I lived with a singer once, a number of years ago in that distant valley called youth. She had been the singer for a group called The Savage Blusterbox, and you can get the idea of the sort of music they made from that name. I was the roadie. I had no musical talent. I have no musical talent. Or even much interest. The band’s leader, Jorge, probably thought I took an interest in his music, if not music in general. This was one of many demonstrations of Jorge’s denseness. His stage name was Duneman. He told me it was based on some novel. I don’t know. I’d never heard of the book, and I’m not a big reader. Magazines, a biography now and then. Novels, not really.…
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Apparently, I was the last person to see David Carver alive. I can’t remember if he froze or starved to death; it’s been too many years.
It would have been late November. We had a storm come in from the south on Thanksgiving, melting most of the early snow into slush and knocking down widow-makers. I took my four-wheeler out, looking for fallen trees blocking paths. I could throw aside any fallen branches I found, but the fallen logs required me to break out my chainsaw.
Past the deer blind, but before the river, a large oak fell onto the trail. My saw is only so long, so cutting where it entered and exited the path took a while. When wrapping the chain from the four-wheeler around the log, I made the mistake of getting on my knees at the wrong spot.…
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The plate is what did it. George hated the damn thing ever since him and Hannah got married. She said her aunt told her it was a relic from the Civil War, that her great grandad had it in his pack when he was shot in the nose at Vicksburg. Horseshit. She probably bought it at some flea market and conjured up some make-believe like all them old Kentucky women do. The chipped, porcelain circle – white rim decorated with blue flowers – was a shrine to deception and fabrications. George couldn’t stand it.
Hannah was yelling when he grabbed it. She was starting in on him about drinking when he reached into the cabinet with all the ceramic dishes. He flung that damn plate through the dining room window.…
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The echo of shackles in motion filled the room with a searing tension. “Kneel,” a guard commanded as he forced it down. The king’s eyes widened in a mix of wonder and terror as he gazed upon what knelt before him. Or, as it felt, what didn’t. It was emptiness in the form of a human body. What knelt before him felt not like a creature, but the lack of one—an inky void from head to toe with the exception of its eyes, like an inferno condensed and solidified into the form of eyeballs.
“What is this?” the king questioned.
“It was found in the walls, no explanation as to how it got in.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the king asked the creature with a tone that held an initial strength, but weakened with every proceeding second of silence.…
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St. Ignatius High School, 2000
Teenagers filled the auditorium, dressed in preppy uniforms. Cheerleaders appeared on stage. They danced to pop hits of vintage hits, B*Witched’s “C’est la Vie,” Mandy Moore’s “Candy,” and Spice Girls’ “Spice Up Your Life.”
The cheerleaders yelled, “We got spirit. How about you?”
Students would yell back, “Yeah, we got spirit. Yes, we do.”
Ezra sat with headphones, unbothered. He had big, funky tortoiseshell glasses and wore a tie and shirt, contrasting his alternative vibe. He listened to the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Muzzle” with the volume way up to drown out the bubble gum pop. It could have worked better. It made a weird smashup between Mandy Moore and the Smashing Pumpkins. Ezra took a bite of his Twix bar, hoping it wouldn’t break a bracket or twist the braces wires.…
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“Mama,” Esther sang. “Guess who I saw riding up the road.” Her good eye held a tell-tale sparkle.
“Stop, you,” Jane replied. To cover her discomfort, she took up her towel and whipped it lightly toward her daughter.
Esther laughed—a girl’s giggle with a woman’s knowing. She’d refused braids that morning and the strong springtime winds rushing into Iowa had knotted her hair. She plucked her best embroidered eyepatch and a brown bonnet from the hook by the door, then actually smoothed her hands down her workday skirt before rushing outside, presumably to meet the man—Mr. Isaiah Hall—in nothing more wicked than bare feet and best intentions.
Jane forced her hands to fold the towel and place it neatly on the table. “Oh, Morris,” she whispered.…
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“Speed up, or the next thing you know, you’ll have a hole blown up in your head,” the soldier threatened.
Rocks scraping at my bare feet, I scrambled up the almost non-existent track. All the while, I thought about how I could so naturally understand the Japanese words that he said. The realization clawed at my heart.
“I don’t know why I had to bring him along. Doesn’t seem much use anyway. Might as well kill him instead,” I heard him grumble.
Well, he might’ve not known, but I knew the reason why I was being brought along. The fact that I used to climb up the little mountain next to our village every morning, easily made me the best person to know the way up the maze-like forest of the mountain.…
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