It was only a half season after his father Ephraim died, that Amos found himself running through the woods; the heavy crunch of his boots thudding fast against the thick coat of snow on the forest floor, in search of the source of the sound of a girl’s cries. He held his lantern aloft, but still could see no one, and could see no footprints to track, but still, the sound grew louder the deeper into the wood he went.

He thought it might be his youngest sister, Ruth, who was known to wander too far from the house and get lost, especially since their father’s passing. Ruth and their mother would often spar tempers, leaving the younger woman running for the meadow between their home and the settlement. But, the closer Amos got and the more desperate the crying sounded, the less likely he thought he was to come upon the dauntless Ruth.

She always knew he was coming.

The woman, when he found her, was a stranger. She was small, as slight as Ruth, a girl of only 12, though he could see from her dress that she must have been his mother’s age. Her yellow hair was pulled back beneath a silk cap, her face concealed from him. When she glanced up at the sound of his approaching footsteps, she descended into another wave of hysterics, folding into herself.

“Madam - madam, are you lost?” Amos attempted through her tears, seemingly to no avail. “May I escort you back to town?”

The woman finally looked up at him, revealing her startling features - at once he was lost in her intense blue eyes, radiant against their red rimmed rivers.

“My babe, they took her.” she moaned, scanning the dark behind him frantically.

He turned to face where her gaze had landed, and found nothing in the pitch black.

“I don’t -”

When he turned back to face her, the woman was gone.

Amos stood in the silence of the woods for a moment, staring at the base of the tree where she had been sitting just a moment before. Not a grain of snow drift was disturbed.

As he turned to leave, he heard the sound of another cry, smaller this time, coming from the quiet. The cries continued, accompanied by another, more familiar sound of snow crunching beneath the weight of movement coming toward him.

This time when he raised the lantern, it fell on a small grey kitten, struggling toward him in the snow bank. He rushed toward it, scooping it up and tucking it into the warm wool of his coat.

“You’ll be just the thing for Ruth,” he cooed to it, still looking around for the woman as he began wandering back toward home.

Three summers before it had all gone wrong, Ephraim had taken Amos fishing one morning, just the two of them.

Amos had gotten on his father’s bad side again, neglecting his duties around the farm. But he was a new man of twenty, and he just wanted a taste of life. It was dreadfully dull most of the time, unless his father took him to Salem or even Boston, but those ventures were rare. The homestead was beautiful, and he understood his father’s protectiveness of it - a man who’d come as an indentured servant, worked for five years, and saved enough money to move to a small bit of property, Ephraim was hard and proud.

Nothing at all like Amos.

“Bait my hook for me, please.” His father’s hands had been shaky since a mule kicked him in the right shoulder a few years prior, and for the finer details he’d become more reliant on the children and his wife. He handed off the line and the hook to Amos, eyeing him as he mindlessly went to work on it. He handed it back, still not speaking or looking up under his father’s gaze.

“I don’t know where you’ve been spending your nights,” Ephraim began, as he tossed his line into the water. “And I don’t much care. All I’ll say is, someday what I have built will be yours. Fish can’t avoid a hook - but you have no obligations to whatever your nature begs you to do.”

They sat in silence awhile, each pulling back fish and dropping them back into the basket as they caught them. Each time, Amos rebaited the line for Ephraim.

When they were leaving for the day, Ephraim again brought up the issue of the homestead and his only son’s inheritance.

“I’m proud of you son. Don’t ever doubt that. But I can’t just give it to you, you have to earn it. Sharing in the glory means sharing in the suffering.”

The cat, which his sister had named Beauty, was near full grown before he came upon another, wandering midday: a man dressed nearly identically to a painting he’d seen in the courthouse when his father had taken him to the trade at the main colony. The figure before him was dressed for a court appearance with the king a century ago, not wandering through the wilderness in the new world.

The honeysuckle yellow of his doublet shone in the summer heat like a golden breast plate, nearly reflecting off the black trunk-hose on his legs. The shoes had strange, blooming attachments that matched the yellow of the doublet.

Were it not for the slight movements of the man, who was only blinking slowly at him as he stood in the middle of the path, Amos might have been tempted to think he was looking at a painting again now. Though he did not draw nearer to the man, Amos did not run.

“I say, boy - I seem to have lost my gloves. Help me find them, won’t you?” The voice was strangely hollow, as if it were being thrown through a well.

Amos looked around and saw, several steps ahead of him, a black hat with tanned leather gloves sitting on a bush just off to the side of the trail. He stared at it and back at the man for a long moment, who made no move to acknowledge it or speak again. He simply waited.

“It’s just there, sir,” he answered, gesturing toward it before beginning to back away. “I wish you good luck.”

The man simply smiled at him, not moving to pursue or pick up the hat.

The entire village gathered in the big house on Sundays for service.

A sickness had come and settled on the camp a year ago; the hateful fever had begun with their elders and their babes, burning through them like a crop fire. Amos lost twin siblings that had been born the prior winter, and his mother’s mother, Eliza, who’d come with them on the boat.

When Ephraim died, just after they’d begun to think the sick had passed, Marsha spent a week outside, laying beneath the clouds, weeping. After that, she was never the same, a hollow echo of the smiling face that once welcomed his mornings.

The famous comparison: David killed tens of thousands, and Saul killed thousands. These are the words that tore asunder a loyalty that once had a king dress a lesser man in his own armor and sword.

As it turned out, David didn’t need armor or a sword - of any man or king - so blessed was he by God. When he faced Goliath, he was clothed only in his peasants garb, a sling, and five stones.

Saul became enraged by what he saw as stolen praise. And he turned his eye on David in a way it had not been before- suspicious, jealous, spiteful.

Who was this nothing to wear the praise that was rightfully his, as if it were the armor he’d all but stolen off his back?

Until the sickness, Josiah’s father Ezekiel had been their pastor. When the illness began, he had gone door to door in the village to offer to pray over the sick. Josiah begged him not to, afraid that death would take him - a secret he’d shared with Amos one frigid night commiserating over their father’s coffins, unsure they would make it to spring. Ezekiel had insisted God would protect him as he protected Aaron.

And now, here Josiah stood at his father’s pulpit, guiding what little remained of the flock.

When David returned from his battles, he was celebrated in the streets by the people singing songs.

Rejoice! They sang. David killed tens of thousands, Saul has killed thousands.

No one sang that Saul was worthless or no longer the king - but the comparison ate at him.

Amos looked around at them as he spoke, all enraptured at the sound of his voice, the thread of the familiar tale.

Tens of thousands. Thousands.

David, who slew a Goliath.

He may have always been loyal before;

But, the singing in the streets - what else can David have but the kingdom?

Josiah had invited Amos to come to his home after service. His new wife was taking the air with her parents to help with her childbed sickness, and it would give them a chance to talk.

When Amos had finished telling him about the things he’d been seeing, he could tell Josiah didn’t believe him.

“I’m not inventing a fantasy out in the forest. I know what I saw.” Amos said defensively.

“Well if you saw what you say you did - the angels declare themselves. Demons and tricksters play with you first.” He paused to register the look on the other man’s face, and Josiah sighed. “Amos, all I know is your mother has sent one of your sisters here every day for the past month. That you’re out all night, that she doesn’t know where. When Martha worries, I worry.”

“I just have nothing drawing me back here. I feel it all slipping away, Jo.” Amos took a breath, pulling his hair back to distract himself for a beat. “You’re a man already. Married, a child soon. Esther as well soon too. You’ve all overcome the heartsickness of loss - and I - I’m still just me, wandering.”

Josiah’s face briefly hardened into stone, before crumbling back open into expression.

“It’s not overcome, Amos - it’s - you must learn to either carry it like a stone in your pocket, or let it crush you like the mountains that look down on us.” He forced a smile then. “As to wandering - you can always return.”

“In that story, there’s a father to greet the son who is returning.” Amos practically spat.

Josiah sighed again, sadder this time.

“I think there is a much shorter distance than you anticipate, my friend.”

When the air was thick with summer, Amos was walking in the forest again, this time carrying baskets full of foraging materials for his sisters, Esther and Abigail. Both had been apprenticing under the midwife, and planned to bring the supplies they carried to her. One basket was full of herbs and remedies he did not recognize, the other with berries of various colors.

The girls had barely been in sight anymore when he heard it, a low hiss from beneath the bush line. At first, he mistook it for a snake and doubled his step, but he heard the noise keep pace with him, still low and beneath the foliage. Amos stopped and set the baskets down, then slowly lowered his face to around waist level, where the foliage line of the floor truly ended.

He found himself a breath away from a man, whose gumline was a stark and mottled pink where his top and bottom teeth were missing. The man - if you could call him that - was using the space between his gums to make hissing noises to get Amos’ attention.

“What is it?” he spat at that thing, irritated by how started he’d been. “What do you want?”

The man, who was slender, with no hair to speak of, and slightly frantic, gestured toward the baskets.

“Berries? You can have some.” Amos attempted to scoop some out with his hand, but the basket was snatched before he had the chance. The man practically inhaled the berries from the small basket, and began grasping for the second just as desperately.

“These aren’t food, you don’t want -” again the basket was snatched from his hand. Amos heard the girls laughing not far up ahead, and turned to go after them. “Stay here,” he said to the man. “I’m going to find you some help.” Entirely unsure of the combined efforts of his fifteen and nineteen year old sisters, he was determined to set out to find them when he took a step as if to leave.

“No need,” a voice like hot amber seemed to come from all around him, a bright yellow light filling the dusk like the sun. When Amos turned to look again, the strange beggar had been transformed into someone - something - else entirely. The man stood at least two heads taller than Amos, had a full head of dark hair and all his teeth. But more than that, Amos did not feel afraid looking at him - the warmth and glow emanating from him was numinous.

“Amos - do you mind if I call you that?” Amos barely had time to shake his head before the man spoke to him again. “One of my favorite tricks humans play is fortune telling. They promise each other they can tell the future, fix the past, grant your wishes. They think they can gaze into your heart. But I know the truth.”

The figure stepped toward him, handing back Esther and Abigail’s baskets, still full of all they had gathered.

“You don’t want the God you claim; you need recognition. For your triumph, for your irritations, but most of all your pain. And frankly Amos, you’re lucky I’m the one who answered.”

His hands balled into involuntary fists, clenching and unclenching. “Lucky?”

“I’ve seen your heart when everyone in town watches how your friend speaks.” he replied with a snort. “Wish that were me, that had them under my rapture.”

Suddenly, his face turned gaunt and serious: “Would you live forever, to live in ignominy?”

Something in the air had been electric with magic. With the possibility of robbing fate.

That was the only thing to explain the words that came next: “Yes, I would. I would live forever.”

The figure smiled, striding forward to close the gap between them. “Good, because my star is beginning to shine too bright. And I need an emissary to make my way for me in the world. The first of many brothers.”

He embraced Amos, almost with pride. Ignoring his first instinct to pull away, Amos returned the embrace, waiting instead for the other man to break it.

He could feel a strange heat in the center of his chest beginning to burn as the man spoke again:

“But know this: you will know the kiss of the sun if you betray me.”

And with that, Amos left his name behind in the forest, and never remembered it again.

He left the woods Ignominy: the first Fate of Fame.

For his first assignment, he was given his old friend Josiah, who had always shown extraordinary promise at the pulpit. Iggy began whispering in his old friend’s ear, all about the goings on down the road in Salem. And Josiah, who before had been a calm and patient man, warning the town folk not to turn against each other in such treacherous times, began to preach the same hellfire that had infected the larger settlement.

The first among them to meet the noose was Iggy’s youngest sister, Ruth. Convicted of witchcraft and devilry, and in possession of a witch’s familiar - found in the forest, by a man she could not name.

Before the month had passed, all of the Darby women had gone to ground to join Ephraim; and within half a generation, the tale of the settlement of Copse Bridge had been swallowed whole by its cousin Salem, and everything that happened there was lost to history.

Everything, but the Ignominy it had borne.

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I’ll be the hunger, friend

tempting you toward your end,

a sugar coated knife - 


Don’t need to take my blade,

I’m already in your veins - 

already succumbed to those appetites. 


Don’t fret, my love, you’re not the first to betray - 

some might argue, you’re just built this way! 


Baby it’s so easy

when you already need me - 


I’m the gas that makes you go ! 


But like any fine engine,  

you must get your steps in - 


There's no one here, dear 

that will drag you up this road! 


I’m pleading with you,

do more than sustain -


Someday you’ll find 

there’s nowhere you can 

escape from my name! 


Any type of delight 

or treat you like, 

there’s no solace you’ll find in

your bottomless appetites.


Guzzle your brandy, milk, honey and tea;

wash it all down with candy and cakes and your morning coffee - 


I tucked a blade into each and every one - 


Didn’t your God say what happened 

to greedy men and gluttons? 


Don’t complain to me about your lack of control - 

I’ve met plenty of humans, who don’t go down this road! 


Don’t blame me for showing you a different way, 

different pleasures come with differing outlays - 


My acolytes have their cake, and eat it too - 

Bet they’ve never tasted anyone, as sweet as you! 


I’ll be your hunger, friend

tempting you toward the end

your Sugar coated knife - 


That’s the trick of my blade,

one Bite, and I’m in your veins - 

but it was still your choice 

to have so much fun on the ride! 



Didn’t your god teach you 

once upon a time,

there’s no solace in 

a land of pure appetite?

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The Marten brothers had been hunting

their bounties

for a fortnight and a half. 



They counted each one of the 

broken branches in the wood - 


found the smell of their prey, easy; 

a stench they tracked 

in the thick pitch of the black.  



They crossed pitiless rivers of snow and smoke, 

through the greedy maws of unmapped valleys

ever hungry to claim more kin.  



They braved the hills of Turtle Claw mountain, 

filled with ghosts 

who tried to tempt them from pursuit. 



Long haired women emerged from the shadows of sycamore

smelling of home and sweetgum, 

offering destiny and all desire 

on gilded plates for their hungry bellies,

if only they would delay their course. 



But, poverty had taught them loyalty first. 



They would not be swayed 

from their path to gold. 



Each time 

the ancestors of the hunted 

placed an obstacle in their path, 

the brothers crossed it. 



Finally, one night, the ghosts of the forest 

came to the prey of the brothers 

in their restless nightmares 

and whispered to them

what must be done. 



And the pursued

laid a curse 

on the brothers - 



Stretched their relentless feet

larger than any normal man’s. 



Covered them 

face to foot in fur;

curled their jaws and 

curdled their speech 

into growls and screams 


Left to the ages to be 

understood only by another of their kind - 



Of which 

there would never

be any. 

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There was nothing that excited Tori more than a new lead, the thrill of hunting a Shine in the night.

These days, it was so much harder in the incandescent lighting of a city’s art deco electric lights, and how all the Shine liked to flock together like moths to huddle in the protection of their anonymity.

Sometimes she longed for the old days, when they’d go out in the dark to hunt, looking for the glimmers in the dark.

“Can you see them, child?” Famous had asked her one night, when they came upon a group of fellow Sooners, out in the darkness alone weeks ahead of their approved government date, lighting up the empty open hillside in the dusk like a chorus sunrise. “These are the most beautiful lights I can teach you to find.”

The men were making camp. They looked scrawny, sunken, and did not glance up when they approached.

“They are undone from tracking and killing the natives.” He said this low and sure, in the same tone as always, undisturbed, as if reporting there would be rain in the morning. Disappointed, yes, but unfaltering in his clarity of his assessment.

The smell of the men was suffocating in the fresh open, so far away from other people for so long. Tori looked up at Famous in a silent, petulant complaint.

“These Indian Wars have not been kind to them.” He smiled down at her, patronizing but warm. “Shall we offer them a chance at a better future?”

In half a generation, when she returned, this would be Oklahoma - and Famous would be something else entirely.

In Chicago, she would watch the Shine through her hotel windows in the early evenings, she could see a glint of it in each of them, a small capability - they were like a roiling of spiders spilling through the streets, ready to set each other aflame; with drink or desire or destruction.

All she needed was to find the right spark.

Of late, the city had been locked in a familiar holding pattern of tense and release. The North Side mutts and the South Side Italian families were constantly vying for territory over rotgut whiskey and moonshine.

It had been bad enough for the populace before, when they were fighting for scraps over the circulation routes - but once Prohibition found herself in swing, many found themselves succumbing to their baser natures for the chance at a swig, a swing, or an easy dollar.

Hard times have that effect on a man.

Tori’s shade of Shine was a special type - she wouldn’t take just anyone. She often felt like she had the most to prove, given what had happened in ‘06, but neither of her elder siblings could argue her results.

Their changelings’ headlines might last a generation or so, but even her flash-in-the-pans had bled into the bones of what was now America. The Trial of the Century, they called it.

And now, she found herself in its newest jewel, Chicago. Delighting in the trouble she stirred in the air.

She’d been tracking him for days.

The recruit was Gideon Schimmer, a young man from a small Jewish family who lived tucked amongst the Italians on Grand and May. Twenty-seven, he was slim, gangly, and small. Clean shaven with short black hair, he still looked like a boy, which was what made him so deadly. He was one of the Chicago Outfit’s most deadly assassins. And no one knew he existed.

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He could slip into any restaurant in the city disguised as a fourteen-year-old bus boy.

Into a church in Italy as a sixteen-year-old soprano, waiting for you to go to confession.

Even in a quiet Philadelphia neighborhood as your son’s school friend, knocking on the door needing his help, once you’ve finally settled into the safety of a new life away from the mob and selling hooch.

There was nowhere you could hide from the Shadow.

But at twenty-seven, the Shadow was growing tired of being a ghost, sitting on a mountain of riches and no accolades, walking down the street where only other killers showed him the respect he was due.

Tori was sensing more each day as the Shine grew stronger, that he had half a mind to stage a hostile takeover.

She could see flashes of him as he saw himself - the three piece suits, the spectator shoes, the silk tie and a large gold ring, wrapped around the knuckle in a clenched fist. Even in her daydreams, she could see that other men trembled before his rage.

She knew just what to do to help achieve his vision.

Her snare was set in a speakeasy he frequented called The Green Door, tucked beneath the storefront of a washwoman and her drunkard husband. The wife spent the days washing the neighborhood’s laundry and distilling new drink in the spare tub while her husband slept off his whiskey sorrows in their flat.

Tori could see the flicker in her heart whispering, too.

The first few nights he came, she watched from the fringes, observing: a Shadow with no respect, a killer’s ghost haunting a hall of illicit fun, where none were the wiser but he and she.

The fifth night, she waved her hand to convince the owner to let her be the entertainment, and positioned herself onstage in a red dress, trying to command attention from the small stage in the corner of the dingy bar.

Her band was fairly worthless, but she didn’t need them to bring her home. Just to get her off the ground.

“They say Notoriety, never hurt nobody, but baby, you ain’t seen my headlines,” she crooned. The chatter of the other patrons continued, undisturbed by her call, but she wasn’t concerned with them. She was only looking at one head.

In an instant, the gaze that had not turned her way once in days, was hers.

“I’ve never seen a light shine quite as bright: I’ll sharpen that Shine into a knife, then strap it to my thigh -”

The Shadow was a shadow no more but an impatient wolf, his insistence for her attention practically howling from behind those eyes; the same burning yellow of the predator.

When she finished her song, he rose and came to the stage to introduce himself, extending his hand and calling himself “Enzo.” Tori shook his hand. “Tori.”

Enzo was a handsome fantasy for Gideon Schimmer, the neighbor boy of mafioso children. He’d learned their customs and ways and got down in the bloodiest ditches for them, but when it got down to it, no matter what mask he wore for them, he was born Gideon Schimmer, and he would die Gideon Schimmer, even if they showed him the respect of calling him Enzo while they found him useful.

“Enzo” insisted on walking her home, though she hadn’t yet decided where that would be, and she kept them strolling along the streets aimlessly for an age, catching the weather and pleasant conversation. They discussed the election next year, how spring was due to come early.

Then, as if he finally had worked up the nerve, his voice took on a different lilt. Less practiced and more insistent, as though they needed to discuss something urgent.

“When you sang, at - at The Door,” he stumbled a bit. “It felt - as if you and I were the only ones there. As if the song was for me.”

He stopped on the sidewalk to look at her, his expression dark. “What was that?”

“I can’t tell you,” she deflected. “You felt it.” His eyes searched her face for deception.

“That cat I was sitting with swore I was crazy. I couldn’t get my hand to stop shaking.”

Tori shrugged a little, and adjusted herself as though she meant to move past him. This time, he took hold of her by the shoulders with each hand.

“No, do you understand what that means? I’m steady as any doc, my mama cries every thanksgiving that I wasted such steady hands - so what did you do to me with that -”

He took a deep, steading breath as his grip around her shoulders began to tighten. She suppressed a smile.

“Did you use some trick?” His eyes bore into hers now. “Did you hypnotize me?”

“Surely not - I’d have made off with all the money in the bar.”

Enzo’s eye’s narrowed at her. “Are you a witch?”

“And if I was?” she countered with a grin, “What would the Shadow of all the Family Trees wish for?”

In the dreary fog of the spring river morning, a newsstand boy called out: “12 of The Chicago Outfit Slain by Villain Gideon Schimmer - Notorious Killer Suspected North Gang Ties!”

Tori dropped a penny in the till and picked one up. The black and white police image did nothing to hide the gore of it all. And there in the middle, was poor Gideon.

He got to be the boss - as short lived as it turned out to be.

Author’s Note: If Tori’s song sounded familiar, you may have seen it before here - did it feel like it was just for you?

If you’ve been keeping up with the Fame universe, you’ve now met all the Fates of Fame - Notorious (Tori), Ignominy (Iggy) and Infamy (Fee).

Keep an eye out, they can be anywhere - anytime.

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In Victorian England, 
whether it be a slum house 
or a parlor room - 

Walls of death 
awaited you.  

Over time, the quality of household lighting improved – 
a racing train car from oil to gas to electric.

With bright rooms and bare walls, there was a problem to solve – 
and Mr. Scheele knew just how to make your friends  
Green with envy - 
just unroll a spool of his patented 
patterned wallpaper. 

It comes in so many colors, but! 
It's the arsenic that makes that green sparkle a little brighter, 
just as green as the Grand Palais -
watch and be amazed at how 
the luxury falls off the walls like snow.

Remember friends, it is personal conduct 
that sets us apart from the savages. 

Now, wrap yourself in whale bone and satin -
tie your flesh down into marble,
be the prettiest decoration 
in the house. 

Never mind 
the pit of hunger in your belly,
or the children chewing on the wallpaper; 

We are in a golden age of prosperity. 
can't you see how 
good we have it? 

Whether it be in the finest bunker 
in an undisclosed locale,
or the most average Midwest trailer park-

Nearly
everything you touch 
these days
is made of beautiful plastic poison. 

After all, 
we still needed something to look at in all this 
Enlightenment;

We filled the rooms with particle board furniture, 
empty Amazon boxes, 
and babies who are nannied
by the best YouTube Kids subscriptions iPads can buy.

Decided that 
no child will be left behind in
the technological era because

We're Live! 

streaming the moral value of an age
over tablet screens. 

Elon knows just how 
to make your friends 
Explode 
with admiration - 
for the minor cost of a new cyber truck- 
shown to withstand high speed crashes
and midlife crises, 
with only the nominal chance of 
liquefaction. 

But - 
won’t it be worth it, to see them 
have to 
chew 
on your success? 

Remember friends, it is our technology and comforts
that separates us from the regressive shadow 
of the past; 

You must 
ignore the neighborhoods of empty houses 
you will never own, 
call it nostalgia for the influencer you saw starving
when you were scrolling during lunch break; 
let the twinges of dread roll through you
as the price of eggs everything continues to rise,
don’t let your thoughts wander to the children of oligarchs and their full bellies;  
explain that news story you saw 
of the toddler who wandered into traffic 
full of green Teslas,
as simple whimsy.  

We used to have a village, before someone burned it down. 

Now, this is the way of the world. 

We are in a golden age of prosperity – 
Can't you see how good we have it? 

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From the desk of Edward Ryerson, esq. 

Gentleman! 

We’ve entered a dangerous era.

A woman at a corner bar might offer you a cigarette –
read the desire that fills your lungs like smoke
seeking her out like fresh air in a fire,
a clean breath before a backdraft. 

She may say: 
“I will burn you deliciously,” 

and then act like she’s not yours to light. 

I have even found myself 
a target of such vicious offenses - 
my friends, I shudder to tell the tale. 

Men don’t have much but their land
and hunger, 
but we understand that, don’t we? 

She entered into a most unnatural conspiracy-  

She sought 
to eliminate him entirely
with her refusals. 

But who was she, 
to subvert the natural order?

Here, see the victim come, 
to face my accuser!

Mind the shards of indignation 
my consonants are sharp.

Beware my wife, and all her lies - 
She wants my reputation in ruins and rags.

I asked her plainly, 
if she was prepared to make an enemy of me,
when she called my tears crocodile; 
when she didn’t accept 
my offered hand – 
with a feast left unattended,
what’s a starving man to do?

If they let this happen –
just imagine 
what could happen
to you. 

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My mother warned me about 

open mouths always lookin to get fed…

Honey, tell me the truth - how long after I left you 

would I have been the long-forgotten dead? 



I never have come across 

a woman too honest to let herself get lost,  

darlin' the only perfect man died on the cross; 

the rest of ‘em want to get off. 



I never asked, for this pedestal, God!



I’m just here to pay what I must, 

heard hell’s been known to have quite the cost. 



I’m not a performer, I never asked for my stage

this elevation leaves me gasping 

I never reached for the everlasting - 

I’m no man trapped in decency’s cage! 



I can tell just by that look 

you're more than a baited hook, 

birds of a feather, aren’t we, babe? 



When I look at you 

I see a menu of sin; 

smiling at me like 

your flickering grin - 



I’ve bled nothing but diesel 

and you smell like gin…

I’ll show you heaven 

if you’ll go through hell to get in! 



I never did come across 

a woman too honest 

to try to get lost -


Honey, the only perfect man died on the cross! 

the rest of us just want to get off; 

Never did ask for this pedestal, love -

I’m just here to do what must, 

Hell’s been known to have quite a cost. 



No I won’t blame ya, 

that’s the gods honest truth - 

I never looked away either 

when I was looking at you - 



There hasn’t been a day 

since I learned your name 

I don’t regret 

giving the devil his due -



Never asked for this pedestal 

you’ll find it untenable 

to love me like you have - 



I’m a weak man 

but I would be damned

just to say I had you! 



Cause Honey, 

the only perfect Man died on the cross, 

release me, I need to get off! 


Be free with me now, 

Hell’s overrun, Heaven's no fun - 

the angel’s are cold and all the devils came out! 

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Author’s Note: this song belongs to an unnamed character in the Fame Universe - for now, consider him styled after the poor son of a fallen angel

He said “Trouble has a way of finding me,”
but all she did was grin.
She said "Looks like that’s true -
I been lookin’ for something 
that looks somethin’ like you;
I’m trouble’s only twin.” 
 
He said to her: “Hey stranger -
they tell me I’m in danger,
if I keep dancing alone 
down this lonely road.”
 
She cried “Take my hand, I could use a friend, 
don’t make me face the night on my own?”
He told her “I’m a gentle man, I’ll escort you ma’am, 
stay behind me where we roam.” 
 
He kissed that girl, said “Curse you, Lord
I understand what you invented The Devil for.
Gotta keep those boys in line - what better way to find? 
than a beauty he can’t help but to try to hold.”
 
So he asked her, “Ma’am - would you take the hand 
of a forgotten man, 
and save him from a life 
lost in the great wide unknown?” 
 
She smiled through those lovely teeth, not unkindly; 
and said “so sorry to have led you on- 
It was true, I was looking for something rough like you, 
but trouble’s a road far too long.” 
 
Took up husbandry to find her,
after she was bold enough to bait her hook - 
she burrowed in his calloused heart,  
can’t call him trouble when she’s the crook! 
 
He sang to her: “Hey stranger,
you should know, you’re in danger -
if I have to keep dancing all alone,
down this lonely road you left me on…
 
I’ll make you regret that grin, 
you tossed at trouble’s twin;
I wont be the only one walking alone - 
lost out in the great unknown!!”

Author’s Note: Did the chords of this song strike you as familiar? You might have seen them before in Amateur Night at The Piper.

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I've taken a 
dangerous 
man or two 
to bed.

Stripped 
his service weapon 
in his sleep,

stuffed it 
full 
of my suffering,
and sent him back 
into the dark. 

I won't pretend I'm innocent.

But -

if I must lay down with spiders
to keep out the flies;

I'll keep my siren calling 
in the hollows 
of the night. 

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Under the last gasps of winter, 

gluttonous and wrathful as ice - 

your spine was pulled 

from the earth out of season.



By vintage cars and familiar melodies 

swinging on the wind like 

stars on strings, the 

puppets of destiny and I-80.



Fleets of halogen eyes bounce,

sparkling like luck 

off frozen lake water 

and black asphalt,

wearing the faces of blessings as it 

beckons to the lonely 

and the dead. 



Imagine who you could have been -

not wearing your fathers hand me downs;

straining  to listen to the warnings on the wind,

holding humility’s hand like gospel notes 

long forgot. 



Ordained yourself as God-marked and reckless;

remember, peace can come 

reclaiming what was once lost 

in the sound of your own name. 



A flick of your finger and 

a blinking light away

from a new destiny. 


Each exit marks opportunity,

a chance for bravery;

lessons carved into the landscape, 

standing true as time 

against grass and the stars,



Calling to us 

like home. 

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Aphrodite 

was traded;

for the freedom 

of the Queen of the Gods- 


Hera, trapped on the golden throne,  

made by her own son. 



When the gods begged 

Hephaestus to relent, 

he replied:


“I have no mother.” 



Only the golden beauty of Olympus, 

could pay his terrible price. 


God of blacksmiths, craftsmen, 

fire and volcanoes - 

even with all his powers, 

he could never 

carve her 

into an obedient marble;

couldn’t burn her 

into being compliant.



Did he feel like a stifling collar,  

shackling her 

to his bedside? 


Is that why she ran towards the sound of

clashing swords and 

the smell of 

blood and smoke? 



Love 

couldn’t help 

but flirt with danger;

would always 

be a little 

touch-starved 

for violence. 



Love and Rage, 

the two sides of an obol, 

reflecting each other for infinity 

until you cannot tell 

where one begins, 

and the other swallows its tail. 


Together in passion, 

devastation,

and savagery. 



Why settle for 

someone who 

would make you a monument,

who would 

display you like their favorite art - 

even if

he is a god? 
 


Have someone 

who would conquer the world 

in your honor - 


Who loves you with the violence 

you can only taste 

from lips that have almost 

stopped breathing- 



They breathe you in like life itself. 

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Some of us
have had to wrestle 
our moments of tenderness,
our caresses
from the universe;

So touch-starved
we don't know the difference
between a choke-hold 
and a swaddle
before it's too late. 

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Split your beard between 

the cleft of your jaw- 


Bid you choose 

between your natures -

the greedy and the fierce. 



I will leave no trace of me,

for your wolves to track in the quiet.



I am no gristle to lick clean from your table.


I am the wine,

dark as death blood;



I can make you see. 


What you 

traded your eye for,

I had long ago -



I saw the death of Baldr;

I secured the sacred oathes 

from creations you had never noticed 

in all your wandering. 



My ravenous warlord:

Are you oak blooded,

after all your hanging? 



You plundered the world; 

culling knowledge from the killing kinds -

Calling warriors home to your table

to sup of their sacrifices - 



My restless, starving myth slayer.


Have you not 

found your peace 

on the throne?



You who gave an eye

For the world’s tears in your cup;

to know all their troubles,

and how to sate your thirst

with the answers to your curiosities 

Instead of all the world’s plights. 



I am the satiation of it all. 



The hunger of your bones 

your mind 

your body 

your tongue 

your bloodline -

Calling to be reborn 

avenged 

undone. 



You have no riddle 

you could answer me;

only a desire to feed,

and a spear to point. 



I was born 

with what you’ve torn yourself apart 

to possess.



The warm slick on the back of your throat

the ravens pecking at the side of your chair - 

A blue eye poisoning the oceans

with the color of my knowing. 

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Tonight’s tale is a short one.

It was the strangest thing.

On May 13th, 1958, in Suffering Indiana, an entire town made the collective decision to forget an entire day had happened.

Nobody sent out a flyer, or put an ad in the paper- in fact, copies of the paper from that day still exist, running the news of the world, as it still spun. No, what they decided to forget was the pocket of existence that was their own little hamlet, and what had occurred within it within the previous 24 hours.

It had all started with a cry for justice.

She was standing on the front steps of the courthouse, dressed in mourning black, as she had been every day since the killing - the horrible day that they found the body in the field. The mother of the murdered child held vigil, silently weeping, tears pooling in the corners of her downturned lips before they fell to wet the front of her dress.

She could not bear to go inside.

After the verdict was read, and they led the criminal out onto the front steps, she stood there and wept as he congratulated himself for getting away with killing her only child.

A small crowd had gathered to hear him speak to the press.

If he had survived the day to tell of it, junior reporter for the Suffering Star Harold Garnett might have told you that it was the look in the mothers eyes, those bottomless oceans of grief, when she looked into the police officers eyes and said:

“I demand justice.”

The officer, Eugene Reynolds, a simple man, might have told you it felt like all her grief and rage burst through him in an instant.

That he saw a flash of a mangled child in his mind - a bloody ribbon in the grass.

That he couldn’t control the arm that took out the club from his belt, raised it over his head, and struck the man down.

For a moment, there was a still, stunned, silence. Officer Reynolds looked at the mourning mother and said:

“Have it.”

And suddenly, permission granted with a switch, the mob descended on him -

And on each other.

Women and men fighting in the street over love affairs, unreturned sentiments, things stolen from shops - grievances held to the chest from childhood until now - each and every last crime of measure in the hearts of Suffering would receive its weight in justice by sunrise.

Men and women of firmer temperaments, had the gossips been keeping score, would have been seen imbibing for the first time in a public setting - and voraciously at that. Baccus, Pan, and Aphrodite were shamed by the performance of the local librarian, pastor, and steno typist.

The mother walked all the way home carrying a piece of his scalp like a rag, blood trailing behind her on the pavement, smiling ear to ear, tears pouring down her face. She was a picture of unholy vengeance.

When darkness fell - you could see couples sneaking off into the distant tree line of the timber, or the tall stalks of the crop fields, far away from prying eyes of their spouses or church windows that looked like the irises of God’s eyes.

By the time the sun began to turn the sky pink, everyone who was still in one piece was back home in their beds.

In the morning, every door that was still on its hinges opened as it normally did, and the people inside walked out and went along their usual routes to work. They ignored the missing stop signs, the broken shop windows. Everyone in Suffering went to work and started cleaning up their messes as if it was all part of the routine.

On the courthouse steps, those coming and going simply walked over what was left of the criminal, the child killer. His blood was seeped into the stone steps, but it was as if they didn’t see it. They just carried on walking straight through him, as if he had never been there, as if he never was, as if he had never hurt them at all.

Though, they must have felt the slight sticking of their shoes.

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Even the bugs went quiet at first.

Mike Nagler noticed that even the crickets had gone still in the sunset shadow of his porchlights, where his two hounds had alerted to something in the distance. He snapped his fingers three times, and they both scrambled to his side at the foot of the steps to the house. He looked out into the clear horizon, watching the crop head sway, waiting.

Then, as sudden as a hiccup, the world heaved.

Mike and both dogs stumbled, the first lurches of the earthquake almost taking them off their feet. The dogs whined as they cowered low to the earth; frightened by the ominous cracking sounds coming from miles away. After the cracking came the rumbling, louder than thunder – the landslide of life falling down.

He tried to comfort the dogs as the next several tremors sent shockwaves through the farmland; gently holding the scruff of each of their necks with his palm as he listened to the rattling windows of the house, a shrieking ghost against the groaning of the earth.

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When the last of the tremors stopped a few minutes later, both dogs took off running to hide under the front porch, and Mike walked back inside to find only a few things had fallen – a vase on the mantel that had held flowers for his wife, Becca, a photo of her sister Emma that had been at the top of the stairs, and a knick-nack here or there from a shelf. Nothing irreplaceable.

Mike picked up the framed photo of Emma and dusted off the glass bits, feeling sorry as he always did for the little girl in the pictures. Her bright eyes and toothy smile stared back at him unblinkingly, forever showing off the new pink bands on her braces. He replaced the photo where it belonged on the wall, and stepped away from her.

Looking out the south windows, he could see the old barn that sat in the low valley of the property behind the house, remnants from when Becca’s great-great grandparents were cattle ranchers here. The quake had taken the greying dinosaur down, ripping up foundation stones and tearing out a chunk of the roof. Her grandfather and his five sons built the barn themselves right after the land was purchased, but over generations time had begun to reclaim it. Last year half the roof had come down in a bad storm, and today was the final straw. Mike started at the relic, gone mossy grey with age, and lamenting the loss of it and the inevitable work it would take to clean up.

Within minutes, the phone started ringing.

His boss, Carol, was on the line to dispatch him to the original city courthouse in old town Mortello, a historical site that brought in a fair chunk of city revenue from tourists stopping by. Carol rattled off all the damage the quake had caused to the site, the most significant of which was a split in the foundation. The historical society had Carol’s firm on a standing list of contacts to fix any damage that may occur to the site, as the leading structural engineers in the state for the last decade. Mike told her he’d be there in an hour and hung up.

On the drive into town, he saw all three gas stations had lines of cars spilling out into the streets like the after sick of a bar, the night air thick with tension and exhaust fumes. Half the town seemed to be out trying to get gas, trying to escape the power grid.

Becca had texted him as he was leaving the house, telling him she’d be home late.

They just got the power back on, and I had to do an entire exam in the generator light with no AC. pizza ok for dinner?

Not a single stoplight blinked at him as he made his way deeper into the city center, quiet and eerie dark except for the occasional pair of headlights driving in the opposite direction.

As he pulled up to the old courthouse, Mike took in the sight of the place, with its dilapidated columns, the old red brick, and chipped white paint even more unnerving in the dark than it was during the day. Mike could see a few broken windows on the front façade, but the largest concern was in the basement. If any main structural components were compromised, they might be there for weeks. Worse if pipes had burst and there was water damage.

“Mike! Hey, wait up.”

Mike turned his head as he stepped out of his truck, startled to see Steve Murrell walking toward him.

Steve was a son of old timber money, and he walked as though he owned every tree in Mortello. They’d known each other since high school, and Steve knew he wasn’t Mike’s favorite. Which is why the other man took every possible opportunity to insert himself.

When they were seniors, Steve had taken his dad’s brand new Chevy C/K 1500 off road “surfing” with three other guys from the football team. There were two freshmen in the truck bed holding on to the roof when Steve lost control and rolled it. They died instantly, and the other upperclassmen settled with the Murrell family in court for his injuries. Partial paralysis that took a year to recover from, and permanently blind from the head trauma.

Steve had walked away without a scratch.

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Mike clicked the lock on his truck, and kept walking.

“Sorry Steve! Rush job. You know how it is. Whatever the favor is – just text me.” He was knocking on the front door of the courthouse to be let in when Steve caught up to him.

“First of all, you built my house out of concrete, so there is no favor.” Steve always had to preamble the ask. “And why do you always assume the worst of people? This is why you’re going to die alone my friend.”

“Don’t let Becca catch you saying that so close to a quake, you know how she is about that stuff.”

Becca was notorious for her belief in bad luck. When they were juniors in high school, her sister Emma, an eighth grader, went missing. The school had been putting on a showing of Spoon River, and Emma was playing Elizabeth Chiders, a role she played with uncanny seriousness. She would stand alone in the center of the stage, on the very precipice of tears, as she recited each line with stoic force.

Mike would still wake up sometimes to find Becca sleepwalking, looking for Emma in her old room. In her sleepy daze, Becca often asks Mike if he hears her practicing.

Mike knocked again as Steve nodded, glancing between Mike and the door.

“Seriously, what is it? I’ll probably be here for hours, Steve.”

“I was hoping I could steal you to another site instead.”

“Steal me?”

“I heard you were assigned- it is my building after all.”

At this, Mike was even more incredulous. “Right - so what site is more important than the biggest cash cow in town?”

Before Steve could answer him, the door swung open, and a small older woman stood there.

Evaline was the type of ageless old lady that could have been anywhere from sixty to ninety, and had looked the same since they were high school volunteers. She was no more than 4’ 10”, and was mostly hair and glasses from the neck up.

Evaline offered them each a small cup of coffee before reminding them to “lock up before they left for the night.”

“Yes, Mrs. Cresse. I appreciate the reminder, as always.” Steve answered with a smile. I know you’ll still be out dancing the night away, but we’d better get to it.”

Mike turned and extended his hand out to Steve.

“Nice catching up, man. I’ll send you my full report.”

“Oh, I was planning on just coming with-”

“Yeah, I was picking up on that.” Mike cut him off. “Can’t happen. For a multitude of health and safety reasons.” No way, he thought. I don’t have time to babysit. “Maybe you can wait in your office and find someone to work that other site you were talking about.’

Steve smiled again. “I’d rather have the best on it.”

“I’m already on a job.” Mike clicked on his flashlight and started walking down the long main hall without waiting for a response.

Walking through the halls, now blissfully alone, he took note of how many new security cameras there were in the museum. They sparkled in the dark corners, now exposed in the dim emergency lighting of the backup generators. Their red eyes stared as he wandered the familiar path, monitoring his every twist and turn as he made his way to the basement.

Mike paused at the door to the stairs and put on his head lamp, flicking it on as he began descending the stairs. The basement was where he and Steve had worked together one summer in college, helping to arrange all the items in storage. There was a distinct chill in the musty air as he descended the stairs, licking at his nostrils and he climbed further down.

Watching his step in the darkness, being careful to use the headlamp’s beam to show his path, Mike made his way to the center of the structure, avoiding overturned piles of antiques that had fallen in the quake. The courthouse was built in 1886, an impressive and ornate structure for its time. But the gold inlay modernizations over the years made it hard to tell where the original architecture ended and “improvements” began.

As the beam of light form the headlamp came to the first disturbance in the stone, he stopped walking, setting his pack to the side as he cast the glow further on, taking in the size of the damage. What had been described as a “crack” was a five and a half foot long hole in the middle of the room, its jagged teeth like edges branching over the chewing, gaping maw.

Mike let out a low, slow whistle. “Ok then,” he muttered to himself.

It wasn’t a half an hour before Steve made an excuse to come down. The other man startled at the site of Mike about to set in on the hole with an industrial drill.

“I need to make the edges even, so when I cover the hole the ground is level.”

Steve made a few more attempts at questions and conversation, but Mike dodged them all.

Finally, he said “Look, I really need to get started on this, and Becca doesn’t like me being so late.” an excusable lie, he felt, given present company. Steve had grumbled acquiescence, and tried to stay and watch the drilling, finally relenting only when Mike threatened to take three times as long to finish.

He felt the jinx of the comment slam into him when his drill hit something solid, thicker than the stone of the flooring. The drill had been cutting through the old sandstone like warm bread. Looking closer, Mike could see the soft glow of illuminated quartz beneath the layer of stone. He continued to drill, careful not to disturb the quartz as he widened the hole.

Eventually, the entirety of the thing was exposed: six feet long and three feet across; a crystal coffin he had just unearthed.

Mike could see the outline of the body inside through the stone. Small, maybe five feet tall. A mass of long dark hair. Above the face was a stone so polished it was practically clear, a window to look down at the dead thing inside. When Mike’s light shone down on it, he scrambled away, grasping for his backpack and pulling out his cell.

He pressed 2 for the autodial for his boss, Carol, who answered on the first ring. When Mike explained what he’d found, it was agreed they should shut down the site pending further analysis on the bones.

“The last thing we need is to be caught desecrating a holy site. Let’s get some carbon dating and go from there.” The call ended without another word.

Carbon dating was a good start. This coffin had been here prior to the build of the courthouse, that much was certain. How, was another question entirely.

As Mike hurriedly rushed to shove everything into a bag, he tried to think of how he would explain the discoveries to Steve, to his wife, to the town. But before any of that happened, he needed to confirm that what he was looking at was real.

Because what he hadn’t mentioned to his boss were the two thin stripes of aluminum across the skeleton’s teeth, held together by a set of bright pink rubber bands.

end of part one

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My dearest Janine,

It has been nearly six months since I last saw your face. The absence pains me daily.

But I know that when my research is complete and I return home, it will all have been worth it. I have been to so many fascinating places since I left and learned a great deal to contribute to my research.

Did you know that the first representation of a “ghost”, as we think of them now, dates back to ancient Egypt? They engaged in what we would call ancestor worship, not unlike the Day of the Dead. They made sacrifices to their fallen to appease or persuade them. Ancestors were seen as starving and envious of the living, so it was important to be generous.

They believed in what they called the Ba, the spirit of a person which rested in their heart. The brain, to them, was useless organ, which they cast aside.

Man, they believed, was ruled by his heart (the ib).

In death, when his spirit and heart were finally reunited, he became his own life force, an Akh – who could travel the land as he needed, answering whatever call remained from living.

Since then, we’ve built an entire industry around ghost stories – the first movie about a haunted house was made back in 1921. Do you remember the day we watched it together, and you laughed at the absurdity of it?

Before we got married, your Lola came to me, hand clutching her rosary, and told me she didn’t approve of you marrying a witch doctor. No matter how many times I explained my degree, the history of paranormal interactions, she wouldn’t be moved that I wasn’t some snake oil salesman trying to lead you away from her God.

I remember when I came to you, distraught, and you laughed – you told me you were more afraid of your Lola then you were of ghosts, but since you didn’t believe in them, that didn’t mean much.

I still think someday I can change your mind.

On my tours of these dwellings, reported haunted by locals, I’ve met so many people, and each one reminds me more of myself than the last. We make our introductions and shake hands, then pass by each other in silence as we wander the eerie rooms. How I wish you could have come with me to see the mystical beauty of these places, whose last occupants were decades ago.

The architecture here is smudged, like a wet thumb crossed through paint that hadn’t done drying. All the windows are fogged over like milky irises, and the light that comes in is always grey, tainted by its entrance into this forbidden place.

Each floor I cross is littered with glass and carpeted with dust and mold, as though nature was trying to reclaim what it lost. Occasionally a room will be interrupted with the invasion like a jutting bone, bare and gleaming in the open air. Paint recedes from the walls like the peeling skin of a snake, curling into itself in wide chalky plumes that hang from the walls in a macabre decoration, the molting of a mask.

The little color that has survived the years of decay seems morbid and grotesque, in poor taste; as though the brightness of their hues shows a lack of deference. I feel almost perverse to look at the things left behind, imagining what kind of rush the previous tenants must have been in to leave them, wondering what they took instead.

I remember when I packed my suitcase for this trip; I snuck a bottle of your perfume into my bag and left my green hoodie on your side of the bed.

I wonder what a little girl who left her teddy took.

Sometimes, late at night, I can hear them.

I hear footsteps pacing down the hall, a cough in the next room. It doesn’t frighten me; they know I mean them no harm, I’m sure. I’ve come to think of myself as a temporary house guest rather than an intruder. But I must admit at first, despite my glee, it was quite alarming to hear a panting breath behind me, only to turn and discover there was no one there.

If only one would show itself to me, I know I could find a way to communicate.

Is it pain, sadness, evil that keeps a place so marked in time with a twisting, knotted scar?

These places had legitimate purposes once, the prisons, orphanages, asylums…malevolent institutions meant to last forever, not decay and be claimed by history, residents unable to move on. Perhaps these ghosts needed to cling to the comforts they find here inside, where they once were safe.

In the instance of famous murder homes, it seems that evil came and left without pausing to wipe the blood from his shoes.

Before I left, I read an article about the “scientific explanation” for ghost sightings. Apparently, something called infrasound, which is almost impossible to consciously detect, when heard at certain levels causes feelings of dread, depression, and panic; and sometimes can cause vision issues such as dark blurry spots in the corners of your eyes. This, scientists say, is the answer. No wonder old churches seem to have such a high number of reported ghost sightings – all those left over pipe organs were to blame.

Remember before I left, how every night I went down to the basement and sat beneath all that exposed piping after I’d turned on every faucet in the house?

I’d sit down there and listen to the hum of them while I waited to hear the sound of your voice.

Just to hear you say dinner was ready.

Can you imagine my disappointment when I heard nothing? When I would emerge hours later, I’d find the house still and quiet, except for the sound of those running faucets.

I read ghost stories and watched those movies over and over, because I read somewhere that it’s important to keep an open mind if you want to commune with a ghost. Don’t you remember me telling you not to cover your eyes, all those nights we spent watching movies about haunted houses?

I left out your things for months so you would remember that you belonged there.

As far back as the Iliad, there have been souls who had a hard time letting go – so how is it that you are just gone? This has been my life’s work - how is it that the only thing I am haunted by is silence?

On this trip, I’ve met many people who remind me of myself. We have all lost someone. We make our introductions and shake hands and then pass each other by in silence as we wander the eerie rooms, and I look for a phantom that can help me find you. That might tell you to come back home, wherever you are. To tell you to come find me; sitting in the basement underneath the exposed pipes, straining to hear your voice in the dark.

It has been six months since I last saw your face. Its absence haunts me daily.

Forever yours,

Caleb

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The women who lived at the top of Sumac Hill had been rumored to be witches for some four generations now.

No one in Loam had seen any of them perform magic or miracles, but still, none could deny the shimmer that seemed to follow where they walked. It was a trick of nature, glittering jewels in the sunlight, leaving prisms instead of shoeprints.

The house itself, Loam Manor, had been erected by the founder of the town who had lost his name to time in the legend of the Greene women.

The story went that the old man had gone wandering one day, and come across a woman in the woods. Though he had often found animals roaming through, enjoying their home he’d purchased for a pittance, he rarely found anything that didn’t already belong in the forest.

On the afternoon he came across the dark haired beauty, the sight of her rooted him to the ground. When he asked her for her name, she gave him only Alice, and no last.

When they signed the marriage document at city hall three days later, he filled in Greene as her surname, the same color as her glittering eyes that made him look past his better judgment; as if it were only a mirage.

Ten days after the ink was dry the founder died, leaving all his holdings to his legal wife. His six children, who had been counting on their inheritance, were riotous. But when they tried to sue to reverse the decision, Alice showed up to the hearing with a small bump already showing.

“The money will go to his children, you see?” she had said to the judge, her hand lazily resting on her stomach. “The very last one.” The court, despite compelling evidence of bewildering influence, found in her favor.

Eight and a half months later, a child was born, which she named Alice Greene.

And for generations since, a new Greene woman had appeared every six years, by birth or by boot, knocking on the front door of Loam Manor.

The local children dared each other to play ding ding witch - but only the bravest ever made it to the bottom of Sumac Hill.

Because, as beguiling as the Greene women were, the Hill had a sense of foreboding that seemed to reach out like fingers in the dark. If you got within half a mile of it, the chill sunk into your bones and wouldn’t leave for days.

But somehow, all of that was always forgotten as soon as you came face to face with a Greene woman.

Which is exactly where Laura Thompson had found herself.

The little girl, Allie, was stuck to her like glue. It was only the little blonde girl’s third day back at Snook Daycare Services, but she seemed even more shy of the other children than normal.

“Miss Laura, can I have my snack now?” the five year old looked up at her with big green eyes, which almost always seemed to be on the edge of tears.

“Of course, honey.” Laura answered, turning toward the snack cabinet. Allie’s snacks were kept in a separate area, per her mother’s request, to prevent contamination with allergens. She never specifically said what Allie was allergic to, at least not that Laura could remember, but it had never been a problem. The little girl avoided anything that wasn’t in the lunchbox like it was made of acid.

From time to time Laura worried that the mother was fostering an eating disorder, but then would chastise herself for judging a mom who packed healthy lunches. Indeed, Allie had never shown up with any candy, or anything that contained more than natural sugars, and never seemed tempted by the things the other kids brought in. She never reached for cupcakes or juices or fruit snacks - only whatever her mother had packed in that lunch bag for the day.

Allie pulled a bag of raisins from the bag, and began to chew on them quietly, eyes already darting toward the door every few nibbles, as if expecting her sister Alicia to show up.

Alicia was Laura’s age - she’d see her out at the bar on the weekends, knocking back a few on her own before someone else’s liquid courage set in - before long she would be laughing with a group like they were all the best of friends.

By the end of the night, she’d have them paying her tab before she stumbled out into the dark with some local, always a different man.

Laura and Alicia hadn’t gone to school together until their senior year, when the spinster Greene decided to adopt a child from New York. She’d left town for a week, and returned with a fully grown teenager, Alicia, and enrolled her in school in Ambrosier County. Alicia had spent most of her first month getting into fights, which landed her in detention right next to Laura.

Laura often found herself a guest of Mr. Hoffman’s after school detention for truancy. Her mother, an addict, had overdosed and died the year before, leaving Laura in the care of her only remaining relative, her father’s mother, who took every opportunity she could to tell Laura how much she missed living alone.

One particular day, Laura took it upon herself to offer the other girl some advice about surviving Loam High.

“Maybe you shouldn’t assume everything has bad intentions,” Laura began. “Sometimes a compliment is just a compliment.”

Alicia had smirked, not even turning to look at her. “You think pretty low of me, huh Thompson?”

“You know I don’t. But I did hear you punched Melissa Parker in the nose for saying you had cool shoes the other day.”

“It wasn’t what she said, it was how she said it. There was a tone I didn’t care for.”

“I think you can see where I’m going with this, Leesh. This isn’t….New York.”

“And I think you can see I don’t care.” Alicia’s face softened a touch, before hardening back into anger. “I know you mean well Laura, I do. But you don’t get it.” She sighed, then laid her head down on the desk. “My life is over.”

At least someone wants you around, thought Laura.

After only a few months at Loam High School, the spinster Greene pulled her out to finish the year through home study. Though she completed all her coursework, she didn’t come back to walk in graduation. When whispers of a new baby on the Hill began circling come early summer, none of the boys at school would admit to being the father. Though all of them would have placed the spinster Greene on at least 50, the last time they looked, the town had simply acclimated to the idea that the two girls were sisters. After all, they had arrived so quickly together, and there was no one to do anything but whisper otherwise.

After her sister came, it was like Alicia had lost interest in being the center of attention. She worked her cashier job at the local gas station, brought in Allie and picked her up every day for their mother now that she was bedridden, and seemed to limit her fun to the quiet of the corner bar on the weekends.

“You know, I heard it’s Mason’s birthday this weekend,” Laura began, name dropping Allie’s best friend at day care. “Are you excited to go to his party?”

Allie just shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t like pizza.”

Laura laughed under her breath as she set about tidying the small kitchenette. “I know honey. But I’m sure your mom or sister will feed you before you go.” As long as it didn’t have carbs, gluten, red food dye, sugar or joy.

“I don’t like them, either.”

The small voice behind her made her pause, not turning around to face the little girl, who she could hear was still eating her raisin snack quietly. She let her hands return to their task as she searched for the right thing to say here,

“I know it can be hard to be little,” Laura began, choosing her words carefully. “Especially with a really cool older sister - “

“She’s NOT cool.” Allie shut the sentiment down instantly. “She’s mean.”

“Well what about your mommy? You know she loves you. You don’t even like her, just a little?”

At this, the little girl’s bottom lip began to quiver, before she took a breath to steal it. She took a long look at Laura before she answered.

“I haven’t seen my mom in a really long time.”

Before Laura could answer her, Alicia came swirling in.

“Hey, Earthworm.” the older girl chided. “Ready to go?”

Allie flinched instinctively at her older sister’s nickname for her. The little girl’s words rang in Laura’s ears:

I haven’t seen my mom in a really long time.

As she watched Alicia bundle Allie up in her fall coat, she found herself remembering every fall sitting across from just Alicia at parent-teacher update time; a flicker of a memory of enrollment that was just Alicia’s face, each time smiling affably, each time with an explanation that made perfect sense why their mother hadn’t been there.

The rest of the class handoffs were robotic, Laura’s mind elsewhere.

Memories of Alicia transferring into her high school, the whisper of the town. A new Greene girl who’d grown up in another town, whose parents had died of a mysterious illness. Now she worked as a receptionist in town.

Now that Laura thought about it - never once in all those years, had anyone seen the spinster Greene, Alicia’s mother. She had just shown up one day with the wailing infant, and enrolled her in the day care.

Over the weekend, Laura asked around. And now that you mentioned it - no one could really quite say when the last time was they saw the old lady Greene. But, she must be fine? A receptionist’s salary couldn’t pay for the upkeep on the place, and for day care. Laura shouldn’t worry so much.

She went to her friend Kevin, a boy she’d gone steady with in high school who was now a deputy in the small town police force. He was getting married next spring to a girl named Linda who worked at the hospital. “Kevin, you know I would never ask if I wasn’t sure something was wrong. I just can’t say what.”

“Well, that’s the problem, Laura.” Kevin replied, looking apologetic. “I can’t go knocking on doors and invading people’s homes on account of bad feelings. You need to know what I’m looking for.”

The next few days passed with little mention of home from Allie. When Laura would try to ask small questions to get a little more out of her, she’d go even more quiet than usual and retreat into herself.

Fine, Laura thought. I’ll wait it out.

On the fourth day, having a quiet snack apart from the other kids during recess, Allie asked “do you live with your mommy?”

Laura just kept working on the art board, not looking up or showing a reaction. “I used to- but not anymore. Still close by.”

“Did your sister take care of you when you were little?”

Laura shook her head, still not turning around. “No, our grandma took care of both of us.”

She heard a small shaky breath behind her before Allie’s voice answered quietly. “Oh.”

Finally, Laura turned around.

The little girl seemed even smaller than normal, her blonde curls sticking to the twin trails of tears on her cheeks as she stared down at her lap.

Laura walked over to the little girl, grabbing a tissue off the table as she came. She crouched down to her level, wiping away the tears and snotting nose. “Hey, honey - what’s wrong?”

Allie sniffled, her red eyes not meeting Laura’s. “I just miss my mom.”

Laura shifted the weight in her legs, determined to stay on her level.

“I’m sure that’s hard. When was the last time you saw her?”

Allie shrugged her shoulders, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.

“Do you remember how old you were?”

Another shrug, still not meeting Laura’s gaze.

“Do you remember where she was the last time you saw her?”

Allie stayed still as a statue. She stayed still so long that Laura thought maybe she hadn’t heard her and opened her mouth to ask again, when she was cut off by the girl.

“The cellar. I saw her in the cellar.”

“I saw Mom in the cellar? That’s not enough, and you know it. Did she talk to Mom in the cellar? Has Mom been in the cellar three months? It’s not much to go on, Laur.” Kevin had been unimpressed with what Laura had been able to collect for information.

She’d gone to his house after her shift was over, waiting on the front porch until she saw his lights pulling into the driveway. He didn’t even ask what it was about this time.

“I’m telling you Kevin, something is wrong. Someone needs to go check.”

“Then knock on the front door, and ask to speak to the spinster yourself. She’s old enough now that if Alicia can’t produce her, it’s grounds for a welfare check.” a small, smug smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “But then, you’d have to make it within view of the Hill first - and I seem to remember that being where you tapped out of ding-dong-witch.”

“We aren’t kids anymore Kevin. This is a little girl we’re talking about.” Laura paused, took a breath, and looked him in the eye. “I feel it in my bones more than I ever felt anything near that old hill. She is in danger.”

The smugness evaporated, and he softened. “I believe you believe that,” he replied sadly. “But you can’t prove it.”

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She pulled her car up to the driveway at the end of the Hill just before sundown. Though the day had been unusually warm for September, she still found herself turning on the heat as she drew closer, staving off the chill that seemed to lick at the windows.

The view was beautiful on the winding drive, the pinks and oranges of sunset bleeding into the red berries on the Sumac trees that surrounded the house and Hill on all sides. Laura could see a small man-made clearing on the south west side, with a fruit and vegetable garden that had signs of recent harvest.

As she pulled up to the front of the house, she saw the facade up close for the first time. Heavy limestone, gone yellow-green with age, built brick by meticulous brick to create a mansion atop the hill.

Vines had crawled up from what had once been the garden bed, and overtaken the third story of the house, only ending when they began to tickle the edges of the roof. The vines bloomed with green and purple heart shaped leaves, making the actual color of the house only visible in glimpses through the dense coverage.

It’s just a house, Laura. She took a breath, and stepped outside the car.

The air felt normal, the same September breeze she’d faced driving out of town. The shock of it made her gasp; she had been steeled for the frigid chill she remembered from childhood.

The front door seemed to be the only part of the house that was clear of the vines. They had crawled up over the porch and trellises, looped through columns, and almost completely covered all the windows. But the door, large and dark, stood out amongst the greenery as a strangely inviting hollow.

She walked toward it, looking around the “yard” as it were, for signs of life, though she saw none. There was no grass, only a low field of clover surrounding the house, the occasional weed peeking through. As Laura reached the door and raised her hand to knock, it swung open.

“Hey Laura.” Alicia opened the door casually, as though she’d been expecting her. As though company ever came to Loam Manor.

“Hey, Alicia.” Laura responded, nervously pulling at the sleeve of her shirt as she stood in the doorway. She had anticipated at least a beat to breathe before someone answered the door, whoever that would be. “I’m here - I’m here to see your- to see Ms. Greene. I guess there was some issue with the enrollment paperwork for Allie we never caught, I need to go over a few things with her.”

Alicia smiled, eyes narrowing slightly. “What kind of things?”

“Just some introduction paperwork, going over her allergens, that kind of thing.”

“I review and sign those every year.” Alicia responded with a raised eyebrow.

“We really need the parents signature on file, Leesh.”

A beat passed between them, the old smug smile tugging at the corners of Alicia’s mouth. Finally, she spoke again.

“Sure. No problem at all.”

She walked past Laura and out into the yard, toward the far tree line.

“Where are you going?” Called Laura after her. “Aren’t we going inside?”

“She isn’t in there,” Alicia replied. “Her and the earthworm are in the root cellar.”

The door to the root cellar was just past the tree line, hidden around the corner of the first spill of the hillside, hidden amongst the leaves. It was large, and had stone walls holding up a makeshift staircase, its steps leading down into the black, gaping maw of the earth.

As they drew closer, Alicia flipped open her phone so they could see as they took their first step down the stairs, the sun suddenly evaporated from the sky. “Watch your step, Thompson.”

Laura looked down at her white shoes carefully as she tread down on old leaves, dead grass, and dirt. She could smell the old moss and stone of the place, the sharpness of carrots and cabbage, potatoes; the slight off-ness of the mildew. It reminded her of her grandma’s place. Before she left.

Alicia got to the bottom of the stairway first, and stopped before opening the door, turning to look at Laura a final time.

“I’m glad you’re finally getting the chance to get to meet my mother, Laur. I think you two will be great friends.”

Before Laura could wonder what in the world that could mean, Alicia swung the door open and stepped inside.

The room was enormous, and made entirely of stone, the same as the exterior as the house. At first, Laura’s eyes landed on Allie - asleep, it seemed, curled up on a small sofa wedged in the corner of the room sucking her thumb.

In the center of the room, was something that looked like it used to be a woman. But it stood - if you could call it that - almost eight feet high, and its skin was a mottled quilting of textures - some spots had a silky yellow shine, others, varying shades of green that seemed to shed like winter snow as it moved, slow and deliberate. The thing was eating - taking a hand slowly from the trough next to it, filled to the brim with fresh garden items, before wordlessly selecting something, bringing it to its mouth, and chomping away. Its eyes remained fixed to the TV. When a small piece of cabbage missed its mouth and fell to the floor, Laura could see that the spinster Greene no longer had any legs. She was completely melded to the floor, her legs long twisted together like tree branches, as if they were one entity.

Laura stood frozen, unable to move, taking the thing in second by agonizing second.

She caught another whiff of the trough, and lurched backward. It wasn’t fresh food at all, it was -

“Compost.” Alicia answered her silent, horrified question. “More extreme. Nitrates and all.” She stepped further into the room, closer to the thing.

“Hello, Mother.” She said to it. “We have a visitor. Allie’s teacher.”

At this, the thing made a low, rumbling whistle that turned into something of a laugh, like an owl that had been caught under the wheel of a train. “The Thompson girl.”

“The very same. She’s been studying for her degree in Education, you know.”

“A lot to be done, with that. A lot to be done.”

The bead of sweat that had been forming at Laura’s brow bled down the side of her temple, soaking into the neckline of her shirt.

There was a noise from the corner of the room where Allie had been sleeping, and when Laura turned she saw that the child had risen from the couch, and was walking over to her sister.

“Allie, no!” Laura tried to grab for her, but Allie ducked her grasping hands without looking back.

“Mother!” Allie cried happily, arms outstretched and running to hug the thing, burying her face in the squishy, fuzzy green side of her arm and nuzzling in affectionately. When she stopped, she began picking small pieces of blackened carrot out of the trough and munching on it, absentmindedly wiping bits of green and white dust from her hair that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Laura’s stomach turned.

Allie spoke to her mother again. “Did you see what we brought you?”

“And just in time, too.” Alicia chimed in. “The way you’ve been eating lately, you’ll be due within the next year.”

The thing moved its head to look down at the Allie, bringing a bloated purpled hand forward to cup her delicate chin.

“Have you decided where to have her take you?” the thing’s voice sounded like river water fighting its way through stones.

“Colorado,” Allie answered easily. She and her mother exchanged a long look, the giant’s hand still cupping her chin, before she turned her gaze to Alicia and Laura. “Can we have a moment?”

Alicia smiled. “Of course! I wanted a minute with Laura anyway.”

Yes, Laura thought, this is my shot. But instead of leading her back outside, she only took her into a corner of the cellar.

“Exciting stuff, right?” Alicia asked, slightly wild eyed. She looked like she was near tears, panicked at what was to come.

Laura had never seen her look like this before.

“What is happening right now? Why can you take care of it - her? Anymore?”

“You heard Allie, I have to get her set up in Colorado, that could take months…” Alicia started, suddenly very interested in playing with her nails.

“And then what do I say about you and Allie for all that time?”

“Allie, tell people she went to go live with her dad. Me, you won’t have to worry about it.”

“Leesh, please - we were friends, once, right?” Laura whispered.

Alicia looked incredulous. “Why do you think I picked you? You think I’d let anyone else get a wish?”

“A wish? What are you talking about? What wish?”

Alicia sighed, exasperated. “You know what people say about them. You just have to feed her, take care of the baby once it’s born, and find your replacement when she tells you. That’s it. It’s the easiest god damn job you’re ever gonna have for free room and board and the pay is a WISH at the end.”

Laura tried to put on her best customer service smile and hide the terror in her voice. “Alicia, I really appreciate the generous opportunity you and your mom - mother - want to present me with, but I already have a job, and I have to decline.” She smiled at Alicia again, flashing as many teeth as she could, hoping it was selling the performance.

Alicia smiled back at her warmly. “I know you love working with the kids. I do. That was part of why I picked you. Ah - let me finish!” Laura had started to speak again, and Alicia raised her finger to her own lips in a shh motion. “But I need you to understand something about your situation now. The only either or anymore, is if you end up the food, or the feeder. Human beings are also very high in nitrates - did you know that?”

It was like all the remaining air had been sucked from her chest. She turned to look over her shoulder at the behemoth still whispering with the child, and the massive feeding trough beside her. Feeling her stomach clench again, she knew there was only one choice.

Laura turned back to Alicia and nodded. Alicia guided her by the shoulder back over to the center of the room, directly in front of Mother.

The first thing that woke her was the smell of dirt, of dust and leaves; the way the forest smelled when her father had taken her for walks as a child. But, when the smell began to curdle at the edges into the familiar stench of rot, her eyes flew open, and she found she was still in the cellar - come face to face with herself.

“Hey Alicia.” Someone said to her as they looked down, smirking through her teeth. “Rough trip to the other side of my skin?”

Laura shook her head on the floor on her hands and knees, breathing becoming labored. What was happening? Alicia?

“Just relax. You get used to it after a while. It’s just like wearing jeans that are a size too small. It’ll be even easier for you. You’ll probably even be able to get your old job back now that they’ll have an opening.” She watched as she - Alicia - picked up a purse and pulled out some gum, popping it into her mouth.

“Hey, look at me - focus - “ she looked up and her own voice, and found her face again, a mix of unfamiliar emotions looking down at her. Anger. Satisfaction. Freedom. Each one punctuated by her snapping jaw.

“Remember the cover story. I’d say you have about six months til the next baby shows up. You’ll get used to the new suit after a while. ”

“Hello, dear.” said Mother, looking down at her studiously as she started to retch and shake on the stones below. “I’m Alice. Alice Greene. But you will call me Mother.”

Laura was still writhing around on the floor, trying to fill her new lungs as she watched herself walk out the cellar door with Allie hand in hand.

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He was headed to town to see Bud, who had been in the hospital since Friday.

Virgil remembered when he first met Bud.

He had struck him immediately as a stand up guy, and his baby-faced smile had a rare sincerity to it that Virgil appreciated. The Lindell’s were transplants from Missouri, both a little quiet, but Betsey especially shy. Bud and Virgil didn’t talk much at first, just a little AFL and farm talk over a few beers as Verna chattered mindlessly, determined to wrench poor Betsy out of her shell. Despite this, the first evening the couples socialized ended with everyone agreeing it should be repeated, and often. Verna, who was a new mother that rarely left home those days, was thrilled to have a new friend moving in so close, less than a half mile down the road.

Virgil had left Benton when he was 18 to go to Vietnam.

After only two years he had been injured with a bullet to the knee, which deemed him unfit to continue servicing. The Army had pinned a medal to his chest and discharged him the same week, and he found himself back in town in a daze. It was like he had never left.

He wrote Verna letters every Wednesday, replying to the previous stack that had reached him. While he was away, she had Sunday dinner with his parents every week, and always sent him updates on how they were. His mother tried to write as often as she could, but with just her and his father to run the farm, time was narrow. Virgil and Verna got married a month after he came home, and bought a small farm not far from his parents.

A few months later, the Lindell’s moved in.

The families were close. With the exception of Virgil’s parents, none of them had anyone else around, and they bonded together to create their own little family. They sat next to each other every Sunday at church, and regularly had each other over for dinner together. They celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas as a unit most of those early years, building the traditions they would later share with their children.

When Virgil and Verna were expecting their third baby, Betsy had tearfully broken down at the announcement. After she left the room in a rush, Bud admitted to Virgil after Verna ran after her that they couldn’t have children and had been looking into adoption. They were only the second or third family in the history of Benton to do so.

A year later, they got a phone call in the middle of the night, and came home a few days later with the twins, a pair of 8 week old boys they had adopted from Kansas City. As soon as they were old enough to sit in high chairs, Bud had them out in the garage with them on football nights, especially if the Chiefs were playing. When Virgil, a Raiders fan since his army days, would groan or call foul, Bud would put on a serious face, insisting he was teaching his sons about “their cultural homeland.”

The town had their opinions, whispered behind their hands, but ultimately found it hard to find fault in a young Christian couple taking in orphans. Virgil knew before they got the twins that Bud would be a good father. He remembered when his own father died, Bud showed up to take him fishing.

Out in the middle of the lake, with not a soul out on the water but them, Bud hadn’t said a word as Virgil put his head in his hands and wept over the side of the fishing boat. He waited until Virgil had long since stopped to offer him a beer.

It had been Virgil who found Bud lying on his back on the floor of his garage.

He ran up to the still figure and bent down, seeing that Bud was barely breathing and his face was slicked with sweat. His glasses had cut the side of his head when he’d fallen and a small trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. The violent shock of red against the pale concrete ran a cold foreboding down his back that Virgil instantly shook away.

He recognized the scene instantly, having gone through this once before with Verna.

He got back to his truck as quickly as he could and pulled his cell phone out of the center console to call 911. As he gave the address and directions to the woman on the other end, he hurried back towards the garage and tried to remember how they told him to do CPR.

When he’d found Verna slumped over in her easy chair a few years back, the dispatcher had talked him through it for 20 minutes while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. 30 pumps, 2 breaths. 30 pumps, 2 breaths. 30 pumps, 2 breaths. As he knelt down on the hard cement of the garage floor he winced, his knees not used to the strain. He leaned over Bud and began administering CPR. The ambulance arrived 15 minutes later.

Bud was completely unresponsive, body limp as they checked him for vitals. But he was still breathing; Virgil had done his part. Virgil recognized one of the EMTs - he was the Washington boy, Jason, who had taken his oldest granddaughter Sadie to prom a few years back. As Jason ran for the defibrillator and paddles, the other man began cutting open Bud’s shirt and pulled it back to find a layer of wrapping around his chest. Virgil was startled by how thin he looked.

“Do you know what this is for? Does he have an injury?” The other EMT asked.

Virgil shrug his shoulders, and shook his head, “Must.”

The EMT started to cut along the center of the wrappings, easily slicing through the cloth and spandex that started midway up Bud’s ribs, and ended just below his collarbone. Virgil wondered what Bud could have done this time. He was notoriously clumsy, and always seemed to have a Band-Aid somewhere on his hands or forearms from a new mishap. He loved to joke to his grandkids and blame it on his wife.

“I forgot to pick up the eggs when I was at the market!” he’d laugh, rewriting a story of falling off the ladder last year as “She came at me like divine retribution!” As the wrappings came away, it took Virgil a moment to realize what he was seeing.

“Holy shit,” the EMT’s voice seemed to come from far away.

He heard Jason running back, and slow as he drew closer. But he recovered quickly.

“Do you know the patient’s age, sir?” he asked as he unpacked his kit, reaching for the gel from his defibrillator paddles. “Sir?” he asked again, as Virgil stared dumbstruck. Virgil turned his head to look at him.

“How old is she? Does she take any medication? Does she have any medical conditions that you know of?”

She. She She.

It never took anything long to get around in Benton.

If you came to church on Sunday with a cold half the town would be sick with it by Tuesday. Gossip took even less time to get around - and the story of Bud Lindell was all over town before the sun had finished setting. When he got home, Verna was waiting for him in the living room.

“Did you know about this?” Her voice was short and clipped with irritation. Virgil just shook his head and sat down beside her, trying his best to ignore the silently fuming energy rolling off her in waves.

“We had that perversion in our home,” she snarled. Then, softer to herself: “I can’t believe I thought they were our friends.”

Virgil just took his hat off and rolled it between his palms as he stared at the TV.

Verna spent half the night on the phone in the kitchen, and every so often he heard her laugh in a choked, bitter barking sound as she talked to whoever it was she had called. When he was walking past the kitchen doorway towards the stairs, he heard her say “Well of course he’s upset. He hasn’t said anything about it yet, but obviously we’re both just disgusted. And to think we were all such good friends!”

The next morning he refused when she asked if he wanted to go to church with her. Virgil knew Verna would be unable to resist and would get into another never ending discussion with her friends about the events of Friday.

When she got home, she stood beside him next to the kitchen table and looked smug as she slowly pulled off her gloves a finger at a time, telling him how Betsy had been asked to leave when she arrived.

“Frankly, I can’t believe she even showed her face,” Verna prattled. “After lying to us all for so many years. And besides, God’s house is no place for a woman like her.”

At 3 o’clock, the family started to arrive for Sadie’s birthday party that evening. Everyone was unusually prompt. The women quickly funneled into the kitchen to make dinner and talk and hushed voices, while the men sat in the living room to watch TV and grumble about the same topic uncomfortably.

“What I can’t believe,” Kenny, Virgil’s oldest son, began. “Is that nobody found out until now. How the hell do you hide something like that for so long? None of us had any idea - hell, I dated one of their cousins in high school!”

Virgil rested himself from the couch and went out on the deck.

Verna had insisted on this addition a few years ago, and he had fought her tooth and nail - though now he had to admit, when all was said and done, he did enjoy it. Looking out at the vast acreage of property, the dusty haze of sunset slung low across the horizon, it was hard to argue with her logic on its value.

He walked up to the railing and leaned against it, and watched his grandsons toss a football around in the yard while the girls braided flowers from Verna’s garden into their hair. The sky was a swirling mass, a fuchsia, lavender, and gray as the sun started to come down.

Virgil was still standing there when Sadie pulled up in her car, late to her own birthday party.

She bounded out of the car and up the stairs towards him, throwing her arms around his neck in an embrace. “Hi grandpa.” she said, kissing his cheek. “I missed you.” She leaned up against the railing next to him, taking in the scene of the younger boys below. What had begun as a game of football had turned into something akin to WWE.

“Any bets?” he asked conspiratorially.

“You know Lincoln bites ankles - its an unfair advantage.” she laughed. “You can’t bet when you know who’s going to win.”

“True,” he said, already taking a five out of his wallet. “You should bet on him then, get your average up some.”

She eyed him warily, but they shook on it. They each put a five dollar bill under a small rock that was supposed to be for Verna’s garden decorations, and resumed their spectating. A few beats passed in silence, save for the screeching children in the yard below.

“I heard about the Lindell’s,” Sadie said, not looking at him. “I hope they’ll be OK.”

Virgil didn’t look at her as he nodded in response.

“Wanna see something cool?” she asked, turning back towards the windows to make sure no one was looking, and rolling her sleeve up to the elbow, exposing a fresh tattoo. It was in the shape of a feather, the word Freedom scroll along its lower edge.

“It’s my birthday present to myself,” she said. “Do you like it?”

Virgil smiled at Sadie and asked if he’d ever shown her his before when she shook her head. He pulled up his sleeve in an equally conspiratorial manner, and showed her the small ball eagle on the inside of his bicep.

“Don’t tell your mother I showed you this,” followed quickly by “She’s gonna be madder than hell when she sees yours.” He took the opportunity at the change in conversation, and told her the story of getting his tattoo with a needle and ink from a Bic pen from a kid in his platoon.

“He was an artist, like you.” Virgil said “He gave all the guys in our unit one just like this in exchange for a couple cigarettes and stamps. I’d wager yours is more expensive than mine.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but they mean the same thing when you think about it.”

With a loud shriek below, the victor was declared: Jamison, the youngest.

“What in the world?” Sadie asked, looking over at him. “How -”

“I taught some of them new moves.” Virgil chuckled, walking away to leave her with the money.

Virgil waited a few more days before he went to the hospital to visit Bud. He had been too angry to go.

He had been ruminating for days on the 50 years that they had been friends. Never once suspecting his best friend in the world was this. Verna had kept calling it a perversion, a sin against nature. The word perversion echoed in his mind as he walked slowly through the hospital, his hands shoved into his pockets as he walked towards Bud’s room to keep them from shaking.

On Monday, Verna had come home in tears and said a woman at the store had asked her if Virgil and Bud had been lovers. Virgil, who had been sitting at the table quietly having a glass of water when she walked in, had thrown the glass down on the floor in response. Ignoring her shocked and frightened look as he walked past her out of the room, hands clenched and angry fists, he walked out into the barn and stayed all night. She hadn’t brought it up since.

Everyone kept calling his house to ask if he had known. He had stopped taking calls altogether. They all wanted to no details he didn’t have

Virgil knew he’d reached Bud’s floor when he passed some whispering nurses behind a desk, who whispered all the more as he passed them. When he reached Bud’s room, he paused before he pushed open the door.

Bud was sitting there propped up against some pillows, staring at the TV on the wall opposite of his bed. The Chiefs were playing the Broncos. Bud turned his head at the sound of the door opening and froze as Virgil crossed the threshold. Virgil walked slowly at the end of the bed, his mouth set in a hard straight line as he looked Bud dead in the eye.

Bud’s jaw was set tight as he stared back at him. Several moments passed before Virgil finally spoke.

“We missed you guys at Sadie’s birthday on Saturday. Apparently, she got a tattoo.” Virgil sat down on the small chair beside the bed, and saw the game was just starting the second half. “Perfect timing.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, this time holding a beer. He passed it to Bud, who kept opening his mouth to speak and then closing it again.

“I appreciate it, pal. You can’t know how grateful I am -” his voice shook a little, which unnerved Virgil. He had always seen Bud as tough as nails. “How grateful I am that you saved me.” Bud finally finished.

Virgil smiled at him, then cracked his beer. “May the best man win?”

Bud returned the lopsided grin. “May the worst man lose.” They clicked the cans together in a toast as the third quarter began.

“Do you mind turning that up? I can’t wait to watch your Chiefs finally get pummeled.”

Bud shook his head, smiling wider. “Spoken with all the wisdom one can expect from a Raider’s fan.”

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Leo wasn’t sure what had made him leave.

He had been going with Ruth since they were fifteen - seven years that suddenly felt like a lifetime.

But now, he was staring down the barrel of one.

When Ruth told him she was pregnant, he wanted to be surprised. But considering how they were spending most of their weekends, it wasn’t too shocking that nature had finally taken its course.

He had just hoped they had been more careful.

Leo hadn’t let her see how panicked he was when she told him, tried not to let the distress in her voice distraught at the idea of telling her parents irk him. They had never liked him, or the life he could not offer their daughter.

He’d known since he met her he was going to marry Ruth, that she would be the mother of his children. But, somehow, he thought he had more time before he had to live up to his end of the deal.

When he’d gotten in the car that morning, he’d only intended to clear his head, maybe find someone to race out on the gravel. His Fairlane wasn’t much, but he’d fixed her up nice, and kept her clean. Driving her out on the back roads, he sliced through time like a pirate king, looking for the spoils of adventure.

But that day, for whatever reason, the cool call of the road hadn’t been enough to calm him, to settle the itch. So Leo kept driving, barely noticing the old well on the Miller property as he drove by on the outskirts of town. That place had always given him the creeps, even when he was a kid.

It only dawned on him how long he’d been driving when he hit the state line. It must have been hours that he’d drifted, lost in thought.

He pulled over at a small gas station off the exit to fill up his pump and leaned against the car, listening as the gasoline filled the tank in a rushing splash. The last gasps of sunset were winking at him as it sparkled against the sky blue paint.

What he knew for certain was he could not go back yet. He’d told Ruth to expect him for dinner, so they could tell her parents together.

Dinner would have come and gone by now. He had never done that to her before. He needed some time to think about what he was going to say, where he could go.

His mind wandered to his cousin Dale, on shore leave in California for the next week.

Dale had asked him to sign up with him. But, what’s the point of dying for people who wouldn’t bleed for you?

Leo saw a telephone by the station, and went in to pay the clerk and call his mother. Ruth wouldn’t be the only one worried.

“I don’t understand - since when did you care about Dale?” He could hear the suspicion in her voice, even through the receiver.

“Ma, I’m a grown man, you’re being ridiculous - it’s just for a couple of days. They won’t mind at the shop.” He looked around the parking lot, as if the lie would sneak up behind him.

In truth, he wasn’t sure what his boss would think of him taking off for a few days, and he wasn’t going to ask. The owner was a friend of his dad’s, and he had a soft spot for Leo. Leo hated to play the dead dad card, but if he needed to to keep the family fed, he would.

Duane, Leo’s father, had died three summers ago in a robbery gone wrong. The guy who shot him pled out and got 12 years. One for every dollar he stole, and some junky old car.

That was all his fathers life had been worth.

After that, it fell to 16 year old Leo to feed the family. He’d dropped out of high school and asked Mr. Forrester to hire him at the auto shop, where he took to it like grease on a slide pin. Forrester won’t let them starve.

“If you’re in trouble, you can tell me. You don’t have to run -”

“Ma,” he said with a deep sigh. “I’m not in trouble - what kind of person do you think I am? Just drop it.”

She started to speak again, but he cut her off.

“I’ll be home in a few days.” He said definitively, returning the receiver to the cradle.

He looked down in his wallet. All the money he had was inside.

Enough for California.

Two days later, he was in Palm Springs, pulling into the parking lot of a little hotel called The Hideaway.

The front desk clerk wore slacks and a short-sleeved button-down. He gave Leo the once over as he handed over the cash for his stay. He looked like he was there to serve food at a funeral.

“What brings you to California?” The man asked. “Business, or pleasure?”

“Just taking some time to get away,” answered Leo.

“I have a few places I can recommend for that,” answered the clerk, handing over Leo’s room key. “Coming all the way from Indiana, I imagine you’ll be staying a few days?”

“Put me down for the weekend,” Leo answered, not wanting to overcommit, but unsure himself of how long he actually intended to stay. “Is there a phone in the lobby I could use?” he asked.

“Absolutely, sir,” the clerk said, briefly coming out from behind the counter to gesture in the direction of a sign marked PHONE on the opposite side of the room, hanging over a small enclosed phone booth.

“Can’t miss it,” the clerk said. “I’m Ruben - please come see me if you need anything else.”

Leo wandered over to the booth and pulled it open, half expecting to see the kind he’d seen in pictures. But the inside had been hollowed to include a sitting chair, a small table, a telephone, and a pad of paper. Fancy, Leo thought to himself as he settled into the chair, picked up the receiver, and began to spin the dial.

It only rang twice before the rushed voice of a young man answered, “Marie? Marie, I didn’t mean for the call to disconnect. I—”

“It’s not Marie,” Leo answered, already irritated.

This was Donnie, his cousin’s friend. They were all sharing a room at the boarding house for the month. Donnie kept the phone line tied up, talking to his honey up in Washington, making every excuse in the book for why he couldn’t make the drive to visit. The truth was, she didn’t put out, and he’d spent enough time with his own left hand. The men knew it.

Sweet Marie might find out someday, when she caught him with another woman, or the clap.

“Put Dale on the phone.” Leo said. Donnie mumbled in acquiescence and irritation, and Leo could hear the background sound of a call and response, the clatter of a receiver being placed on the table and then being picked up again.

“This’ Dale,” the voice answered.

“Hey, buddy, I’m in town. Where can I meet you?”

“Oh shit, you picked a great time. Meet me down at -” Dale rattled off the name of a local place and an address. “We can figure out where to go from there. Just make sure you don’t get into any trouble.”

“When have I ever gotten in trouble?” Leo said, hanging up before there could be a response.

He stopped by his room to freshen up and drop off his bag, wishing he had enough time to shut his eyes and let his back recover from driving and sleeping in a car for three days. When he returned downstairs a few minutes later to leave the hotel, he asked Ruben for directions to the diner.

The other man wrote them down for him, giving him the once over again as he handed it over. Leo took it with a mumble of gratitude, and walked out. He could hear Ruben’s voice calling after him as he hit the parking lot:

“Enjoy your first night in California.”

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to a place on the water called the Palm Beach Pier.

It was like he had landed on a movie set.

The front of the place looked like a life guard tower, tall and white, the light within beckoning him out onto the black water’s edge. The night was starless, but the hazy moon above still shone down on the undulating water below, its reflection the only sign you weren’t staring out into a bellowing, pitch black dread.

As the car pulled to a stop, he looked around and felt even more out of place in his plain black slacks and blue button down. The women were wearing bright, colorful dresses that made them look like bells of tulle. The men wore prints and shades that were equally bright, as though they were in competition to stand out in the darkness of the desert.

He looked out to the tall white building, as stark against the skyline as the bright tulle bells. As the group who pulled in before him got closer to the entrance, he saw the feature his cousin had been the most excited about - the back pier that jutted out into the water, adorned with lights, tables, and a small band playing music.

It was a far cry from The Legion back home.

Just as he closed the door to his car, he was distracted by the distinct, purring roar of approaching engines.

Leo turned to see the approach of three cars - two modified low rider impalas, one pink and one turquoise, followed closely by a sleek black 409 Impala.

A group of six spilled out, a couple in each car. He could tell, even from across the parking lot, that they were Chicanos. The driver of the pink low rider had hopped out and began scanning the parking lot intently.

When his eyes landed on Leo and his ‘57 Fairlane with it’s dual blue paint job, his face broke into a smile.

The man turned his head to say something to the group, and they all looked over, taking him in. They exchanged a few more words, and then the men began closing the distance between themselves and Leo. He shook off the urge to steel himself. They all looked to be around his age - how bad could it be?

“I like your ride.” Pink low rider’s driver said as they got closer to him, giving him a once over. Leo was getting the distinct impression that he stood out in this town. “We heard it a few blocks away.”

“I’m sure.” Leo responded, unsure of where this was going. “I just put some new Glasspacks on it, and refreshed the tube headers a couple months ago.” The man who had been driving the 409 smiled approvingly.

“I’m Hugo.” Pink Low Rider said, turning to gesture at the other two men slightly behind him, appraising Leo’s car thoughtfully. “These are my cousins, Juan and Diego.”

Juan was the driver of the black 409. Diego, who could only have been Juan’s brother based on the look of him, was the driver of the turquoise impala.

“Where are you visiting from?” Hugo asked, gaze turned back to Leo, who was painfully aware of how empty the parking lot was as the brothers began to circle the Fairlane. Suddenly he felt self conscious about the little dings and scrapes all over it, knowing it was likely in rougher shape than theirs. But, all cars should have battle scars, as his father used to say.

“Indiana.” Leo answered, “I’m visiting my cousin on shore leave.”

“Driving that?” Hugo scoffed. “I’m surprised it made it.”

“It did fine. Just like it will on the way back.” Leo gave a tight lipped smile.

“Hm,” he replied, a disinterested mocking noise. “I suppose the utility vehicles last a little longer.”

“I suppose I’d rather have a utility vehicle than be driving around a glorified fishing boat.” Leo glanced over his shoulder at the pink car. “Can you even get to 35 on that thing?” He smiled as the other man’s brow snapped tight into a scowl.

Before Hugo could respond, a voice from behind Leo did: “Why, you looking to race?”

When Leo turned around, he could see it was the driver of the black 409, Juan. He was staring at him expectantly.

Leo glanced back at the club. He was already late to meet Dale, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance against a brand new 409, mods or no.

An image of letting the engine open up on smooth paved roads instead of gravel floated in his imagination, close enough to touch. That kind of speed would feel like freedom.

At this thought, his father’s voice crept in again, as mean as grave dust: There ain’t a man in your line if you let another man disrespect you and don’t answer the call.

“Where do you race?” Leo answered.

The other men had bid him to follow them, and they made a slow trek out of town towards the desert.

The caravan got farther and farther away from the bright lights of the city, with only the moon to light up the sky, and the headlights swaying gently as they cut through the dark.

Leo began to get nervous again as they drove deeper into the desert, high beams bouncing off the sand, rocks, and desert foliage. This was clearly a path they knew well, off road and unmapped. It made him slightly less nervous about nefarious ends. Plus, they wouldn’t want to rob him for his car, he thought with a dark chuckle.

When the city was barely a blip of light in the rearview, they came to a stop. The girl in the passenger seat of the 409 jumped out, and into the turquoise impala, which immediately started driving away back towards town.

Juan pulled his car around so it faced the sparkling light of the city, and Leo did the same. Both men rolled down their windows.

“Let’s give the sailboats a ten minute head start,” Juan said. “I’d hate to pass them and prove you right.” He smiled at Leo’s surprised laughter. “My brother loves that car. I can’t let some guy dressed like a waiter talk down on it.”

“Yeah, about that.” Leo said, ignoring the friendly jab. “What’s with all the bright colors? You all dress like you’re trying not to get hit by a car.”

Juan laughed. “My father told me when I was young that in nature, males perform for the chance to have the females. They all dance, sing, fight, and try to be the most colorful to catch her eye.” He paused and looked around in the heavy dark that surrounded them, the tiny pinprick of light on the horizon. “Growing up around here, I realized that time was a woman - we’re all doing everything we can to catch her eye for a moment.”

Leo opened his mouth to reply, but Juan spoke again: “I think the ten has passed. Ready, Iowa?”

“It’s Ind-” he was cut off by the roar of the 409’s engine.

“Go!” Juan shouted, the 409 taking off like a rocket.

Leo punched his foot against the gas, slamming it to the floor. His back tires sprayed sand into the air behind him as the back end fishtailed, finally righting and gaining speed.

He was headed in a straight shot back to civilization, hoping to avoid the eyes of time in the dark.

By the time he hit the edge of town, they had all gotten out of their cars and were enjoying a couple of beers. Leo got out of his car to approach the group, walking slow.

“You made it!” Hugo shouted, tipsy. “We were starting to get worried.”

“No we weren’t,” Diego said. “He’s just an ass. Not bad for a first run in the desert.”

Leo nodded in affirmation, then looked over at Juan. He walked up to him and extended his hand.

“Nice race.”

Juan took his hand, and shook.

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When Leo pulled up to the Palm Beach Pier, it was after bar close.

There were only three cars left in the parking lot, presumably staff. He cursed under his breath, and headed back towards The Hideaway, thinking he’d have to make it up to Dale tomorrow.

When he got back to the hotel, he slowly made his way back to his room, thinking about the night’s events.

He couldn’t wait to lay down and get some real sleep.

The door opened with a small squeak, letting the light from the terrace walkway into the dark room. Leo immediately threw the light switch on - his bag had been upended, and his clothes were everywhere. Shit.

He ran in and began digging through piles, knowing he wouldn’t find what he was looking for. And sure enough, the small tin he had stashed inside full of his savings was gone. He sank onto the bed, and lowered his head into his hands. Shit.

This would be a problem for tomorrow. He let his body fall backward into the bed, not bothering to undress. Despite the worry gnawing at his brain, the hammer of sleep fell quickly.

After checkout the next day, Leo sat in his car in the parking lot, trying to figure out his next move.

He had exactly 1.00 that was left in his wallet, not nearly enough to make it back. He didn’t have any change to make a call. He was well and truly stranded.

Looking out his window at the palm trees, he supposed there were worse places to be trapped.

He pulled out of the parking lot and went driving, aimlessly. After 30 minutes or so, he saw a familiar car - the turquoise low rider, parked in the parking lot of an auto shop. As he walked up to the storefront, he recognized two voices inside - Juan and Diego.

“Hey, Iowa.” Diego called out to him when he spotted his approach.

“You ready to race again?” Juan asked, making both brothers chuckle at the thought.

“No - I just saw your car and stopped,” Leo answered. “I checked out of my hotel this morning.”

“Heading home already?” Juan asked, tinkering absent mindedly with something under the hood of a Fleetwood. The car was white with black interior, and it looked closer to a spaceship than an automobile.

“Actually, I got robbed while I was out last night - so I’m still figuring out a plan.”

Juan came out from under the hood, and the brothers exchanged a look before he turned his full attention to Leo.

“You do all the improvements on your ride yourself, right?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Leo answered, shrugging.

“We could use an extra pair of hands for a few days, had a nasty wreck come in last week that has us way behind.” Diego said. “You can sleep in the backroom on the nap cot.”

Juan nodded along as Diego spoke, adding: “Work as many days as you need. We can bring you food from our place. Our mother will be thrilled to have another mouth to feed.”

And so for the next six days, they passed the time this way.

True to their word, they let him sleep in the back office on a cot at night.

When he woke early in the mornings, he cleaned up before the brother’s arrived with some breakfast. After he ate, he was the one taking the one-off appointments and drive-ins while they worked on the bigger ticket fixes.

He had never seen so many beautiful cars. A variable parade of them.

They spent their days working on the rich people’s cars, and for two hours after shop close, they pulled their own into the garage to work on their improvements.

Over the course of the week, Leo added on a dual exhaust, and upgraded his carburetor. Juan was showing him some tricks on ignition tuning.

This had been an addition to the deal when on the third day, Reuben the desk clerk from the Hideaway walked in the door, flipping a small silver tin from palm to palm. Leo recognized it as the one he’d stashed his cash in before leaving the hotel.

Without saying a word, he crossed the room and pinned the other man to the wall with one hand, the other pulled back in a fist.

“Juan!” Reuben yelled, but not before Leo landed a punch. Tears sprung to his eyes in pain and he instinctively raised his hands to cover his nose. Leo backed away from him as Juan and Diego came running into the room. “I’m sorry man.” Reuben spluttered through his bloody nose. “I didn’t know.”

Since the money was spent, Juan had promised to make it right in parts, and Leo called it even through gritted teeth. Reuben, another showboat cousin of the brothers, would eventually fit the bill.

Even the thief, though, was preferable to Hugo.

Every day after the sun went down, the pink lowrider would come rumbling up to the curb in front of the shop, and Hugo and the girls would spill out, dressed for their shifts at the Biltmore. Leo had since learned their names - Ines, Hugo’s girlfriend, was waitstaff for events. Hugo was a valet, and Maricela and Lucia both worked as kitchen staff. They had all started there after high school together as laundry and cleaning staff, working their way up in different directions.

Hugo never missed an opportunity to get a dig in at Leo, seemingly unrelenting in his distaste for him. Leo had taken to ignoring him, after discovering how often the other man did it.

One afternoon, Hugo and Ines got into a screaming match in the parking lot, rapidly oscillating between English and Spanish.

What Leo was able to translate in between the screaming was Hugo accusing Ines of cheating, because she’s too beautiful to be with him, so he bought her a pink car, according to his friends.

“Why would they say it if its not true?” he bellowed, switching immediately back into Spanish.

Leo had seen this button get tapped once before a few days earlier.

Diego preened around the shop, crowing that she was only with him for the lowrider. Hugo has vehemently denied this, pushing back. “No! She will sit with me and talk about cars for hours. You’re just jealous because she’s perfect.” And without waiting for a response he spun on his heels and walked out, yelling to the girls in the other room that it was time to head home to Banning.

When everyone had all gone home for the night, and he was left with nothing but the quiet, he finally took the time to think about what he’d been avoiding: Home.

He thought about his dad, long in the ground, and what he would think of him. Running out on his pregnant girlfriend to work on cars in California.

Coward, his father’s voice whispered to his conscience.

After the sixth day, he knew he had enough for gas and food to get home. But he decided to spend one more night in Palm Springs.

The brothers took him out that night, all of them dressed in black suits. Hugo had lifted them from the Biltmore, and the brother’s gave him his own shirt to wear underneath.

They went to Ruby Dune’s and toasted to his freedom.

“To our favorite Iowa boy,” Diego said, holding his drink up in the air. “Safe travels on your journey back to paradise.” They all burst into laughter, but underneath Leo felt the quiet ache of the truth settle in.

Ines had come with Diego and Juan, but Hugo was nowhere to be seen. Towards the end of the night, Ines made her way over to say her goodbyes.

“He had something else going on,” Ines explained, and Leo didn’t ask her to elaborate.

“Well, at least my send off is a little more peaceful than some of our nights.” Leo replied.

“Maybe not,” she said, slipping a napkin into his hand. “I guess we’ll find out.”

He glanced at it, seeing an address. Before he could ask her what it was for, she was already walking away and out the door to a waiting cab. She looked over her shoulder and waived at him as she stepped inside.

Leo made his way over to Juan and Diego.

“I think I need to call it a night, guys.” He said, rolling his eyes at the boos and guffaws. “I have to leave early tomorrow and I don’t want to drive into the sun with a hangover.”

They’d shared their goodbyes, and Leo walked out the door to his waiting Fairlane.

When he pulled up to the address from the napkin, he was shocked to see the pink impala in the driveway. He had already thrown the car in park when Ines came running out, waving her arms.

“Don’t worry!” she said, breathless and smiling. “He’s out all night - it’s just me and you.”

“I see that,” Leo replied, looking around the room, taking in all the bright color, and then back down at her. “What about Hugo?”

“What about him?” she answered. “You know he tells everyone I know about cars, how I like to listen to him. We don’t talk about cars. He talks to me about cars and everything he did to the car to make it the best. I don’t like cars. I don’t even know how to pump gas.”

Leo nodded, thinking seriously. “Don’t be so nervous,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “I don’t bite. I’m going to freshen up.”

He was left alone with his thoughts and the wallpaper, an orange pattern with streaks of brighter colors within it. There was a conversation pit in the living room, despite the house being modest otherwise. Family photos adorned the walls, and stretched all the way to the front door by the key hook.

It was looking in this direction that Leo noticed the car keys hanging there.

He realized then he was a pretender. Looking around at some other man’s life he’s trying to wear to put on.

He realized that he’s treated ruth like garbage. Like decoration, like an afterthought. He never asks Ruth about her day, or how she’s feeling. And like a ton of bricks, it hits him. He realized, it’s been five days since I talked to Ruth.

He moved three feet across the room, picked up the keys, and pocketed them.

When Ines came out of the bathroom, there was a note on a napkin - “Sorry!” - and a set of keys to a ’57 Fairlane on the counter. By the time she noticed, he was already three miles past the city limits.

By the time Hugo came back to find his car done, it will be too late. Leo will be halfway to Indiana by the time he finds out.

The only man in the Midwest with wings.

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Author’s Note: This story was massively inspired by the exhibit “Tzahualli: Mi memoria en tu reflejo” by artist Guadalupe Rosales, as seen at Palm Springs Art Museum in May of 2025. If you’d like to read more about the exhibit, and learn more about the incredible culture we visited in this story, check out this excellent piece from the L.A. Times (additional photos included).

The story was also inspired by my own grandfather, Arthur “Archie” Ergenbright, a Midwest boy who had a lifelong passion for cars, racing, and adventure.

He never ran off to California - but he never said no to a long drive.

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So much rain had filled the streets, that the sewers were having trouble keeping up with the drain needs. The town car sliced through the water, slow and purposeful; the businessman smiling at the rooster tails that came spinning from the slightest acceleration, splashing passersby.

The driver tonight was young, maybe twenty. He always slowed down a little when they passed the billboards of half naked girls selling panty hose.

“What do you think you’d do for the chance to meet one of those girls?” the businessman asked.

He smiled at the exaggerated reaction from the boy in the front seat.

“If he came and promised to even get me within a mile of one of those girls, I’d sign over my soul to the Devil himself.” The tone was half joking, but brimmed with a hopeful expectation. He knew what the businessman did for a living.

“Trust me kid, the Devil isn’t who you want for that,” the businessman laughed. “His parties aren’t nearly as exclusive.”

The chilly November evening had been scratching at his windows, the storm outside howling and insistent, when the broker heard the echo of a long-awaited knock at his door.

It was late, quiet. Everyone else had gone to bed hours ago, his partner long before the others. He rose to answer the door himself, which was a rarity at this point - but knowing the temperament of the visitor, he knew the other man would expect the royal treatment; a red carpet rolled out.

So the broker had no qualms as he made his way through the many rooms of his sprawling brownstone, to the front door.

When he opened it, the businessman was standing there in a tailored suit and long trench coat. The younger man had swept the hair out of his eyes, and he was hiding from the rain under the small awning that hung over the entrance to the home.

The man, upon seeing the broker, only greeted him with a short, barking comment. “Took you long enough.” He looked over his shoulder at the driver of his town car, and barked at the man to stay there until he got back.

The broker only smiled, and invited him in.

“Follow me,” he said. “I just finished my newest room a few days ago.”

The businessman got the creeps as they walked through the half-hulled relic.

The broker had purchased an old church in the middle of a metropolis to build his new castle, where each room was planned to be more elaborate than the last, full of rich colors, lush textures, and wild prints. It was rumored that the renovation had already taken five years, and was expected to take another five. The budget seemed to be as limitless as the promises of the broker.

As the two men found their way to the center of the home, the heart of the thing, it seemed to the businessman as if he had stepped into another world. Gone were the arches associated with Tuscany, the exotic animal hides, and the sumptuous fabrics of lands unknown.

This was a room he recognized, as if it had been pulled from his own home.

It was stark white, from the floor to the ceiling, with marble floors and a large fireplace, an abstract portrait of a man looming over it all. It was a piece he didn’t recognize, but knew by sight it couldn’t have been cheap. Across from the fireplace were some chairs, also white, surrounding a chessboard.

The broker gestured to the businessman to have a seat.

“Let’s discuss how to make you a king.”

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After several hours of talking, neither man had reached for the glass in front of him. The two of them had been sitting in silence for a few long minutes now, simply staring at each other after stating their terms.

“Let’s say I believed everything you promised me,” the businessman said, breaking the tense quiet. “Who’s to say you won’t also take it away?”

“Well the good news is, you’re in charge of all that,” replied the broker easily. His voice was the perfect pitch of affability; but his eyes and his grin, which seemed to split his face in half even at the slightest smirk, betrayed his lack of deference and simmering superiority.

It made the businessman burn with rage.

He’d been born in Stocking, Pennsylvania; the forgotten fifth of nine children. His father had owned the local car wash, the laundromat, and several other small businesses in town. When he walked down the street, everyone stopped him to say hello to the benevolent owner of half the town.

When the businessman struck out on his own to the city, he was determined to make himself a titan of industry, someone his father would have begged to be in the room with. Instead of always looking down. He’d scratched his way up from a mailroom to the trading floor, and then out on his own with his own firm. But even becoming a millionaire was not enough.

His mind wandered back to the day he told his father he’d made his first million, having travelled all the way home to tell him the news. The old man had nodded quietly, and asked: “Is a million dollars worth more than ten people with loyalty?”

I need to see it before one of us dies. The shame, the seething jealousy hiding beneath the pristine surface of glass, would be the only salve for this slight.

The broker was reclining in his chair, watching the businessman as he pondered his answer. He was every bit the Cheshire jester, courting the king.

When I have the crown, I’ll use it to remove this noose from my neck.

“I’ve never paid full price for anything.” He said to the broker, “Why should I start now?”

“Exceptions are made in exceptional circumstances.” The broker answered, almost bored. “Believe me, this is not an offer made twice.”

The offer, as it were, still had dubious terms.

The businessman had to be ‘willing to sacrifice his dignity’, whatever that meant, in order to climb the hills of power and look down from the top of the mountain.

“Do you like my new painting?” The broker asked, gesturing to the portrait he had noticed when he first walked in. The businessman shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s nice, if that’s your style.”

“It is,” the broker said. “You see, everyone has their own version of hell - for most men who want to be king, they fear the echoes of laughter. But if you look outside these days, more people cheer for a comedian than they do for a senator.” His gaze returned to the painting hanging above his fireplace, face in a contemplative smile.

“I like to collect paintings of the people I help ascend. It reminds me that even though I’ll never wear a crown, I’ll always know what they are underneath.”

“And what is that?” asked the businessman, lips tightening over his teeth.

“Desperate.” the broker answered. “They need someone who can help them get in touch with the right people.”

“How many deals does it take to become king? Once you open that door for me,” the businessman asked. The broker shrugged his shoulders.

“I suppose that depends on how well you play your game. Every choice is yours.”

The businessman’s eyes returned to the painting above the mantle. The white marble of the floors glistened like a palace. The golden accents of the room seemed aglow in the fire light, bright as gas lamps, as if beckoning closer to touch them.

“And then what do you do?” The businessman said, brushing his knuckles against his leg. “With your leverage?“

“We’re this far in. No need to hide our ankles at the dance,” the broker said, smiling slightly. “Everything you do after today is in gratitude - for having the opportunity to pay a price tonight.”

The businessman steeled himself, balling each hand into a quiet fist as he looked at the broker.

“Leverage isn’t something I particularly enjoy others having over me,” he said. “Isn’t that the whole point of this? No one to answer to?”

“Not even kings are kings.” The broker answered, “Remember: the Senate killed Caesar not the mob - because they decided they knew better.” He smiled, a wicked grin. “I can give you the mob - and it will cost you nothing but dignity, for a few moments. Time and again.”

The broker could see the younger man was wavering. “What will be worth more in the end? A bit of leverage - or a crown?”

The businessman remembered sitting in a booth at his father’s diner, the Crown Royale, twenty one years old and telling him he was leaving home. His father not even pausing his stride, simply redirecting his path to the back room. He had returned seconds later holding a ‘Help Wanted’ sign, placing it in the window, and then went back to wiping the counters.

The loyalty of ten people…or control of the mob.

The broker studied face across from him closely. The younger man had spent all night hiding fear and indecision, and the broker watched as the decision settled into the firm line of his lips.

The broker’s grin had begun to widen again before the other man spoke.

“All right,” the businessman said, extending his hand. “It’s a deal.”

“I’m afraid we won’t shake on it,” the broker replied. “I require something a little more concrete.”

He rose from his chair and began walking down a side hall - immersing them back into the plush prints of the rest of the house. He only paused to turn back when he didn’t hear footsteps following.

“This way, please.” The broker asked, the affability replaced by a pointedness that had not been there before. The businessman rose and followed him into another hallway of closed doors.

“Pick any room you like,” the broker said. “Or all of them. Feel free to browse. Whatever tickles your fancy - and don’t worry about your breakfast meeting. I had your secretary cancel them.” He smiled again, the false sincerity stretched tight over smugness.

“Take your time and enjoy yourself.”

Two hours later the businessman emerged from his fifth room, quickly licking a glistening line of saliva on his palm, and greasing his hair back into place.

He went wandering through the halls, finally finding himself back in the same room where the fireplace was, and found the broker sitting there, casually reading a book. The older man glanced up at the sound of footsteps, though not right away.

“How did it go?” he asked, all deference gone. All that was left was the tone of a teasing schoolmate.

“You’ll get your money in the next two days. I have to move some things around.” The businessman replied as he fixed his tie, pure muscle memory and adrenaline.

He stared up at the portrait above the mantle again as he looped the silken fabric through his fingers, his eyes settling on the finer details for the first time, his hands slowing as he finally paused to take it in completely.

The shape of the eye, the mustache, the signature yellow tie - half untied, same as the one around his neck. He turned to look at the broker, who was standing now, arms crossed and smiling.

“Do you see it now?” he said, his smile seeming to consume his face. “I built this room, and had that commissioned in honor of our meeting. ”

The businessman wavered, as if he meant to take a step back, though he held himself firm to the floor.

“Now,” the broker said, taking a small business card from the back of the book he’d been reading, and handing it to the businessman. “Call this number once the funds have cleared, and we’ll work on the first step of winning the mob.”

A few minutes later, the businessman walked out the front door to his waiting town car, watching the sun come up on the horizon over the glistening towers of glass. The cold was hard to shake off of himself as it tried to seep into his wool coat, still warm from inside the house. Striding quickly from the front of the brownstone and to the car, he could see on his approach that the driver had fallen asleep, chin resting on his chest.

The businessman slapped the hood of the car twice, hard, as he made his way to the back. The younger man woke with a start, looking chagrined when he saw his boss through the glass. Once he was back in the warmth of his car, he spoke to the driver again:

“Take me to the bank.”

A small dusting of snow began to fall as they pulled away. The businessman spent the rest of the drive in silence, watching it cover everything that would soon be his.

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Back inside the brownstone, the broker’s partner finally rose from her bed, and walked down into the belly of the house, looking for him. She found him leaning against a wall in the galley, staring at three open doors. Each one seemed to have a small speckling of blood on it.

The broker was taking it all in, chuckling to himself. When he noticed her approaching, he spoke.

“Our newest decided to start as an overachiever.”

She glanced at the state of the doors, and took another sip of her coffee. “Shall I call the doctor?”

He shrugged a shoulder at her. “Might be worth it to try.” He moved away from the wall and looked closer into one of the rooms. “Ask for a cleaning team, too.”

As she turned around to walk down the hall, the broker followed close behind, still chuckling.

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