some of it's true

A few months had passed since Daddy made his way into Heaven. The farm looked the same. The crab apple trees still sent a burst of fragrance up the hill and around the house into the front yard whenever a warm wind decided to wake up. My dog Ginger continued to find me when I wandered outside looking for strange bugs or mystical arrowheads. The woods surrounding our home never stopped speaking into the breeze, calling me to explore. Dad was gone, but sometimes I could hear his voice echoing over the ridge urging me to come in for supper.

I noticed a swing appeared a couple of days ago under one of the crab apple trees. It was the kind that you put one foot in and glide around upright. Susan, my older sister, must have tied it to one of the limbs earlier in the week. Checking it out is definitely on my mental list for the day. Hopefully, I'll have time to squeeze it into my busy schedule before the sun dips down behind the barn.

Time sure has a funny way of speeding up when you don't want it to and slowing down when you want it to hurry along. Maybe God got that whole thing backward. He absolutely knows what he's doing, but everyone is entitled to an oversight. When I make it to Heaven, I'll be sure to tell him that the clock should move fast during class and slow down during playtime. I'm sure plenty of other angels will back me up on that.

I felt a lot closer to God after Dad moved on. Maybe because I knew Daddy was with him, or perhaps because I needed help filling that void where a boy's father is supposed to reside. God and me have our moments, though; things aren't always pretty. Sometimes I'll pick a fight with him, but he tends just to listen. I guess disagreements will pop up when you're close to someone. Lucky for me, Jesus has unlimited patience.

A few words buzzed from my mouth like angry hornets assembling and taking flight, "I hope you know my mother's heart is broken. She didn't deserve this. None of us did. Why did you choose my dad? He worked hard every day, always doing his best to care for us all. I can't go two days without someone telling me how he was a good man or how he helped them once when they needed it."

My face grew red while tears filled my eyes after noticing my old bike leaning against the homemade wooden basketball goal. And I continued, "He just taught me how to ride that ya know. He was supposed to teach me other stuff, and you took him. None of this makes sense, and your decision was wrong. I hate you."

After wiping my face on my shirt, I marched toward the rope swing behind the house. The lasso made that tightening sound as I stepped into it and raised myself above the ground. Using my momentum, I swung back and forth as high as possible, pretending I was Spider-Man, who had also lost his Uncle Ben. The slight breeze from the swaying motions felt good, hitting my dirty face. My eyes closed for a few moments while I envisioned my body floating high over the earth, noticing how tiny everything looks from up here.

Like always, real life ascended to the surface, and I noticed I'd gotten into a predicament. Just below my feet, yellowjackets hoovered around the fallen apples like hot lava, ready to disintegrate me head to toe like I was beaming up on Star Trek once I stepped down. My tense body dangled overhead like an anticipated second course for hungry zombies. Again, God managed to slow down time at the worst possible moment. I must have hung there for an hour or longer before I heard it.

"Let go," the voice whispered. I'm unsure if it was Jesus or my dad, but I decided to listen and let go. My right leg slipped through the lasso while the rope tightened around my thigh, trapping me with the vicious flying insects. "Great advice," I belted as my back landed flat on the hard, unforgiving earth. The more I fought to get away, the tighter the cord squeezed. Any moment the angry yellowjackets would devour my flesh, leaving only a pile of bones, with one tibia left wobbling in the air a few feet over my final resting place.

A familiar voice broke the chaos, "Chris, what is wrong with you? Just get up." Mom must have seen me through the kitchen window and made her way to my resue.

"The yellowjackets are going to sting me, Mom! I'm trapped," would be the final words ever to escape my mouth.

Shaking her head, she spoke again, "Oh Chris, these aren't yellowjackets. They're corn flies, and they are harmless." She loosened the rope as my bruised leg fell to the ground. One of the bugs landed on my chest, looked at me like an idiot, and buzzed away. We walked back to the house together that afternoon. I guess God was trying to tell me to let go. Things may get a little worse sometimes when we do, but eventually, it gets better.

Picture day is perhaps the biggest day of the school year. Time will pass while images captured and carefully scattered throughout the annual burn a spot in our mental history book. We'll never see most of our classmates again, so they'll always be their first-grade selves with a 1978 haircut. We'll read about one another in the paper when we get married or have a baby. We'll bring up a random name in a random conversation and immediately flash back to Mrs. Jone's class on picture day. It could be thirty or forty years down the road, but all we will manage to see is a seven-year-old shadow of an innocent ghost pleasantly haunting our memories.
None of us realize the significance of the photo, but we do as we're told and line up single file, then march to the gymnasium. It never occurs to the teacher what it'll mean to us to look back years later to remember who we were. The poor guy snapping the picture only thinks about the end of the day so he can go home to his family. It feels like a pretty insignificant gesture once we line up on the steps and struggle to smile simultaneously. It's easy to forget about the entire ceremony as soon as the camera clicks, especially with the playground only a few yards away. All we want to do is play.
It's effortless to take each day one at a time. Our parents do all the planning, organizing, and worrying for us. So all that's left is to listen to the teacher and see who can swing the highest. Twenty-four hours is sort of a little lifetime; if we do something terrible like trip a kid during recess or break the pencil sharpener, it's no big deal. We get a fresh start the next day, and all is forgiven. None of us take a moment to ponder how we'll eventually become the parents who do all of the planning, organizing, and worrying. We're unaware of how clouded our minds will ultimately become and how life tends to dictate how we spend precious moments instead of us controlling our destiny. It's a good thing we have picture day. It'll be a welcomed escape somewhere in the future, I'm sure.

Two years shuffled by as quickly as the last day of summer break when I was a kid. The first and only time we ever kissed was back in '88, and I knew I was in love right then and there. The whole relationship was doomed from the beginning when Lynette left the next day for home in Illinois. We exchanged addresses before she headed out and promised to always keep in touch no matter what. And we did.

We slid into the friend zone right away because a long-distance relationship is challenging for anyone. With us being so young, it would have only caused pain. At least that's what I told myself in order to cope with the heartache. I'd send her letters, corny poems, pictures, and postcards from my beach vacations. We got to know each other one postage stamp at a time through the years. She learned everything about my failed attempts at courtship, and I sat back and watched her grow into a beautiful woman with each photograph I received.

I fought the urge to tell her how I truly felt countless times whenever I'd pick up a pen. Part of me didn't want to lose the stable friendship we'd molded, and the other half of my heart needed to express those three words. It was always a struggle for me and something I wish I'd spoken out into the universe at least once. Even rejection is better than never knowing. My heart constantly whispered her name with each beat, and the sound was deafening at times whenever I'd pull one of Lynette's letters from the mailbox. I had to figure out something. I needed to tell her my feelings.

Lynette came to Clarksville a handful of times to see family. We'd hang out and catch up over long drives or innocent strolls before she headed back up north. We went to see a play at Austin Peay during one of her visits. I'd always wished that could have been a date, but my courage was nonexistent, and my sentiments became buried deep beneath mounting anxiety. It was nice to see her face and experience her expressions when I'd say something funny. Meeting her never failed to stir up the sense of passion, lost as soon as we discovered it years ago.

We'd often talked about me visiting her in Gurnee for a change, so I decided to make the eight-hour drive to see Lynette. My journey would not end with a simple meeting between two acquaintances. No, this would be our final encounter as friends because I was ready to tell her everything. I'd look her in the eyes and explain that I've loved her since our very first date two years ago. She would know that I'd do whatever it took to make our relationship succeed by the time I left. It's obvious we have a deep connection, so this will work. It has to.

After saving tips for a couple of weeks of serving at the Catfish House, it was time to take my trip. Memories of our first date, the letters, pictures, and our latest encounters flashed through my head like a silent move the entire drive. Conviction bled from my body the closer I got to my destination. I envisioned finally getting the opportunity to hold Lynette again, and nothing could stop us from creating a life together. Our happily ever after was within reach and all I had to do was speak from my soul. She'd hear my remarks, and then we would wonder why it took so long to realize that what we had was unique. It would be that special kind of love that only existed in fiction until now.

I made great time and managed to arrive a little ahead of schedule. Lynette's whole family came out to greet me as soon as I pulled into the driveway, instantly making me feel at home. Following a firm handshake from her father and a warm hug from her mom, I made my way to the girl of my dreams. After a quick embrace, Lynette showed me to my room so I could unpack. Something felt a little off, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. My courage crept back into some unlit chamber, and I took a deep breath before determining to pause and see how things would play out.

Most of that first evening revolved around everyone sitting in the den and catching up. All I wanted to do was get Lynette alone for a few minutes so that I could push forward with my plan. Even though I could feel something was wrong, I had to tell her. I mean, it's why I came, so I owed it to myself to spill my guts. Eventually, the room thinned out, and I was alone with my hazel-eyed girl. There was no time to waste because I'd only planned on staying for a couple of days, and the sooner she knew, the sooner we could begin our love story. Lynette spoke before I could lay it all out.

"I wanted you to know I have a boyfriend, now."

The sentence felt like some giant hand with a razor claw reached through my ribcage and yanked out my heart. I was able to muster up a response. "Oh, um, that's fantastic news. How did you two meet?"

"We met at work; it just kind of happened suddenly."

All I wanted to do was cry, but I held it back and said, "Good for you. I mean, as long as you're happy, that is all that matters. I hope me being here doesn't cause a problem."

"Oh no. He knows we're just friends, and it'll never go beyond that."

My insides collapsed, and my head rang with some excruciating noise I couldn't shake. I told Lynette I was exhausted after the drive and excused myself. I stretched out in a strange bed far from home that night, feeling more alone than I can ever recall. All I wanted was to drive back to Clarksville and forget this had ever happened. I stayed for two days and witnessed her face light up whenever he'd call. The agony felt unbearable when she talked about him and their plans together, but I hid it the best I knew how. The images of Lynette and me together faded away and were replaced by some guy she met working at Six Flags.

I spent weeks replaying every moment of our relationship, desperately attempting to figure out what I could have done differently. Maybe I should have said something sooner in a letter or during one of Lynette's stops in town. Telling her, she's beautiful or expressing how my palms sweat just thinking about her could have changed everything. Even if I had crashed and burned by saying, "I love you," at least she would have heard it. If nothing else, she would know how I've always felt. The strength never surfaced, and now I'm hollow. My chest is empty, and my stomach aches because I've lost her.

Time does tend to mend the body and the spirit. It may take a while, but the boldness to move forward is in all of us if we live long enough to mark enough blocks off of the calendar. Falling out of love would never be an option, but easier days and romantic distractions kept me from going crazy until she wasn't the first thing I thought about when I woke up in the morning. Life sure can throw those curveballs when we least expect it. About the time I began to feel like myself again, it happened. All it took was to open the mailbox one day, and there it was—another letter from Lynette.

There's no timeline for Hannah. Knowing her, she's forgotten it's even 1972. A cross-country trip that could have easily taken a week or two to complete has her on the road bouncing from place to place for a few months now. She rarely thinks about the man she shot and killed back home, and when he does cross her mind, there's no inkling of remorse. She'd tell you the gentleman had it coming, and he should have kept his hands off the boy. Little Ricky does, however, appear in her thoughts, and Hannah wonders if she truly set him free. The recollections force the talkative red-headed wanderer to ponder her own sense of freedom.
Hannah would stop off at every exit if she could because she's constantly afraid she'll miss out on some unusual sight or a good story from a local. Of course, her idea of a good story is listening for a few seconds and then taking over the conversation for several minutes outside of a laundromat or greasy spoon. Sometimes she'll find temporary work in a small town long enough to acquire enough cash to move on to the next and eventually make it to the West Coast. About the time she makes a couple of friends who don't mind her taking over the discussion, she packs up what few clothes she owns and disappears.
One boy asked Hannah to marry him after about three days a few hundred miles back east. It's not her fault men get lost in those deep aqua eyes and decide that popping the question is reasonable. She politely told the young man she's only interested in older gents but neglected to mention she'd turned down a guy ten years her senior several weeks before. She left him thinking younger bucks were more her speed. Hannah knows exactly what she's after, and it has nothing to do with male hormones leading a charge down the aisle anytime soon. When the time is right, she figures that her ideal mate will take time to peel back her layers, and she doesn't mean clothing.
Hannah has her share of demons hopping around inside of her skull. She tells everyone she left home to pursue her dreams, but the reality is she simply decided to run. Folks do it every day, and it never takes long to figure out that fleeing yourself is next to impossible. Old thoughts and lingering poison flowing in and out of the heart rarely dissipate until they're faced head-on. Hannah takes pride in labeling herself a problem solver, and she's assisted more than one lost soul in her lifetime. But a reflection is quick to remind Hannah her greatest asset is also her most significant obstacle. Helping herself isn't part of her agenda for now, and hopefully, that epiphany won't strike her too late.
For now, Hannah is happy listening to her John Denver eight-track over and over as she coasts down the interstate scoping out each exit, wondering if the stop holds her next adventure. She finds peace in providing long-winded answers to any stranger who'll hear her words. The solutions to her own questions drift further away with each passing second her foot presses the accelerator. If Hannah knew what to ask herself, she would have stayed home where she was supposed to be. Instead, she's caught somewhere on a long road chasing invisible goals that'll lead her to a familiar place a little too late. Then again, sometimes opportunity has a way of offering up a second chance to lost spirits like Hannah. Maybe she'll have a long conversation with the mirror before it's too late to go home.

Maybe age is only a number, and perhaps it isn't. Ask me how I feel about it when I'm really old, like forty or fifty or something. All I know is that whenever a birthday rolls around, I get some fantastic chocolate cake my mother whipped up. Eventually, the seventies will become the eighties, and before I know it, the world will change, but one thing will forever remain constant. Chocolate cake will always be the most delicious cake ever devised.
I've had some pretty outstanding desserts within my short life. The cake is the best reason to go to another kids' party, but there is never a guarantee it'll be the right kind. I can't figure out why someone would choose anything other than chocolate when they can pick whatever flavor they'd like. Forget about weddings because those are never good. They're kind of pretty, but every time that knife goes in, it's some white or yellow cake. It's supposed to be a special day, but I guess it isn't that special after all.
The worst is when adults mess with your head. Anyone above the age of ten can not be trusted because they're ticky. Nothing is worse than salivating over a giant mound of goodness covered in dark frosting, only to discover that some dry yellow sponge hides beneath, ready to disappoint. Grown-ups can be monsters. Biting into an oatmeal raisin cookie, thinking its chocolate chip comes in at a close second. These tragic moments can easily turn into sleepless nights.
Sometimes everything looks right. The frosting is nice and chocolaty, the cake is the perfect shade of mocha, and even the ice cream is delightfully fudgy. One bite quickly tells me that looks can indeed be deceiving. It's like my mother has some super-secret ingredient and no one else on earth is aware. I've never once witnessed her wave a magic wand or sprinkle any kind of magical dust all over the birthday cake. Why can't anyone else bake a cake as wonderful as my mother's?
A giant table sits still and empty, but don't let the lifeless wooden structure fool you. If it could talk, the stories that old piece of furniture could paint would leave you with an art gallery full of portraits floating around inside your mind. All of the Christmas dinners, Thanksgivings, Easter egg paintings, homework, and occasional arguments would provide a book with more than a thousand chapters. And of course, we can't forget birthdays.
First, Mom gently throws her signature white tablecloth into the air, and it bubbles up like a parachute before landing perfectly on the unique table. Next, the themed paper plates are stacked next to enough forks and spoons for all of my friends and cousins who will attend. She lines up balloons and Dum-Dums so each guest will have something to take home. My favorite green Kool-Aid chills in the refrigerator while the extra chocolaty chocolate chip ice cream stays frozen in the icebox. Then she places my cake in the center of the table she'd made the day before.
Soon everyone will arrive with gifts, and they'll sing happy birthday before I fill my lungs with enough air to blow out each candle successfully. Mom will laugh and sing along with the rest of us on this special day. Afterward, she'll clean up, put everything back in its place and never complain once or even expect a thank you. Every year she proves love is way more powerful than a magic wand or enchanted fairy dust, and it makes the perfect secret ingredient.

Sunday evening was always more enjoyable than the morning at Pleasant View Baptist. A laid-back atmosphere of blue jeans and talk of the day's afternoon football game before the service is a better fit, and I don't even care for football. Brother Larry never failed to deliver some goofy greeting as soon as I stepped through the side door, and Brother Ben made me feel at ease with his generous smile. The church was my second home throughout the eighties, and I wouldn't have changed anything. I was familiar with every face behind those walls regardless of what day or night I showed up. However, one young woman managed to catch me off guard on an August night in '88.
The instant the door shut behind me, Larry, my youth director, screamed from down the hall by his office, "Brother Chris, in the building!" He caught me off guard a little, but I'd think something was wrong if he didn't. We struck up a conversation, and I greeted Brother Clegg as he passed by to shake my hand along with a handful of others. On most occasions, I'd listen intently to whatever my youth director had to say, but distraction reared its beautiful face on this particular evening. She appeared out of nowhere from around the corner and walked right by me, pausing long enough to show her smile before vanishing into the auditorium.
"Hey Chris, are you still with me, buddy?" Larry said before snapping his fingers to bring me out of my trance. I forgot I was speaking to anyone for an instant, and my chest filled with incandescent fireflies fluttering around, tossing me into a lightheaded frenzy.
"Wait, what? What did you say, Larry?" I muttered while trying to recover.
"You were looking at that girl, weren't you? It's Lynette. She's Aleta's sister from Illinois. I can introduce you?"
"No. No, no. Absolutely not," frantically escaped my mouth, trying to avoid any embarrassment that would surely accompany the introduction. After excusing myself, I headed toward my usual spot, which happened to be a couple of rows down from and directly behind some girl who robbed me of every ounce of sense with a passing glance. It was only the back of her head, but I couldn't pull my eyes away the entire hour. I usually at least hear a couple of things during the sermon that hit home or give me something to think about but not this night. My brain refused to work at all. Any lingering thoughts zipped right through the ceiling out into space somewhere, leaving me mesmerized by the stranger.
Toward the end of Brother Clegg's presentation, Lynette briefly looked to her left, giving me a glimpse of her profile. The fireflies in my chest swirled around as if they would eventually burst through my ribcage and fill the entire room. Her body turned to face me with no warning, while her brown eyes pulled me in, igniting an unfamiliar sensation. Our synchronized smiles signaled an undeniable connection between two kids who had no choice but to give in. A friendship began before a single word inched from our mouths, sculpted by a gaze and a grin.
After the final prayer and without hesitation, we approached one another and introduced ourselves. We ended up outside and immediately began talking like we'd known each other for a lifetime. My interaction with any female until this point never failed to be riddled with awkwardness. Once she told me her family would be leaving Clarksville the next day, I knew there was no time to waste.
"Would you like to go see a movie with me? I'd like to see Young Guns; it's playing over on Madison Street," I asked, hoping she'd say yes with every ounce of energy in my soul.
"I'd love to see a movie with you, but we need to ask my parents first," she responded.
Her mom and dad agreed to let us go on a date as long as we returned safely and promptly after the show. They reminded their daughter a long drive started early the following day before we left together. The two of us didn't hold hands on the way to the car, but the shoulder-to-shoulder stroll made me happy regardless. Being close to her filled me with joy, and I believe she felt the same. I made sure to open her door before walking around to the driver's seat. It was only a few steps, but it was longer than I wanted to be away from Lynette.
Keeping my eyes on the road was next to impossible. The darkness hid Lynette's face, but each streetlamp provided me with enough light to catch a few minor details that would permanently etch themselves into my thoughts. And I didn't want to miss one opportunity to admire the subtle glow from her skin with each temporary flash. Our hands met for the first time on that drive to the cinema, and her touch sent electricity through my fingertips directly into my welcoming heart. We'd only met moments before, but neither of us could deny the allure.
Before entering the building, I knew the movie was a mistake. The last thing I wanted to do was sit there in silence for two hours. Our time was precious, and I wanted to explore her thoughts, make her laugh, and leave with a memory of Lynette and not Billy The Kid. After walking through the lobby and taking a seat, the film began right away. Before the opening credits even finished, her head found a place on my shoulder, and it fit as well as two tiny puzzle pieces. Once I squeezed in as close as possible, she directed her attention away from the screen and back into my eyes. It wasn't long before every seat and bag of popcorn vanished around us, and we kissed.
"I don't think I want to see this movie anymore," I whispered, hoping for the same response.
"Let's go somewhere else," she said into my ear.
We ended up at a nearby park with enough light to reveal her face, so I didn't have to settle for brief photographs. Euphoria tangled into a mixture of despair hovered above us and all around, sending surges of emotion through our bones rattling the earth beneath our feet. Neither of us wanted to be anywhere else in the world. But the pain of her departure in a few short hours slithered around our minds refusing to let us forget our fate even for a moment. Laughter could not hide the rivers of tears flowing down our faces, to each of our necks and finally meeting where our bodies touched under the moonlight of a celestial Tennesse summer twilight.
I drove Lynette back that Sunday, knowing it could be the last time I saw her. The torture of saying goodbye overwhelmed my innocent seventeen-year-old body to the point of breaking me in half. But the happiness we found together in those few hours was worth the agony of a broken heart a million times over. Lynette and I fell in love, but the words went unspoken. It's not something two people have to say to understand when it's there to see and feel. We said goodbye, but we both held onto that gift of time and the hope of picking up where we left off someday.

Even at four years old, I've always prided myself in having quite the imagination. Thanks to The Twilight Zone, I can evaluate the possibilities of unusual circumstances surrounding regular people like me. Making a deal with the devil is never a good idea, and if I'm ever the last person alive in the world, I'd better take extra special care of my glasses so I can still read books during the apocalypse. It's my favorite show to watch, and it's right up there with The Three Stooges and The Little Rascals. The Twilight Zone, of course, is strictly for daytime consumption. Getting spooked at three in the afternoon is much easier to overcome than getting scared after dark.

After an eventful day pretending to be Astronaut George Taylor fighting off those darn dirty apes, I found myself relaxing on the couch in the living room. It's a rare occurrence to catch me hanging out with my much older siblings Larry and Susan. They both decided to join me after a few minutes of solo entertainment provided by my Spider-Man coloring book. It's a fun nighttime activity, and all on my own, I discovered that I could trace the pictures and color them as much as I wanted. Crayons and paper always piled up around me close to bedtime.

Before long, my brother and sister struck up an interesting conversation. They seemed pretty excited over a recent newspaper article, and even with my superpower of blocking out unwelcomed distractions, curiosity prevailed, and I abandoned my task. My interest peaked when I overheard them mention the word alien. Evidently, someone spotted an extraterrestrial in Salem, and the sighting made the paper. By now, the wind picked up outside, and I could hear branches scraping the side of our house, making the whole situation even creepier. Larry explained how a neighbor on Mellon Road admitted seeing one of the creatures just before sundown. That's about the time I heard Rod Serling's famous intro in my mind and felt a sharp jolt of terror streak from head to toe.

"What happened? Did the aliens hurt anyone?" I asked, anxiously awaiting an answer.

Susan said, "They shot at it, maybe wounded it, and it took off running toward our house."

Fear released its poison into my young body, transforming my sun-kissed skin into milky white as Larry handed over the newspaper and pointed at the sketch. Those dark black fishbowl eyes hung above two tiny holes for his nose and a small mouth that is undoubtedly hiding some sort of suction tongue and a set of fangs for eating my brains. The monster's enormous, strangely shaped head rested upon a spaghetti-sized neck and boney frame held together by leathery skin. The creature obviously would not think twice about snatching me up to take home as some sort of scientific experimentation offering.

Lightening crept across the sky, creating a web of electric veins decorating the atmosphere. During the brief flash, I noticed something through the window under the catawba tree. It could have been something tall and lanky with a giant head and enormous eyes, eyes that I could possibly see my own reflection in before the last breath ascends from my lungs. How could this be? No one else in the room saw anything! It must be how Captain Kirk felt when he looked out the airplane window into the storm on episode three, season five of The Twilight Zone.

After screaming, "What are we going to do? They are coming for us!" Larry and Susan agreed to go outside to investigate. As soon as I heard the screen door slam, I felt alone and more vulnerable than ever. Within moments I listened to my brother and sister cry in agony, unable to escape the impending doom that would more than likely be my fate as well. Once the shrieks faded, silence loomed. Quiet is never more resonant than when it's following the bluster of despair and torment. With my back to the window, I stared at the television, doing my best to ignore whatever lurked from behind through that thin glass.

"Tap, tap, tap," came from behind, and in an instant, I froze, wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else on the other side of the planet. Convincing myself that hearing the tap again would be more intense than facing the beast once and for all, I decided to peek. With a quick jerk, I swung my head around and peered out into the night. Before even having the chance to capture a single sigh of relief, two lights popped on out of nowhere through the glass. For a moment, the creature's diabolical eyes worked a bizarre spell but only for a moment. Like the Flash himself, I streaked to the safest area of the house, my bed, under the covers. Here I have outlasted many aberrations, and here this nightfall, I shall take my last stand. The early evening soon turned into midnight, and sleep became too much to fight any longer.

"Chris, come eat your eggs before they get cold," is the precious sound that snapped me out of my hex. Everything should be fine if Mom is up preparing food. Larry had already left for work, but Susan sat having breakfast at the kitchen table. At first, everything seemed normal, but I knew the truth. My sister had a look on her face as if she was hiding something. There's no doubt the strange visitors from last night took over the bodies of my siblings, and for all I know, they have possessed my mother as well. All there is left to do is act like I don't suspect anything. I only hope I have learned enough from television to survive this nightmare.

What fascinated me the most about my first day of school at Cumberland Heights was laying eyes on the playground. All I could do was stand there and soak it all in and try to figure out how things worked. I could already tell my most significant hurdle would be the slide. Standing at the base of the contraption, I stared straight up into the sky, attempting to see the top of the ladder. The last step is hidden somewhere above the clouds as far as I can tell, and I'm sure it's difficult to breathe at that altitude. Deciding to leave the beast for another time, I explored more.

The biggest obstacle in Mrs. Brown's kindergarten class is figuring out the whole nap time scenario. Never in my life have I slept in the middle of the day. We all have to go to the back of the room, grab one of those spongy mats, and sleep on the floor for about twenty years. It's not easy finding one without a few dried buggers or snot on it. The teacher drops a piece of hard candy beside any of us who can successfully catch some Z's. That slide keeps popping up in my head, so there is no way I'm getting any candy because all I can think about is how I want to conquer it. How is a man supposed to get any shuteye with such momentous visions?

The swing set doesn't look too intimidating. I've spent hours on grapevines, ropes, and tire swings. "This should be a cinch," I thought to myself. As soon as I decided to give it a go, I witnessed a sixth-grader launch into the solar system. He disregarded gravity somehow by hanging on until just before the swing made a complete circle like a Ferris wheel. Two other kids were using it to play a mad game of bumper cars, and it looked excruciatingly painful.

What the heck is nap time supposed to teach us aside from how to fake a snooze? Neil is the only legit kid because his eyes are puffy, and his back is sweaty when he wakes. I close my eyelids when I see Mrs. Brown get up with her bag of sweets, and just before she gets to me, I hold my breath, and my cheeks puff out. For some reason, I never score a treat. Thankfully Twila gave me some solid advice and let me know that we do, in fact, continue to breathe while hibernating.

The bright orange wooden seesaws looked safe enough until I saw that one kid jump off, forcing her playmate to fall like a sack of potatoes to the ground. She hit the dirt so hard that her body vibrated before tumbling over in agony. I'm pretty sure she lived because I saw her throwing grapes in the cafeteria later. Naptime is absolutely insufferable. If we don't get up soon, I will lose my marbles.

Ouch, Sabrina made a giant mistake. She asked to go to the bathroom. So much for her snagging a treat today. Why the heck do girls go to the john so much anyway? On top of that, I can't even imagine not being able to pee outside. The slide haunts me as I lay motionless on the oversized slobber-soaked sponge riddled with disease. Today must be my moment to overcome my most eminent fear. I will not leave these grounds without a piece of hard candy in my pocket and a feeling of victory after slaying the mighty monster that mocks my very soul.

Oh, for crying out loud! Now I have to pee. When with this madness stop? Just give us sugar and send us to recess already, please! I knew the merry-go-round was for advanced players only when I saw it in action. One big kid would lock his hand around the metal bar and run in circles as fast as he could before slinging himself halfway across the playground. In the meantime, smaller kids, probably unaware of what they'd walked into, held on for dear life. One by one, each child would get dizzy before flinging off and landing on the worn ground plastered with jagged rocks. It reminded me of my sister blowing a dandelion to watch the tiny parachutes land wherever fate led them.

Something has to give soon, and I hope it's Mrs. Brown and not my bladder. Wait, she's up! She is walking around with the bag in her hand. All I have to do is remember Twila's advice, keep my eyes shut, and play it cool. Neil got his reward, of course. Oh man, she skipped right over Barney, and he even had me fooled. It looks like Patricia scored. She's close, so it's time to close my eyes. I can feel it in my bones this time. There is no doubt I'll be heading to recess with my well-earned bounty. After hearing the candy drop, I waited a bit longer to ensure the coast was clear before opening my eyes. A tiny peek revealed butterscotch. Really? I despise butterscotch.

As we march outside, I remind myself of the day's primary goal to dominate the deadly mountain once and for all. Each step closer to the anomaly forces my stomach into my throat, making it hard to swallow. The line moves quickly, and I fight any impulse to bail on my mission of glory. While observing the kid's buttcrack in front of me climb its way toward the heavens, others insist I hurry. The metal from the handrail scorches my fingers with each advancement, but I do not give in to the discomfort. Glimpsing down could very well be my demise, so I fix my eyes on the skin-covered crevice peeking from the top of plaid pants ahead and move on.

Everything feels minuscule atop Mount Everest while looking out over the active playground. I would have sat there for hours if not for the white-hot heat piercing my corduroys and impatient risk-takers following my lead. Lunging myself forward over the lustrous metallic ramp, I slid downward. My face enjoyed a cool breeze drying the sweat from my forehead before coming to an abrupt stop at the bottom. A sense of relief led to a radiant smile to signal my time as a champion was now. It was like breaking through the tape after winning an Olympic race, at least before the sharp pain of sneakers in my back from the next kid on the slide. "Yep, pretty soon I'll master every device this playground can throw my way," I paused to think before my next climb into space.

It's been four years since I paid a visit to the principal's office. Mrs. Allen, my second-grade teacher, found cause every week to send me to see Mr. Mitler, but it usually ended with a smile and encouragement to do better. I'm pretty sure I'm not in trouble this time, but I don't enjoy coming here regardless. It feels like a cold dentist's office, and I'm the only patient in line for a ride in the chair of destruction.

The final year at Cumberland Heights has been a tough one for sure, and I never expected to end up here again. Mrs. Taylor is sending me home early today because I lost my mind on the way back from recess about the time we marched past the library. She's a good teacher, so she is only doing what she thinks is best. It's my first day back since the accident, and all in the world I want is to feel normal. A week is a long time to be gone, and I never asked for extra attention when I returned.

My classmates have done nothing but stare all day and whisper every time I enter a room. The adults continuously tell me they're sorry, but they had nothing to do with the mishap. A little attention is nice for the right reasons, but this is too much, and I only want it to stop. The thought of coming back was exciting, and I couldn't wait to get on the bus this morning, but I totally messed everything up earlier. It's too bad I can't take it all back and start over.

Mrs. Taylor lined us up to head back to class like she had a hundred other times. Hair pulling, nose picking, and tripping are everyday observations on the stroll, and none of it phases me because I've seen it all since kindergarten. But when Doug stepped on that grasshopper, I snapped. It wasn't a small scene either; when I say I snapped, I mean, you'd think Bizarro swooped down and started picking us all off one by one.

It wasn't even an accident because he saw the bug and paused long enough to ensure he had an audience before stepping on its head and squishing it right there on the sidewalk. After the popping noise, the kid belted out some sinister giggle and looked back at all of us as if to say it wasn't over. He then covered the insect entirely with his sneaker and rotated it like he'd thrown a cigarette butt onto the ground. Then he scraped his sole across the hot concrete, leaving a trail of discarded fragments, mangled and twisted before chuckling again to show pride in his achievement.

My friends ignored the incident and carried on, but I froze. It was involuntary, and if there had been a way to at least pretend none of it happened, I would have gladly walked to class like the others. The last thing I needed was to give another justification to gossip and gaze, but I couldn't help myself. It's like my body stopped working, and an uncontrollable gush of tears and snot flowed down my face. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground in front of that mutilated grasshopper doing my best to will it back into existence. Of course, my screams went unanswered because the universe is unfair and doesn't work that way.

It's not like I'd never stepped on a bug before or shot a squirrel with my BB gun. I've seen plenty of dead animals, but today I decided to have a complete meltdown in front of everyone. All of the boys and girls in line paused to watch me with wide eyes, mourn over a stupid cricket before my teacher pulled me away and brought me here. Facing my piers again isn't going to be easy, and the way I feel now, I'd rather never see them again because I'm embarrassed.

"Chris, your mother is here. You can go home, sweetie," said Mrs. Gaither, the school secretary. Mom escorted me to the car and never uttered a word. It was a long silent ride home, and I knew big trouble would be in my future. She had to be disappointed, and I'm sure having to pick me up like this must be a significant inconvenience. She's been through enough the past couple of weeks, and the last thing Mom needs is for me to lose it at school like some raving lunatic. We were only about five minutes from the house when we passed the spot on Bend Road where it happened. Mom slowed down a little as we drove by, almost like she was saying hello to my sister.

On February 17th, a car pulled up in our driveway late in the evening. I should have been sleeping, but the headlights made me curious, so I had to investigate. After I heard a knock at the door, I slid from my bed and crept as quietly as I could into the living room. I heard mom greet someone; it was a man, maybe my uncle, I don't know. They both went into the kitchen to talk, so I moved in closer to hear what was happening. The floors are creaky, so a few steps into the dining room had to suffice. The man mentioned Susan, my sister, and told Mom that she was in an accident. My mother asked if she was alright, and after that, all I could hear was momma cry.

I'd heard enough and went back to my room. It was a sleepless night for me, and I can imagine it was even worse for my mother. Not a single tear fell from my cheek as I sat in bed, wondering how the day would play out. Sunlight made its way through my window before the sound of footsteps broke the solitude of my space. I acted like I was asleep when Mom walked in, had a seat beside me, and placed her hand on my shoulder. She began sobbing.

"What's wrong, momma?" I asked, pretending to be unaware.

"Susan was in an accident last night," she forced out before breaking down again.

I didn't have to ask if she'd be alright because I already knew the answer. All I could do was sit up in bed and comfort her the best I could. She wept, and I sat there as cold as a frosty January morning, going through the motions of being upset. There was nothing in my heart at all, no sorrow, no anger, no confusion, nothing. It's like my emotions abandoned me on an island a thousand miles away from our farm in Salem. All I wanted to do was cry with my mother, but I didn't.

Susan was on her way back from the gas station that night and realized she had forgotten her purse. An ominous dense fog coated the hills and concealed the curves on Salem Road. My sister anxiously turned the car around and raced back toward town before losing control and crashing into a tree. Just like that, she made her last stop under an oak, took her final breath, and left us all behind without a goodbye.

Twenty-two years isn't adequate to capture enough fireflies or to enjoy the sweet scent of honeysuckles cascading along with a warm Tennesse breeze. Two decades of seasons barely establish a rough outline on an oversized canvas. Even a century of paintbrush strokes leaving traces of vibrant color couldn't fill the void before it's too late. There isn't much difference between two seconds and two hundred years when it comes down to it. We can only shuffle about splashing as many shades as possible before the paint runs out.

I never wept when I heard the news or when they buried my sister in the ground. My eyes never watered up when friends and family paid their respects. It took my feelings more than ten days to resurface and remind me that this life is as fragile as a tiny grasshopper under the sole of a sneaker. My mother and I finally cried that afternoon together for Susan. When she said, "It's okay that it took you a few days," I knew I wasn't broken.

I'm not overly excited about going to work on Sundays. It's our long day at the Catfish House, and I'm stuck there from eight in the morning until around ten at night. Between all of the prep, taking care of customers, and doing inventory, it's not my favorite day of the week. The afternoon typically goes quickly with the church crowd busting in, but the rest of the day drags until I go home. The good news is I'm off the next two days, and tomorrow I can sleep in without worrying about burning the white beans or running out of baked potatoes.

It's hard to believe it's already 1994, and January is almost over. It seems like I constantly second-guess my career choices on the drive to the restaurant each day. Sometimes I wonder if stepping up from serving to management was the best idea. My hours tripled, and I'm missing those big tips and the interaction with our customers. But the goal is to move out of Mom's house soon, so I feel like my decision is solid. Salary provides peace of mind, and I know I'll be able to pay those bills.

The kid in me still wants to follow my dreams to become a writer, an actor, or a radio personality. The adult side of me insists that my life is on the right course, practical, and safe. It's difficult determining who's correct, but the truth will come out someday, and hopefully, that day won't be too late. A visit from future me would be nice from time to time, but that's not going to happen, so I'm stuck here making educated guesses on my destiny like everyone else in the world.

Some disturbing news sounded through my speakers a minute from my destination when I turned the radio on. "Four employees inside a Taco Bell in Clarksville, Tennessee, were fatally shot. Three shot execution-style in the head, and the manager was shot in the leg and chest," said the announcer before the rest of his words faded away into background noise. My heart grew heavy after sitting in my Jeep for twenty minutes, processing the data. The weight of my thoughts amplified with every question leaving me oblivious as to why this had to happen.

My shaky hands did all they could to unlock the door after dropping my keys twice before successfully entering. Reflecting on the tragic news only led to how easily it could have been us the night before or how someone could be in the building now and waiting for me to arrive. After thoroughly checking the space, it's time to begin morning prep. Baking pies and mixing ingredients for crab cakes all felt like a slow-motion flashback scene from a movie. Luckily muscle memory took over, and I could at least function.

The magnitude of my responsibility became more than food cost or payroll. Ensuring the safety of everyone who worked behind our four walls rose to the surface and took priority over everything else. I'd never had any formal training as a manager, especially when it came to the safety and well-being of others. Keeping the back locked at all times, leaving in groups, and double-checking the doors every night would be my new way of life. Taco Bell is only a few miles down the road, and allowing that to happen to people I know and love would be devasting.

Each knock at the door made me jump before dropping what I was doing to let in a server or cook. Silence cloaked a kitchen normally bustling with the sounds of laughter, clattering dishes, and stories of the night before. We mourned for people none of us knew or ever met. Our only bond with the four who'd lost their lives a few hours ago is that we all make our living the same way. That connection was enough to visualize the shock and grief the families dealt with this morning. It was enough to remind each of us that life is transient, and it could have just as easily been the crew on Riverside Drive talking about the staff here on Salem Road today.

The business was slower than average on January 30th, 1994. Anyone could examine the dining room throughout the day and know what folks were talking about or thinking. Everyone in Clarksville felt the impact of that horrific instant when Kevin Campbell, Angela Wyatt, Patricia Price, and Marcia Klopp were selfishly executed. Most of them were in their twenties, but their end was unjust and terrifying for anyone regardless of age. A haunting ambiance swallowed our community, revealing dismay for the four souls and those who loved them. I sat in my driveway that evening and cried for strangers I knew very well.