirs. But they were gone and only Ruth was left. Ruth picked that bottle back up. She admired the nearly fifty year old glass. The glass was once perfect. Now there were chips and scratches along the glass. Ruth hugged the bottle one more time before she raised it over head and smashed it against the tree. The shards were large enough for Ruth to hold and use.
She tore off a small piece at the bottom of her dress and wrapped it around a piece of broken glass so she wouldn’t cut her hand. She stood so she was at eye level with the tree. She pushed the glass against the tree just hard enough to carve the tree without the glass shattering. In huge block letters, she carved into the center of the tree:
RU LUW
Ruth smiled, because that tree always made her feel better. It held all her deepest secrets and desires like a diary. Only this diary wasn’t something someone could steal and read. The secrets stayed in the roots, in the branches, and in the fruit grown. This tree was hers. Even after Ruth was gone and Diane inherited the mansion, this tree would still be hers.
“Mom!” Diane’s voice reached from around the garage, Ruth didn’t have much time left before she was dragged back into hell.
“Thank you, Babs. You gave me the best gift,” Ruth whispered.
Diane was going to find her in seconds so Ruth took that time to really enjoy her handiwork. Her grandkids in fifty years might not know the story behind the tree much like Diane didn’t know the story of the wine when she handed it out, but they would know whose tree it was and that was enough for her. She left her mark.
What's Lurking Next Door or My Neighbor's Hauntingly Realistic Halloween Party
Aurora Mahoney
There I sat wide awake, at 2:30am on Friday Oct 31, bloodshot eyes staring at the ceiling as the bags under them grew bigger. I couldn’t hear myself think, let alone attempt to sleep with the incessant sound of the loud speaker blasting outside my bedroom window. The bumping bass threatening to bust the glass out of my windows. I could not sit there another restless second. So with a final anguished decision I ripped myself from the comfort of my bed, grabbed my jacket, and stepped out my door.
I lived in a historic house across the street from what I had come to believe may be the loudest neighbor in all of history. These people are what frats wish they could be. They seemed to never sleep. Nearly every night it was the same repeated routine that always ended with one of their guests passed out on their front lawn. Objectively you have the right to ask why I didn’t just join the fun instead of constantly trying to ruin theirs, but I objectively have the right to tell you to shut the hell up. At least every couple weeks I would walk myself over, bang on their door, and demand that they turn down their music so that I could study, or sleep, or simply live in peace.
Nobody wants to be the person that calls the cops and has the party shut down, but I was at my breaking point. I had made up my mind. I would talk to them one more time and if nothing changed then I would have no other choice.
I knocked on the door. The sound of the music from the porch was intense. The amount of ibuprofen I am going to need to get rid of my headache after this will be nearly lethal, I thought to myself as I waited for someone to answer the door, but of course nobody came. Once more I hammered my fist against the door, but it was no use. I could see people partying through the windows in the door. It was becoming obvious that nobody would be able to hear me knocking over the music.
I thought about just going back home and resigning to have another sleepless night, or maybe even actually just calling the cops like I always threatened, but I was no coward and I demanded to get results. I tried the knob and found that the door was unlocked. I walked right into the party, pink bunny slippers and all. The music, though not surprising, was even worse inside. People dressed as the slutty version of every cartoon character imaginable were in every direction.
“Excuse me,” I shouted, trying to get the attention of a girl dressed as what I was guessing was some form of zombie Bambi, but she didn’t even look in my direction. “Excuse me!” I tried again.
“Yeah?” She turned around quickly, almost spilling her cup of purple mystery juice on me.
“I’m the neighbor from across the road, do you think you can turn the music down?” “Nah, you gotta talk to Cody!”
“Who’s Cory?” I watched as her eyes trailed away as I spoke and landed on a guy behind me who was shotgunning a hard seltzer. “Where can I find Cory?” I asked, trying to pull her attention.
“kitchen!” She yelled over the music before turning back around and disappearing into the crowd.
“It would have been helpful if she had at least told me where the kitchen was.” I mumbled to myself. I did my best to navigate the house that was filled to the brim with people acting like drunk toddlers. In fact I think there may have been a person literally dressed as a toddler.
Beyond all the cheesy halloween decorations the house itself looked as if it had been nice at one point. Although, it was obvious that these days the interior design decisions were being made by a couple of lonely men suffering from Peter Pan Syndrome. The hodgepodge of sports paraphernalia and large computer monitors in the living room seemed to suggest that they were either pro video gamers or day traders. Either way I wanted to make my complaint and get out of this house and back into my bed as fast as possible.
I turned a corner and found the kitchen. Jelly shots were being downed like liver health was just a suggestion.
I grabbed the first person I saw, which happened to be a guy dressed as a chicken. “I’m looking for Cory, have you seen him?”
“Who’s Cory?” He scratched at the rooster comb on top of his head. “The homeowner,” the chicken man just stared at me, “the guy throwing this party!” “Oh you mean Cody!” The chicken man’s sentences seemed to have a buzzed wait time since he was clearly stoned.
“Yes, sure, do you know where Cody is?”
“I think he’s in the garage.” He pointed to the door behind me.
“Thank you!” I said as I headed straight for the door.
“You’re welcome! By the way, I like your Karen costume.”
“My what?!” I turned around, but decided I better not make myself look anymore high maintenance. “Ugh, nevermind!”
Stepping through the garage door I found that it was a comfortable shift from the rest of the house. The music was much quieter and there were only four people standing around and playing pingpong.
“Are any of you guys Cody?” They all shook their heads in an outstanding negative. “Of course you aren’t. Do any of you know where he is?”
“I think he’s out on the back porch.”
“Thank you.” I said as I stepped back through the door and started on my quest to the back porch. “This is getting ridiculous,” I said to myself as I approached the back door.
The back porch was the worst scene I had seen yet. There were people in lawn chairs making out, a bonfire entirely too close to the house, and a girl puking over the porch railing as her friend held her hair.
“Does anyone know where Cody is?” I shouted loud enough to get everyone’s attention.
“I think he’s in the shed.” The girl puking took a moment to respond before promptly going back to her previously scheduled programming.
“Thank you!” I headed towards the dimly lit little shed across the yard. I could see my breath as I crossed the frostbitten yard. The first thing I noticed was that the shed was in serious need of a fresh paint job. Green paint was peeling off of the door and the sides. The hinges whined as I pulled the handle and opened the door enough for me to poke my head inside.
“The party is inside. The shed is off limits guys.” The man didn’t bother to turn around or even look up from the fake tombstone he was working on. “Are you Cody?”
“Who’s asking?” The man turned around revealing his over the top dracula costume complete with fake blood around his mouth, a painted on widows peak, and cape. “My name is Chrissy. I’m your neighbor, and I’ve come over here to-” “Look I’m kinda busy so if you have something to talk about you’re going to have to follow me out front.” Cody picked up his arm full of tombstones and stepped out of the shed right past me.
“I came over here because I am sick and tired of your music keeping up the neighborhood.” I followed him back into the dark yard.
“I don’t have any control over the music. My roommate takes care of all of that. If you want something done with it I’m sure he’s in that house somewhere about to blackout.”
“If something doesn’t change with these loud parties every weekend I’m going to call the cops.” We had stopped in the middle of the backyard just before the path led around the side of the house to the front yard.
“Stop talking.”
“I won’t stop talking. I have had it up to here with this!”
“Seriously, stop talking!” He looked around like he had heard something. “What?”
“Do you hear that?” He and I peered around the side of the house. “Oh shit, not this again!” A girl who was obviously not in a state to agree to anything was pushed up against the side of the house by a guy who wasn’t taking the hint.
“Stop!” her words were muffled as the man continued kissing her neck. “Get off her!” I yelled, but the guy either didn’t hear me or didn’t care to. “Hey man, the girl said to stop!” We walked up to the two. Cody dropped his tombstones to the ground, and grabbed the man by his shoulder and pulled him back. I let out a blood curdling scream when I saw the gaping wound on the side of the girl's neck, and the blood dripping from the man’s chin. The man hissed at us, his eyes glowed like red hot embers. I had never seen anything like it in my entire life. “What the fuck?!” The girl collapsed to the ground and I ran to pull her out of the way. The man with the glowing eyes swung at Cody, knocking him to the ground. “What the hell are you?” Cody said as he tried to stand back up. The man with glowing eyes had become fixated on the girl and I. He didn’t say anything. The man simply made guttural animalistic sounds which made him even more haunting. “Chrissy, grab the tombstone!”
I reached for one of the tombstones lying on the ground next to me, and used it to block the man’s strike. The decoration crumbled to foam pieces all over the yard but the wooden stake used to hold it in the ground was still in my hand. I turned the point towards the man and ran it through his thigh. When he screamed it didn’t sound natural it sounded metallic like a train scraping against its tracks. The man was about to rip the stake from his leg when Cody came up behind him and drilled another one straight through his back and out through his chest. The man’s body looked as if it went through a hundred years worth of decomposition in seconds before turning to dust in front of our eyes.
“What just happened?”
“I don’t know, but she needs help.” I gestured to the girl who was now lying limp on the ground.
“Quick, let’s get her inside!” Cody and I picked up the girl and we started running towards the house. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse was faint, but she was still alive.
“Someone call 911!” Party goers cleared out of the way as we carried the girl in through the back door and sat her on the dining room table. The music stopped finally and I could hear someone on the phone behind us giving the street and address. “What happened?” the person on the phone shouted at us.
“We were out back and saw her being attacked by some freak!” Cody shouted back.
I lived in a historic house across the street from what I had come to believe may be the loudest neighbor in all of history. These people are what frats wish they could be. They seemed to never sleep. Nearly every night it was the same repeated routine that always ended with one of their guests passed out on their front lawn. Objectively you have the right to ask why I didn’t just join the fun instead of constantly trying to ruin theirs, but I objectively have the right to tell you to shut the hell up. At least every couple weeks I would walk myself over, bang on their door, and demand that they turn down their music so that I could study, or sleep, or simply live in peace.
Nobody wants to be the person that calls the cops and has the party shut down, but I was at my breaking point. I had made up my mind. I would talk to them one more time and if nothing changed then I would have no other choice.
I knocked on the door. The sound of the music from the porch was intense. The amount of ibuprofen I am going to need to get rid of my headache after this will be nearly lethal, I thought to myself as I waited for someone to answer the door, but of course nobody came. Once more I hammered my fist against the door, but it was no use. I could see people partying through the windows in the door. It was becoming obvious that nobody would be able to hear me knocking over the music.
I thought about just going back home and resigning to have another sleepless night, or maybe even actually just calling the cops like I always threatened, but I was no coward and I demanded to get results. I tried the knob and found that the door was unlocked. I walked right into the party, pink bunny slippers and all. The music, though not surprising, was even worse inside. People dressed as the slutty version of every cartoon character imaginable were in every direction.
“Excuse me,” I shouted, trying to get the attention of a girl dressed as what I was guessing was some form of zombie Bambi, but she didn’t even look in my direction. “Excuse me!” I tried again.
“Yeah?” She turned around quickly, almost spilling her cup of purple mystery juice on me.
“I’m the neighbor from across the road, do you think you can turn the music down?” “Nah, you gotta talk to Cody!”
“Who’s Cory?” I watched as her eyes trailed away as I spoke and landed on a guy behind me who was shotgunning a hard seltzer. “Where can I find Cory?” I asked, trying to pull her attention.
“kitchen!” She yelled over the music before turning back around and disappearing into the crowd.
“It would have been helpful if she had at least told me where the kitchen was.” I mumbled to myself. I did my best to navigate the house that was filled to the brim with people acting like drunk toddlers. In fact I think there may have been a person literally dressed as a toddler.
Beyond all the cheesy halloween decorations the house itself looked as if it had been nice at one point. Although, it was obvious that these days the interior design decisions were being made by a couple of lonely men suffering from Peter Pan Syndrome. The hodgepodge of sports paraphernalia and large computer monitors in the living room seemed to suggest that they were either pro video gamers or day traders. Either way I wanted to make my complaint and get out of this house and back into my bed as fast as possible.
I turned a corner and found the kitchen. Jelly shots were being downed like liver health was just a suggestion.
I grabbed the first person I saw, which happened to be a guy dressed as a chicken. “I’m looking for Cory, have you seen him?”
“Who’s Cory?” He scratched at the rooster comb on top of his head. “The homeowner,” the chicken man just stared at me, “the guy throwing this party!” “Oh you mean Cody!” The chicken man’s sentences seemed to have a buzzed wait time since he was clearly stoned.
“Yes, sure, do you know where Cody is?”
“I think he’s in the garage.” He pointed to the door behind me.
“Thank you!” I said as I headed straight for the door.
“You’re welcome! By the way, I like your Karen costume.”
“My what?!” I turned around, but decided I better not make myself look anymore high maintenance. “Ugh, nevermind!”
Stepping through the garage door I found that it was a comfortable shift from the rest of the house. The music was much quieter and there were only four people standing around and playing pingpong.
“Are any of you guys Cody?” They all shook their heads in an outstanding negative. “Of course you aren’t. Do any of you know where he is?”
“I think he’s out on the back porch.”
“Thank you.” I said as I stepped back through the door and started on my quest to the back porch. “This is getting ridiculous,” I said to myself as I approached the back door.
The back porch was the worst scene I had seen yet. There were people in lawn chairs making out, a bonfire entirely too close to the house, and a girl puking over the porch railing as her friend held her hair.
“Does anyone know where Cody is?” I shouted loud enough to get everyone’s attention.
“I think he’s in the shed.” The girl puking took a moment to respond before promptly going back to her previously scheduled programming.
“Thank you!” I headed towards the dimly lit little shed across the yard. I could see my breath as I crossed the frostbitten yard. The first thing I noticed was that the shed was in serious need of a fresh paint job. Green paint was peeling off of the door and the sides. The hinges whined as I pulled the handle and opened the door enough for me to poke my head inside.
“The party is inside. The shed is off limits guys.” The man didn’t bother to turn around or even look up from the fake tombstone he was working on. “Are you Cody?”
“Who’s asking?” The man turned around revealing his over the top dracula costume complete with fake blood around his mouth, a painted on widows peak, and cape. “My name is Chrissy. I’m your neighbor, and I’ve come over here to-” “Look I’m kinda busy so if you have something to talk about you’re going to have to follow me out front.” Cody picked up his arm full of tombstones and stepped out of the shed right past me.
“I came over here because I am sick and tired of your music keeping up the neighborhood.” I followed him back into the dark yard.
“I don’t have any control over the music. My roommate takes care of all of that. If you want something done with it I’m sure he’s in that house somewhere about to blackout.”
“If something doesn’t change with these loud parties every weekend I’m going to call the cops.” We had stopped in the middle of the backyard just before the path led around the side of the house to the front yard.
“Stop talking.”
“I won’t stop talking. I have had it up to here with this!”
“Seriously, stop talking!” He looked around like he had heard something. “What?”
“Do you hear that?” He and I peered around the side of the house. “Oh shit, not this again!” A girl who was obviously not in a state to agree to anything was pushed up against the side of the house by a guy who wasn’t taking the hint.
“Stop!” her words were muffled as the man continued kissing her neck. “Get off her!” I yelled, but the guy either didn’t hear me or didn’t care to. “Hey man, the girl said to stop!” We walked up to the two. Cody dropped his tombstones to the ground, and grabbed the man by his shoulder and pulled him back. I let out a blood curdling scream when I saw the gaping wound on the side of the girl's neck, and the blood dripping from the man’s chin. The man hissed at us, his eyes glowed like red hot embers. I had never seen anything like it in my entire life. “What the fuck?!” The girl collapsed to the ground and I ran to pull her out of the way. The man with the glowing eyes swung at Cody, knocking him to the ground. “What the hell are you?” Cody said as he tried to stand back up. The man with glowing eyes had become fixated on the girl and I. He didn’t say anything. The man simply made guttural animalistic sounds which made him even more haunting. “Chrissy, grab the tombstone!”
I reached for one of the tombstones lying on the ground next to me, and used it to block the man’s strike. The decoration crumbled to foam pieces all over the yard but the wooden stake used to hold it in the ground was still in my hand. I turned the point towards the man and ran it through his thigh. When he screamed it didn’t sound natural it sounded metallic like a train scraping against its tracks. The man was about to rip the stake from his leg when Cody came up behind him and drilled another one straight through his back and out through his chest. The man’s body looked as if it went through a hundred years worth of decomposition in seconds before turning to dust in front of our eyes.
“What just happened?”
“I don’t know, but she needs help.” I gestured to the girl who was now lying limp on the ground.
“Quick, let’s get her inside!” Cody and I picked up the girl and we started running towards the house. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse was faint, but she was still alive.
“Someone call 911!” Party goers cleared out of the way as we carried the girl in through the back door and sat her on the dining room table. The music stopped finally and I could hear someone on the phone behind us giving the street and address. “What happened?” the person on the phone shouted at us.
“We were out back and saw her being attacked by some freak!” Cody shouted back.
The Journal of a Lost Man Prologue
Andrew Watkins
Have I been here before?
Flames shimmer and dance in front of me.
Embers float up towards the sky, pulsing like fireflies before disappearing into the night.
A soft breeze carries the cool ocean air over my back, sending chills all throughout my body. With every second that passes, the cold sinks further under my skin, threatening to kill me before the sun rises.
Moonkissed waves crash behind me, hissing as they are pulled from the sand and dragged back out to sea.
My body aches, muscles sore, skin dried out and worn raw from the sand.
I sat there, tending to the fire, keeping an anxious eye on the dark jungle just beyond its orange glow. Everything was cast in the dim light of the moon, giving the world a gray tint. The light made the details of the jungle fuzzy and unclear. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the semi-darkness, where some animal could be waiting to make its move.
Fear rose in my stomach but beside it rose the same question, repeated over and over.
Have I been here before?
It feels like a dream. Like deja vu almost, but more real. I remember the flame, the wood crackling and the embers flying. The waves crashing and the breeze.
Have I been here before?
A dark cloud passed over the moon, stealing what little light it was providing and plunging the area outside of the fire in complete shadow.
Figures darted across the edge of my vision, weaving through the trees in complete silence. My heart was pounding in my chest. I could feel it in my temples. Suddenly, all the breath was stolen from my body. A great weight had been placed on me and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move to defend myself. The figures were getting closer, moving as a unit, an organized pack in the darkness. I could see their vague outlines in the darkness.
I force myself to stand, fighting back the fear that’s rising in my stomach. I reach a shaky hand towards the fire and grab the only stick big enough to be a weapon before backpedaling towards the waves to get some distance between myself and their advance.
The sand is cool against my bare feet.
The water gets louder and louder.
I feel the waves spray against my back, sending a shiver throughout my entire body.
The wind picks up the closer I get to the water and suddenly I can’t hear anything over the roar of the waves as they beat into the sand.
I see them moving just beyond the reach of the fire. They move quickly, intersecting and overlapping with each other, almost like a dance. Their shadows danced with the fire, moving, shaking, and fluttering in time with the movement of the flames.
A sharp pain shoots up from my leg.
My gaze follows my hand as I swing the stick blindly in the direction of the pain.
It meets nothing but water.
The cool ocean water that wraps around my feet, reaching up to the middle of my shins. I suck in a sharp breath as my nerves jump at the sudden realization that I’m partially submerged in freezing cold water.
Just as quickly as I look down, I feel something getting closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shadowy figures advancing, taking advantage of my momentary distraction.
When I look up they are gone.
But their shadows dancing against the trees remain.
And in the far distance, almost completely blocked by a thick fog, was a tree, looming eerily over the night like a silent guardian.
The same question that I had asked myself the entire night followed the chills creeping back up my spine until it sat heavy in my head. It broke through the wall of panic that had pushed it back down into obscurity, seizing control of my thoughts.
Have I been here before?
Flames shimmer and dance in front of me.
Embers float up towards the sky, pulsing like fireflies before disappearing into the night.
A soft breeze carries the cool ocean air over my back, sending chills all throughout my body. With every second that passes, the cold sinks further under my skin, threatening to kill me before the sun rises.
Moonkissed waves crash behind me, hissing as they are pulled from the sand and dragged back out to sea.
My body aches, muscles sore, skin dried out and worn raw from the sand.
I sat there, tending to the fire, keeping an anxious eye on the dark jungle just beyond its orange glow. Everything was cast in the dim light of the moon, giving the world a gray tint. The light made the details of the jungle fuzzy and unclear. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the semi-darkness, where some animal could be waiting to make its move.
Fear rose in my stomach but beside it rose the same question, repeated over and over.
Have I been here before?
It feels like a dream. Like deja vu almost, but more real. I remember the flame, the wood crackling and the embers flying. The waves crashing and the breeze.
Have I been here before?
A dark cloud passed over the moon, stealing what little light it was providing and plunging the area outside of the fire in complete shadow.
Figures darted across the edge of my vision, weaving through the trees in complete silence. My heart was pounding in my chest. I could feel it in my temples. Suddenly, all the breath was stolen from my body. A great weight had been placed on me and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move to defend myself. The figures were getting closer, moving as a unit, an organized pack in the darkness. I could see their vague outlines in the darkness.
I force myself to stand, fighting back the fear that’s rising in my stomach. I reach a shaky hand towards the fire and grab the only stick big enough to be a weapon before backpedaling towards the waves to get some distance between myself and their advance.
The sand is cool against my bare feet.
The water gets louder and louder.
I feel the waves spray against my back, sending a shiver throughout my entire body.
The wind picks up the closer I get to the water and suddenly I can’t hear anything over the roar of the waves as they beat into the sand.
I see them moving just beyond the reach of the fire. They move quickly, intersecting and overlapping with each other, almost like a dance. Their shadows danced with the fire, moving, shaking, and fluttering in time with the movement of the flames.
A sharp pain shoots up from my leg.
My gaze follows my hand as I swing the stick blindly in the direction of the pain.
It meets nothing but water.
The cool ocean water that wraps around my feet, reaching up to the middle of my shins. I suck in a sharp breath as my nerves jump at the sudden realization that I’m partially submerged in freezing cold water.
Just as quickly as I look down, I feel something getting closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shadowy figures advancing, taking advantage of my momentary distraction.
When I look up they are gone.
But their shadows dancing against the trees remain.
And in the far distance, almost completely blocked by a thick fog, was a tree, looming eerily over the night like a silent guardian.
The same question that I had asked myself the entire night followed the chills creeping back up my spine until it sat heavy in my head. It broke through the wall of panic that had pushed it back down into obscurity, seizing control of my thoughts.
Have I been here before?
Nobody's Son, Nobody's Daughter
Nikki Davis
When I first met Robert Otis Holloway or Robbie Rotten as our friends would call him for years to come, he was just some scruffy kid down old West Central Drive. Black curls, a lengthy frame, and murky brown eyes I never saw light up. When we were ten I would see him struggle to study in the public library, fingers tapping as he fidgeted around in his seat. We would take the same short route home, through the evergreens of Federalsburg over the bridge, the wind blowing through our hair as we pedaled on hand me down bikes.
It wouldn’t be for another three years that we really spoke. After a terrible fit of nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat on a warm July night wasn’t pleasant. I rolled over to peer at my clock, 1:52 a.m it read. With a groan and the comprehension that I wouldn’t fall asleep again anytime soon- I got up, put on my beat up red kicks and clambered out my window. Maybe another thirteen year old girl would fear the streets at night, but considering I used to live in the jungle of alleyways and abandoned buildings that plagued bustling cities- this kind of night time stroll was common for me. Under the nose of authority, but common.
I held myself, lost in thoughts of the past as street lights guide me to the tracks, box blue dyed hair taking on a green hue. The train tracks were a common hang out for the teens around town. Some say they were haunted, by what? I never got a straight answer. Either way I found comfort in the trestle bridge over the deep river that ran through our town. Apparently, Robbie did too. He was already curled into himself on the ledge, and even in the dim night I could tell he was hurting. Hurting in a way I knew all too well. Everyone knew the Halloway’s in our town and their reputation. Martin Halloway was a nasty man with a horrible temper, a round hairy belly usually bare when he’d come outside to yell at Robbie for something and an untrimmed beard that grew in every gnarly direction. His mother was a woman who always spoke her mind, the neighborhood pariah that loved attention and a reminisce of my own mom. Which isn’t a good thing.
“You okay?”
I offered a hand to his decrepit figure and not only did he take it- but he pulled me down into an embrace. An embrace we had no idea would change the course of our lives for good.
There was no railing on the bridge, we could have easily tumbled down into the depths of that river. We had always been told to be careful- especially after the three Louis Boys drowned in that very same vein of the marsh. I have vague memories of them playing hoops in our driveway, then one day- just like that- they were gone. At that moment I could tell Robbie wanted to be gone too and maybe I wanted to be gone as well. But we just kept holding each other, focusing on the breath, the touch, on anything else than how close we were to falling apart in that moment.
In the blossom of the years following I can only recount as a blur of hormones and wild times. We never dated, not once. He had his girlfriends, and I had my own agenda that didn’t allow for such simple things like romance. But by night, we ruled the streets together, partners in petty crimes and idiotic schemes. His feelings should have been obvious, yet they remained a mystery to me all the same. It was only when I had to leave for college- did tears spill from his eyes for the first time in front of my own. Hostile, afraid of being alone again, I saw him putting his walls up again and it hurt. But the thought of being stuck in that small town forever- becoming a part of it- was enough of a reason not to stick around. He yelled, I screamed, his eyes pricked with tears, streaks ran down my face, he kissed me, I froze and held my breath. It wasn’t right, not at this moment in time and as he realized I wasn’t truly gonna reciprocate his feelings. He walked away.
We wouldn’t see each other for a year.
It was a breezy June evening that I felt a tap on my arm. My hair was back to blonde now. After an array of colors and feelings through the seasons, my natural hair felt right in regaining my identity. I had been walking around town just freshly returned from college. Through my eyes my town now appeared smaller- insignificant in the wake of the revelation of moving away. I turned and a plague of emotions overcame my body as I saw his face once more. Beaming down at me, Robbie looked different too. He had turned in his black beanies for a trucker hat and his high top kicks for combat boots. Wisps of hair now resided under his nose, he looked like he had matured. But the most noticeable difference was that light in his eyes- radiant almost. He pulled me into a tight hug and expressed his excitement, and despite our fight- I couldn’t help but be excited as well.
We decided to spend the rest of the day walking down reminiscing paths as we caught up with one another. He shared astounding news, happily engaged, she was beautiful and he seemed so proud of the new little life he built for himself- albeit he never left The Burg, that didn’t seem to bother him so much anymore. His step-father had passed away early that year, a heart attack took him in his sleep. I told him of my college experience so far and how it was nothing like how I expected it to be. He always expressed relief that he picked up a trade skill instead, sometimes I don’t blame him. We walked till it took us to his old red beat up pick up truck. She was a ford, late 90s model and had been our chariot during our teen years, nostalgia practically dripped from every scratch on the side to every signature and sticker on the dashboard. Including my own- right next to his in matching black sharpie ink from the first day he bought it. We had spent that whole night speeding down dirt roads and hollering out the windows in celebration and that made me a little melancholy all at once- remembering how close we used to be before I left.
He could tell something was off probably, though he never asked- instead we headed to the liquor store down Long Swamp Rd. where the same old cashier eyed me suspiciously as he inspected my real ID for the first time. After that laugh we took to walking down the back roads, even with my head a little light and dizzy I knew where we were heading. Henry’s Tap had been shut down longer than we had been alive, but it had become a treasured place for all teens alike on those rainy days when the tracks would be turned into a splash zone. The graffitied pool table sat in the middle still and the target for darts had been extended to the wall by paint where an array of darts, knives and nails pierced through. Cigarette buds and beer cans littered the ground as well as the arrangement of vines and moss, it was disgusting- and our oasis.
We grew giddy in our inebriation, and spoke warmly of our past, sharing old stories and laughs that had us cackling and playfully jeering at each other once again. We shared a rowdy cheerful howl recalling the time we almost hit a buck- sat on the pool table ledge, bottles in hand. It was abrupt when his face fell and there was a familiar sadness I knew all too well. He sighed loudly and leaned on to my shoulder and I was transported back to years ago. When we were just two scared kids in the dark.
Maybe I should have seen it coming, I just thought better of ourselves then- I thought wrong. The briefest of kisses was shared, I honestly couldn’t tell you who leaned in first. My mind had gone completely blank and for a moment it felt like we were the only two people in the entire world, we were us again- and something more now. I didn’t feel bad when I would be the cause of the downfall of his relationship with his fiance permanently. Nor when his mother looked at me and sneered asking what I had to offer when all I was going to receive was love. But times like that come to an end and reality shakes your bones and smacks you in the face. I had to go back to college, he had to stay there- it's what caused the end of our first relationship- but now- it's no longer one sided and in the wake of that revelation- I think we spare a chance.
What do you think?
It wouldn’t be for another three years that we really spoke. After a terrible fit of nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat on a warm July night wasn’t pleasant. I rolled over to peer at my clock, 1:52 a.m it read. With a groan and the comprehension that I wouldn’t fall asleep again anytime soon- I got up, put on my beat up red kicks and clambered out my window. Maybe another thirteen year old girl would fear the streets at night, but considering I used to live in the jungle of alleyways and abandoned buildings that plagued bustling cities- this kind of night time stroll was common for me. Under the nose of authority, but common.
I held myself, lost in thoughts of the past as street lights guide me to the tracks, box blue dyed hair taking on a green hue. The train tracks were a common hang out for the teens around town. Some say they were haunted, by what? I never got a straight answer. Either way I found comfort in the trestle bridge over the deep river that ran through our town. Apparently, Robbie did too. He was already curled into himself on the ledge, and even in the dim night I could tell he was hurting. Hurting in a way I knew all too well. Everyone knew the Halloway’s in our town and their reputation. Martin Halloway was a nasty man with a horrible temper, a round hairy belly usually bare when he’d come outside to yell at Robbie for something and an untrimmed beard that grew in every gnarly direction. His mother was a woman who always spoke her mind, the neighborhood pariah that loved attention and a reminisce of my own mom. Which isn’t a good thing.
“You okay?”
I offered a hand to his decrepit figure and not only did he take it- but he pulled me down into an embrace. An embrace we had no idea would change the course of our lives for good.
There was no railing on the bridge, we could have easily tumbled down into the depths of that river. We had always been told to be careful- especially after the three Louis Boys drowned in that very same vein of the marsh. I have vague memories of them playing hoops in our driveway, then one day- just like that- they were gone. At that moment I could tell Robbie wanted to be gone too and maybe I wanted to be gone as well. But we just kept holding each other, focusing on the breath, the touch, on anything else than how close we were to falling apart in that moment.
In the blossom of the years following I can only recount as a blur of hormones and wild times. We never dated, not once. He had his girlfriends, and I had my own agenda that didn’t allow for such simple things like romance. But by night, we ruled the streets together, partners in petty crimes and idiotic schemes. His feelings should have been obvious, yet they remained a mystery to me all the same. It was only when I had to leave for college- did tears spill from his eyes for the first time in front of my own. Hostile, afraid of being alone again, I saw him putting his walls up again and it hurt. But the thought of being stuck in that small town forever- becoming a part of it- was enough of a reason not to stick around. He yelled, I screamed, his eyes pricked with tears, streaks ran down my face, he kissed me, I froze and held my breath. It wasn’t right, not at this moment in time and as he realized I wasn’t truly gonna reciprocate his feelings. He walked away.
We wouldn’t see each other for a year.
It was a breezy June evening that I felt a tap on my arm. My hair was back to blonde now. After an array of colors and feelings through the seasons, my natural hair felt right in regaining my identity. I had been walking around town just freshly returned from college. Through my eyes my town now appeared smaller- insignificant in the wake of the revelation of moving away. I turned and a plague of emotions overcame my body as I saw his face once more. Beaming down at me, Robbie looked different too. He had turned in his black beanies for a trucker hat and his high top kicks for combat boots. Wisps of hair now resided under his nose, he looked like he had matured. But the most noticeable difference was that light in his eyes- radiant almost. He pulled me into a tight hug and expressed his excitement, and despite our fight- I couldn’t help but be excited as well.
We decided to spend the rest of the day walking down reminiscing paths as we caught up with one another. He shared astounding news, happily engaged, she was beautiful and he seemed so proud of the new little life he built for himself- albeit he never left The Burg, that didn’t seem to bother him so much anymore. His step-father had passed away early that year, a heart attack took him in his sleep. I told him of my college experience so far and how it was nothing like how I expected it to be. He always expressed relief that he picked up a trade skill instead, sometimes I don’t blame him. We walked till it took us to his old red beat up pick up truck. She was a ford, late 90s model and had been our chariot during our teen years, nostalgia practically dripped from every scratch on the side to every signature and sticker on the dashboard. Including my own- right next to his in matching black sharpie ink from the first day he bought it. We had spent that whole night speeding down dirt roads and hollering out the windows in celebration and that made me a little melancholy all at once- remembering how close we used to be before I left.
He could tell something was off probably, though he never asked- instead we headed to the liquor store down Long Swamp Rd. where the same old cashier eyed me suspiciously as he inspected my real ID for the first time. After that laugh we took to walking down the back roads, even with my head a little light and dizzy I knew where we were heading. Henry’s Tap had been shut down longer than we had been alive, but it had become a treasured place for all teens alike on those rainy days when the tracks would be turned into a splash zone. The graffitied pool table sat in the middle still and the target for darts had been extended to the wall by paint where an array of darts, knives and nails pierced through. Cigarette buds and beer cans littered the ground as well as the arrangement of vines and moss, it was disgusting- and our oasis.
We grew giddy in our inebriation, and spoke warmly of our past, sharing old stories and laughs that had us cackling and playfully jeering at each other once again. We shared a rowdy cheerful howl recalling the time we almost hit a buck- sat on the pool table ledge, bottles in hand. It was abrupt when his face fell and there was a familiar sadness I knew all too well. He sighed loudly and leaned on to my shoulder and I was transported back to years ago. When we were just two scared kids in the dark.
Maybe I should have seen it coming, I just thought better of ourselves then- I thought wrong. The briefest of kisses was shared, I honestly couldn’t tell you who leaned in first. My mind had gone completely blank and for a moment it felt like we were the only two people in the entire world, we were us again- and something more now. I didn’t feel bad when I would be the cause of the downfall of his relationship with his fiance permanently. Nor when his mother looked at me and sneered asking what I had to offer when all I was going to receive was love. But times like that come to an end and reality shakes your bones and smacks you in the face. I had to go back to college, he had to stay there- it's what caused the end of our first relationship- but now- it's no longer one sided and in the wake of that revelation- I think we spare a chance.
What do you think?
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