The Inkblot Volume VI: Abandoned Buildings by falconnewsfeed

The Inkblot is a production of the Creative Writing program at Green Hope High School. It is intended as a forum for Green Hope students to share original work, including poetry, drama, short fiction, and creative nonfiction. Students often choose to write about issues and subjects that are personal to them, and may even adopt a fictional persona/perspective for the purposes of artistic exploration and expression. The views and feelings expressed herein do not necessarily reflect the opinions or positions of school administrators, teachers, or students.

Table of contents

The House (787 West Main Street) Prologue, Sarah Dugger………………………………………………………………………...4 Dottie and Her Ellie, Kari Eskridge……………………………………………………………..5 The Lonely Friend, Angelica Edwards………………………………………………………...9 *The Way Things Used to Be, Julia Langenderfer……………………………………...16 I Met My First Love in an Abandoned Building, Scotty French…………………………....18 *June of 1981, Arden Stockwell-Gilder……………………………………………………20 *Femme Fatale, Erin Kennedy………………………………………………………………22 Just Friends, Bri Conroy, Asma Hafiz, Rosie Williams……………………………………..26 A House of Generations, Emily Apadula…………………………………………………….30 If I Were a Building, Lynne Chen……………………………………………………………………...32 Potential, Tara Haddock………………………………………………………………………………..35 Waffles, Monuments, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Camryn Diagonale……………......36

*Dino Cop 2: Triassic Trouble, Drew Fitzgerald………………………………………………….39 #10 DOHS, Aaruba Ayesha……………………………………………………………………………52 Glunkus Song, Sarah Dugger………………………………………………………………………….55 Alone, Molly Canina…………………………………………………………………………………….57 *Houses and Homes, Marina Catullo……………………………………………………………….58 Nothing Is Ever Perfect, Elizabeth Wilson……………………………………………………………59 Becoming a Memory, Arden Stockdell-Giesler………………………………………………………67 The Old Route 64, Bryn Walker……………………………………………………………………….69 The Exodus of the Roguans and Their Abandoned Buildings, Catherine Edbrooke…………….71 *Readers are advised that these pieces contain depictions of violence, including violent crime and domestic abuse, and/or depictions of emotional abuse. If you are a victim of domestic violence--or are worried that someone you know may be a victim-help is available. Please see a school counselor in the Student Services Department. You can also find additional information or seek assistance by contacting the organizations listed below. Interact of Wake County 24 HOUR CRISIS LINES: Domestic Violence 919-828-7740 | 866-291-0855 toll-free Sexual Assault 919-828-3005 | 866-291-0853 toll-free Solace Center 919-828-3067 | 866-291-0854 toll-free

North Carolina Coalition Against Domestic Violence http://www.nccadv.org/get-help/domestic-violence-information

The following pieces have also been adapted into a multimedia format. -Glunkus Song -#10 DOHS -If I Were A Building -House and Homes -Waffles, Monuments, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show -Prologue (787 West Main St.) -Femme Fatale (787 West Main St.) -Just Friends (787 West Main St.)

To view these pieces in a video playlist, please go to: https://youtu.be/5btghC2VDk8?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

Prologue

I never liked that Mommy made us move away. I loved our old house, full of whimsy and wonder and memories. Memories of Grandma and I racing inside the back door with geese chasing us and bread crumbs tumbling out of the pockets of the aprons draped over our long dresses, memories of me and Jack and Tim lying on our backs in the backyard, nothing in my field of vision but three pudgy hands- one mine, two theirs- pointing out shapes in the clouds. The rabbit Timmy found made me remember when Daddy brought my stuffed Bunny home for my 6th birthday. But ever since Daddy died it seems like Mommy doesn’t want to be in our house anymore. I think that she sees him like I do, at the dining table or on the porch in his big dark rocker. Sometimes she sets him a place at the table and stares at the empty plate and unused silverware for the entire meal. I know she sleeps in the indent his body left on his side of the bed, in his old shirts, because she can’t in his arms. Sometimes when I get sad I feel him hugging me.

I like the good memories in the house, but maybe leaving was better so Daddy’s ghost would leave us. One of the things I didn’t like about the new house was how long it took to make it. Mommy met with the architect for long hours on the porch for a whole month deciding where the rooms and walls would go, and then it took a lot of months after that to actually build it. In the meantime Mommy took me and Jack and Tim shopping for new furniture and decorations, but we had to keep it inside the old house, and that made everything crowded. A good thing about the new house was that I got to help pick it out, and I made my room really big. I got to help make the house with the architect, so it’s the second biggest room in the house, next to Mommy’s. It’s on the second floor and has a big turret in it of which I like to sit in the window and watch people walk by on Sunday mornings before church. Mindy, our maid, sometimes lets me watch for a longer time and rushes me into my dress and sends me off without stockings! I really liked the new house but then Grandma died and Mommy made us move again, to a new house that was smaller and she kept the windows closed all the time and laid in Daddy’s spot on their mattress until she died, too.

Watch the piece in video format here: https://youtu.be/plXsFYk7B-s?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

Dottie and Her Ellie

It’s been five years since Dottie last saw Her Eleanor, or maybe just a few days, it’s hard to tell just lying on the ground staring at Dottie’s house, just out of reach. Dottie used to play in it every day with Her Eleanor, but now it just sits there, doing nothing. If Dottie could cry, she would right now. Dottie was lonely. But Dottie couldn’t cry, not that Dottie was too strong, or too hard headed too, porcelain couldn’t cry. That didn’t stop Dottie from being sad though. Dottie missed Her Eleanor, sometimes Her Eleanor even let Dottie call Her Ellie. Her, Ellie. Dotties Ellie. Dottie liked the sound of that. The last Dottie saw Her Ellie was when Her Ellie was falling asleep, holding Dottie, like they always did. But last time Dottie saw Her Ellie, Her Ellie’s mother came running in, crying. Her Ellie's father threw Dottie to the ground, and carried Her Ellie off. Her Ellie was just sleeping. Dottie and Her Ellie always slept together. Earlier, Dottie saw someone come into the room, Dottie was so happy, Dottie thought it was Eleanor. Dottie was wrong. It was Her Eleanor’s brother, no, not the mean one, or the one who played with Dottie and Her Ellie, the youngest one. The one Dottie never really knew. The one Her Ellie called Lawrence. The baby of the family. Baby Lawrence. Baby Lawrence came running in, screaming for Her Ellie. But Her Ellie wasn’t in Dotties room, Her Eleanor was with her father. Why would Baby Lawrence come looking for Her Ellie in a room she wasn’t in? Her Eleanor’s mother came in and scooped up Lawrence, calming him, telling him the Her Ellie wouldn’t be coming back. That was silly, of course Her Ellie would be coming back, Her Ellie promised to play with Dottie again, so Her Eleanor would come back. But what if Her Ellie didn’t come back? What would happen to Dottie? Would Dottie be given away? Dottie wouldn’t be handed off to a sister, Her Ellie didn’t have sisters, only three brothers. Dottie didn’t like the oldest brother much, Her Ellie called him William, William was mean. Mean William. Dottie only remembered Mean William one time. Her Eleanor asked Mean William to play, Mean William laughed at Her Eleanor, and said that Mean William was to grown up to play with silly dolls like Dottie. Dottie didn’t like Mean William. Dottie loved to play with the middle brother. He was the nicest to Dottie and Her Ellie. Her Ellie called him Ernest. He was kind. Kind Ernest. Kind Ernest would play with Her Eleanor, and even with Dottie. Kind Ernest was older, but he still loved Her Eleanor and Dottie. Kind Ernest played with Dottie and Her Ellie the last time Dottie saw Her Eleanor. Kind Ernest was Dotties favorite brother.

Still, none of the brothers would want Dottie. If Her Eleanor never came to play with Dottie again, Dottie would be all alone. Maybe Dottie would just sit somewhere, and not be played with. Dottie would just have to sit and stare. Dottie wished to walk. If Dottie could walk, Dottie could go find Her Ellie! But Dottie was just porcelain, and porcelain couldn’t walk. Dottie just sat and waited, waited for something to happen. Dottie started to think about all the wonderful memories Her Ellie and Dottie had made together. Dottie remembered playing in Dotties house, and all the times Her Ellie would take Dottie places. Sometimes Her Eleanor’s mother would let Dottie come to the store if Her Ellies Mother brought Her Ellie into town. Or sometimes Dottie could go with Her Ellie to school, not all the time, but sometimes she could! The one place Dottie wasn’t aloud was church. Her Ellie might get distracted and not learn if Her Ellie brought Dottie to church. Her Eleanors mother said that church was the most important part of the week. The church was so pretty with its steeple and stained glass windows. Dottie remembered the classroom that Her Ellie would have sunday school inWait, No Dottie didn’t remember that. Dottie couldn’t remember that. Dottie had never

been in the sunday school class. Now Dottie was imagining things. Dottie remembered the fight that Mean William had with Momma about going to church. Mean William said that with soldiers over there fighting and dying, there couldn’t be a God. Momma was so mad, she even smacked him. But Dottie wasn’t there for that. That was at dinner and Dottie wasn’t aloud at dinner. Dinner was family time, Momma always said. Eleanor started to feel strange, she wanted Her Dottie. No. The other way around, It was Dottie feeling strange and Dottie wanted Her Eleanor. Or was it? Eleanor, no Dotties head was all jumbled with memories, from both Her Dottie and Her Eleanor. What was happening to her?

Eleanor’s last memory was holding Her Dottie and falling asleep. Momma and Daddy didn’t want her to fall asleep, but she was so tired, and she had been coughing so much, she was so tired, she had to close her eyes… And then she was here. She was much smaller, she had shrunk!

Dottie could move! Dottie wasn’t sure how but Dottie could move! It started with a little twitch of Dottie’s hand and a little jump from Dottie’s leg. Then Dottie started to feel lighter, almost like Dottie was floating, and then, Dottie stood. Dottie was on feet and Dottie could move one in front of the other. Dottie was, was almost alive! Dottie wasn’t sure how, but Dottie knew it was because of Her Eleanor.

Eleanor was moving again, that was good. She felt a lot better than when she first woke up, but she still felt like she was fighting something or, someone. Like some of the memories she was now holding weren’t her own.

She felt herself start walking, but she wasn’t the one doing it, when she looked down she recognized the dress. It was Dotties dress

Dottie could tell that Her Eleanor wanted to control what was happening. Dottie was just happy that they were together again. Dottie didn’t need to be there any more. Dottie and Her Ellie would be together. Dottie could leave, and be very happy.

Eleanor struggled against the walking, until suddenly it stopped. There was no one fighting her anymore. Like in the middle of a battle someone stopped and just left. She ran around the house, looking for someone in her family to tell, she was here! She looked for what felt like hours, but she couldn’t find her family. Her family was missing. Then she heard the faint sound of someone in the west tower. That was storage, She walked there, the stairs were much harder to climb in this tiny body, especially since her knees couldn’t move at all, but eventually, she made it. She saw her momma, looking like she was about to cry, talking the their maid, Mary. “Thank you, we couldn’t do this ourselves. This house, just has a bad feeling here now.” The boxes were all Eleanor’s things! Why were they taking her things up to the west tower?

Dottie didn’t quite understand what was happening, Dottie had let Her Ellie lead, and Her Ellie ended up in the west tower. Her Ellie’s things were in the west tower and Sad Mary was there with Her Ellie’s Mother. Sad Mary hugged Her Ellie’s mother and walked out, with Her Ellie’s Mother right behind, closing the door for her last time. Dottie just wanted to play with Her Ellie, but now everyone was sad, even her Ellie.

Eleanor just watched as her momma and Mary leave, they didn’t even notice her, and now, it felt like she would never see them again. She walked to the door, just wanting to go cry in her room. But the door was locked. The door was locked and her entire family left. She was alone, but she still had Dottie!

It was getting to hard for Dottie to hold on now. Dottie was slipping away, and Dottie couldn't stay with Her Ellie any longer. Dottie was ok with that, even if it would make Her Ellie sad, Dottie knew it was for the best

Eleanor just heard a faint sound, “Thank you for coming back, My Ellie.” And then, she really was all alone.

The Lonely Friend

Summer,1926

James ran through the magnificent doors, scattering mud throughout the newly polished floors, and eggshell white walls. The reception room was furnished with elaborate furniture. New chairs and sofas were strewn about waiting for their place. Boxes labeled “china”, “clothes”, “silverware” and “towels” were distributed throughout the room. To her dismay Anna Wilkinson, the newly married widow, witnessed the event unfold. Anna quickly grabbed her son by his ear, and showed him to his room. “You messy little boy, look at what you have done!” she screamed after him. James room was not welcoming. The walls were still a pale white, his clothes were still in boxes, the floors were not cleaned, and the lone window was grimy. He found his younger brother Daniel, playing with one of his toys. “Hey! Give that back!” James yelled as he ripped the toy away from Daniel. “That’s no fair James, mine are still packed away!” yelled back Daniel. Daniel was a small boy, especially for an eight year old. He had brown hair like his father, and a thin face like his mother. His blue eyes were stunning against his pale skin, but his bony frame distracted from his eyes. James ran from Daniel, with his toy in his hand. As James ran through the cluttered hallways, he left muddy footprints all over the floors. The boys flew up another small flight of stairs until finding themselves in a tower of the house. The tower was considerably colder than the rest of the house, it was also dusty, it smelled dank, and it was extremely dark. It had a giant window emerged on the far wall, but years of grime and dirt prevented any sunlight from entering the room. Boxes labeled “cups”, “toys”, “clothes”,etc; were distributed throughout the room. “These boxes don’t look like ours.” murmured Daniel. “I don’t think they are.” replied James. Daniel walked over to the box labeled toys. As he opened it, he screamed. “There’s bugs everywhere! Spiders!” James laughed. “You are like a little girl! You’re scared of spiders!” “I’m not scared of spiders!” yelled back Daniel. To prove his point Daniel took a deep breath and searched through the box. He found several trinkets, including a chess board, small car toys, and a doll. He took the car, and began to put the doll back, until James snatched it from his hand.

“Little Helen might want this.” he said. James and Daniel walked back to their room, until their mother stopped them.

“James, go to the bath-where did you get that?”she asked, pointing at the hands of Daniel. “In that tower over there.” he answered honestly. “Tower? I told you not to wander around! Give those toys to me!” she yelled. “Oh, Anna, let them keep them.” interrupted Carl Wilkinson, her husband. “They’re just simple toys, they can do no harm” he continued. As he walked in, an overwhelming smell of cigars surrounded the halls. The man often smoked a cigar here and there, and reeked of it. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, and a pronounced face. “Very well.” she said, “You may keep the toys.” “YAY!” exclaimed the boys, as they ran into James room. Little Helen was waiting for them. She was little like her namesake, as she was only three years old. She wore a light pink dress, her blonde hair done in a ponytail.

“Look what I bought for you Helen!” Daniel lied,“This doll cost me my entire savings!” Helen gladly accepted the doll. It had long locks of brown hair, with a once vibrant rose clipped on its head. The doll wore a dress that was now stained, and faded shoes. Helen brushed the dolls hair, named her Mary, and introduced her to her other sisters. Elizabeth was six, and Ethel was nine. Ethel exclaimed that she was too old to be playing with dolls and left her sisters to their own devices. After James finally took his bath, the sun was down. His room was still a mess, but he saw that their were fewer boxes and his bed was now made. As his mother sent him to bed and shut his light of, James sprung out of bed. The window had been scrubbed, so the moonlight peeked in through it, casting everything in a faint light. He saw that his sisters had left the doll in his room. How strange he thought, he could have sworn it was on a box when he walked in. It was now on the floor. He ignored the thought and pushed aside the flowing white curtains to look outside his window. His stepfather was outside on the porch, smoking a cigar. He was speaking to an older man. “Some people worry about things getting out of control Carl” said the older man. “Not to worry, sir, I can assure you they have nothing to worry about. If anything we should be getting richer!” Carl responded.

The men laughed. Carl looked up, and James hurried back into bed. He didn’t want to be caught awake after his bedtime. When James woke up the next morning he was greeted by his mother. “Good Morning, James.” she said. “Good Morning, mother.” he replied. “Go downstairs and eat your breakfast, your brother and sisters will be down shortly.” she said. James did as he was told and sat at the extravagant table. A huge assortment of fruit was laid in the center of it, eloquent silverware was set up at each chair, and a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice was placed by the fruit. A bowl of biscuits was placed in front of him, and as he reached for one Martha, the maid, swatted his hand away. “You know the rules James, you must wait for everyone to be seated.” she said. He grunted in response. As he impatiently waited, he was impressed at how much progress had been made. There were no more boxes on the first floor, and the house was beginning to come together. More ornamented furniture was strewn about, vibrant colors were beginning to take form on the walls, and his great grandfather’s portrait had also found its place. He was relieved when finally his siblings joined him for breakfast. As soon as they sat down, he reached for a biscuit and delightfully sunk his teeth into hit. It was warm to the touch, and it's softness was delightful in his mouth.The doll was also given a place setting. Molly the doll was served orange juice, a jam biscuit, and a sausage link. “You’re giving a doll breakfast?” exclaimed James. “Why of course,” responded Little Helen ,“she gets hungry too.” “Mary is a simple doll” said Daniel. “She is not” replied Helen, “and her name is now Dottie.” “Dottie? I thought her names was Mary” responded James. Daniel and James looked at each other and laughed. “Stop laughing!” she said angrily, “I was wrong about her name and she told me what it was.” “She did no such thing.” interrupted the eldest sister Ethel. Helen began to sob. “Yes she did” she said through tears, as she produced a note. The note read “ My name is Dottie” in shaky handwriting. “Where did you learn to write Helen?” asked Ethel “I did not, Dottie did,” Little Helen responded.

“And how do you know what that says anyways?” snickered James “Dottie told me,” she responded, “she’s my friend.” “She must be a lonely friend,” joked Daniel. “She’s not as lonely as you will be!” responded Little Helen, “Dottie told me you snore when you sleep!” “I-I-I do not,” stammered Daniel. After arguing with Little Helen some more, the siblings were dismissed from breakfast. Ethel went to the library, while Helen and Elizabeth played with Dottie. The girls decided to go outside, but didn’t know that James and Daniel silently followed them. The brothers followed their sisters until they were outside on the porch, when suddenly Little Helen whipped around. “Dottie told us you were following us,” she said as she ran off with her sister. The boys ran after her. Helen was found by the porch. The porch was furnished with eloquent lawn chairs, and smelled of fresh paint. In front of it, was a growing rose bush covered

in vibrant red. The boys slowed down so she could not see them. They hid behind the rose bush and overheard her speaking to the doll. “I am sorry Dottie.” she said. The doll stared back at her. Suddenly she whipped her head around to look at the boys. The boys screamed, and ran in back into the house. The boys didn’t stop running until they were safely inside. “What’s wrong with you?” yelled the maid, “You’re causing a huge mess!” The boys ignored her as they went upstairs to James room and shut the door. “That doll is the devil!” exclaimed Daniel. “I cannot believe it! The devil is in our house!” responded James. “I’m going to tell mom,” Daniel said as he began to open the door. James ran up to him and shut the door. “If you tell mom, we will get locked up for the rest of our lives! She will think we have gone mad! Do you know what happens to people when they are locked up? I heard that their skin turns green, their teeth fall out, and they go blind. Do you want to turn green Daniel?” responded James. “No,” whispered Daniel. “Then don’t say a word,” responded James, “Promise me.” “I promise,” replied Daniel.

“But we have to get rid of that doll,” said James. As James spoke those words Little Helen was heard screaming through the house, interrupting their conversation. James put his finger to his lips and hushed Daniel. James cracked the door open, and peeked out of it. “She’s coming.” he whispered. Little Helen walked with Elizabeth, as she held her doll. The doll didn’t seem to notice James staring at her. The girls walked into Little Helens room and shut their door behind them. “Here's the plan.” said James, “When we get called for lunch, we make sure that doll is left in the room. Then you go get it, and throw it into the fireplace.” “Why do I have to get the doll? I don’t want to touch it!” responded Daniel. “Because it’s my plan!” shouted James. “No! I won’t do it!” shouted back Daniel. “You have to Daniel!” James responded. “No James!” Daniel said as he began to sob. “Oh no! Don’t cry. You're like a little girl!” James said as Daniel continued to cry. “Oh FINE! I’ll do it!” said James. Daniel continued to sob, until the maid called the children for lunch. “Tell her that I am in the bathroom,” James said to Daniel. James went not to the bathroom, but to Little Helen’s room. He found Little Helen with Elizabeth, brushing the doll's hair. “Mother wants to see you before lunch,” lied James. “Why?” she responded. “You know mother does not like me asking her questions,” he responded back. Little Helen started to bring her doll with her. “No! Mother wants to see you and Elizabeth, not Dottie.” said James. “But she get’s lonely when I leave her alone.” replied Little Helen. “Do not worry! I can keep her company!” replied James. After reassuring Little Helen and Ethel that their precious Dottie would be safe with him, they left to go see their mother. James would accept the consequences later. Slowly James crept into Little Helens room. The walls had been freshly painted with a coat of light pink. Her tiny bed was fit with matching blankets and several toys. On the bed laid Dottie, with a smile on her face. She had on new clothes that were stolen from another doll.Her new clothes were a vibrant pink, with no more stains. It took James several minutes for James to summon the

courage needed to touch the doll. James took a deep breath and approached the doll. As soon as he touched the it, the doll recoiled. “You demon! Go away!” screamed James. “JAMES RENAE ANDERSON” his mother yelled. He heard her rushing footsteps and braced himself. “What are you doing in your sister's room? You are supposed to be at lunch! And you're playing with a girls doll? Why did you tell them to come see me? What should I do with you?” Unable to answer her questions, James went down to lunch with his head held down, knowing that he had failed. As he sat down his brother question him. “Well.” whispered Daniel. “Well what.” responded James. “Well what happened?” responded Daniel. “The doll is still here.” answered James. Once the children were dismissed from lunch, James mother lectured him once more. “James, how many times do I have to tell you to stop spreading mud around the house?”

she asked. To his dismay he saw that he was not who was responsible. Those footprints were smaller than his feet, and the footprints were too fresh. Then he saw the doll.

Epilogue

Each effort to get rid of the doll failed. Sometimes the doll would warn Little Helen about the boys schemes, other times the doll sabotaged the boys. Often times the doll would lay “traps” so that the boys would be accused of things they had not done. The boy’s finally gave up on getting rid of her, under the condition that the doll would never be in their presence again. Five years later the house was sold, as the the Great Depression had overtaken the United States. The family moved to a more affordable house in the north. The Wilkinson’s welcomed a new baby boy during this time. All the family’s belongings were either packed away or auctioned off. In the hurried move, the boys were finally able to hide the doll from Little Helen. She cried

as she left her precious doll behind, because she had â&#x20AC;&#x153;misplacedâ&#x20AC;? it. Only the doll remained.

The Way Things Used to Be

I walk around, looking, remembering. Remembering how things used to be. Bright and colourful….alight with laughter and the rustle of skirts of all hues. The whispering of couples as they disappear into the night. The soft, melodic strains of violins and flutes winding through the halls and up the stairs. The rush of breath as a secret is revealed, the excited murmuring that comes after. The fresh flowers that were everywhere filling the rooms with a cloying, overly sweet scent. The portraits of ancestors gone long ago whose painted eyes linger as you ascend. Slowly, slowly I walk up the staircase, shivering as I feel those eyes on me. I remember when the stairs were grand, the glossy wood, smooth and shiny in the light of the candles. I can almost see her, see us, at the top of the stairs. Her in her dark blue gown and matching hair ribbon, tying up her sunshine coloured hair and her sparkling sky coloured eyes filled with joy and laughter. Me, in my forest green dress and ribbon to match in my flaming hair. As my fingertips trail along the banister, a layer of dust comes off, covering my fingers. It looks as if I am part ghost and I feel like one, my long skirt whispering as I move silently through the halls I

once called my own. I reach the door of the room that once belonged to me. The door creaks. I open it to see sheets covering the furniture. I yank them off. I see the dollhouse, the one that was mine. Its tiny rooms hold memories and I cannot find Dottie, the old doll I once had...perhaps she was gone. Like everything else, like I will be soon. My old violin case is in the corner, resting against the wall. I have half a mind to get it out and play but I can’t. Playing will only bring back memories of her. Memories of her that will only hurt. I know I can’t afford to linger, there are ghosts here and memories I cannot face. Memories of things and people I would rather forget. I pull my shawl closer around me, the icy wind blows through a crack. It reminds of the one thing I don’t want to remember, what I cannot remember, It’ll destroy me if I remember. I bury it and hide it away because I have to, because it is too painful. My feet carry past the attic, where the clutter of centuries piles high, past the second parlor where I loved for the first time. Closer to the room I dare not to enter, the place I lost everything. That room is filled with things that will make me remember what I cannot, the room that may destroy me. But my feet will not stop, carrying me up the twisting stairs to that room. The room where it all fell apart. Finally my feet stop, just outside. My hand is shaking as I reach for the doorknob but it does not falter, then the door is open. I am hit with an onslaught of memories. The blood still stains the carpet, the bright crimson hue hurting my eyes. I can still see her there, lying in a pool of her own blood, him standing over her, the knife still dripping. The plop of red drops hitting the floor echoes in my ears. If only I had been

quicker, heard her screams sooner. Maybe I could have stopped him, I could have saved her. The guilt and crushing agony engulfs me in a wave. His leering eyes still stare into mine, a crooked smile forming on his face, as he steps over her broken body. Coming, coming towards me, I am frozen in fear, my legs refuse to move. I shakily walk inside, the soft carpet muffling my feet. I see him again as he advances towards me. I cannot bear it and collapse next to her, my fingers seeking hers. They are cold but I grab them and squeeze them hard, hoping that I would wake up, that this wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t real. That in a moment it would all disappear and she and I would be sitting at her vanity as she fixed my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing that to be true. When I open them again, Everything has stopped and I am back in the empty room still stained with her blood. I stand, I walk around, looking, remembering, the way things used to be.

I Met My First Love in an Abandoned Building

I met my first love in an abandoned building As few lovers do. We came seeking a deafening silence And stayed for the mildew.

As fate would have it Our paths crossed inside. Fate left us then Now to decide

“If this was fate,” She said to me, “It has strange timing

From what I can see.”

The walls around us Seemed to close in. Beckoning, What could have been.

But sour walls Did did not persuade Her to believe This cheap charade.

Try as I may She couldn’t foresee A future together Past ‘73.

But life is persistent And I am anything if not

Patient and understanding It was worth a shot.

June of 1981

I’m laying here on the splintered wooden floor, worn down from decades of exhaustion. My chest rises with each inhale and sinks back down with each exhale. I gently trace my five lettered name into the floor underneath my palm over and over. Marie. Marie. Marie. In here, in this old, abandoned home, it’s just me. Just me, the crickets outside, and the moon showing through the cracks in the ceiling. It’s peaceful. My home is full of polished floors and the ever present scent of Aqua Net. Each curtain is perfectly aligned and each rug is always laid flat. Walking into the front hall, I practically feel the judgement slither onto my skin, covering me in filth. With each “How is that boy from the bus stop?” and “You must find someone like us, someone...clean.” I feel filthier and filthier. How can I feel so dirty in a house so meticulously cleaned? I tried to tell them. Today, I tried. I told them I loved them and I am still the same that I have ever been. I told them I have never liked boys the way they wanted me to and I told them I am still their precious daughter Marie, brought into this world on May 23rd, 1968. I told them I’ve

always been this way and I’ve always loved them and always will. I told them and they screamed and shut me out. They shut me out of their lives and out of their home. My mother and father left me to the warm asphalt and South Carolina humidity. The last thing they said to me was that they “didn’t raise a homosexual, a disgrace, an abomination.” The last thing I told them was “I love you.” I don’t have freshly cooked meals or clean clothes, but I do have other things. I have the scent of freshly fallen rain on the South Carolina clay and and the songs of the cicadas. I have the moon as my light and the stars as my map. I have freedom in this empty frame of a two story building, all to myself. I have the ability to come and go as I please and I have peace. I have myself. After all these years, I am finally being honest with myself. This fragile home is as worn down as I feel. It’s a place I can rest, a place I can stay, a place I can call home. The staircase is splintered like my hands and the fireplace hasn’t been put to use in what looks like decades. There is no constant humming of an AC or the deafening silence of judgement. I feel no need to hide myself or who I am, who I love. Instead, there is the symphony of the wind against the oak trees and the birds in the morning. I feel liberated, I feel entirely myself. For the first time in possibly ever, I am free. I am myself. I am whole. As I run my hands across the worn floor, I close my eyes. I hear the gentle buzz of the neon sign from the Wendy’s down the street. The cicadas seem to harmonize with the crickets as a gentle breeze pushes through the shattered windows. All that is here is me. All that matters

is now. This moment, this one small fragment of time, everything has come together. This moment is mine.

Femme Fatale

From the Journal of Jessica Allan Someone had gotten in trouble. Real trouble. The young women clustered around the dining room table in their assorted sweats and pajamas. A new, never opened copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone lay unwrapped on the crooked wooden table. No one ever got presents here.

“Kitty must have bribed Warden again, that little sneak,” one of the girls murmured, followed by mumbles of agreement.

An arpeggio of footsteps came down the stairs, each one louder than the next. The agglomeration of girls broke apart as a figure’s shadow crept up the dining room wall.

Her clay-red hair appeared first, pulled back in a tight ponytail.

The Warden, aka Charlene Howard, founder and keeper of the house.

Warped wooden floorboards squealed under her intimidating figure as she stepped nonchalantly towards the group.

“I guess you're all wondering why a brand-new book is sitting on the table, one that's not ripped or stained or has the cover torn off or any other thing you girls have done to books for the last seventeen years.

“I’m here to tell you why. It's a reward. That means you have to earn it. That means no dogearing, no ripping out pages, no underlining, no nothing. If you want to write down or remember a quote, a pad of Post-Its will be with the book at all times to do so.”

I shakily raised my hand, but as she looked my way, I pretended I had to push up my glasses, thin crystal clear lenses encased in brown tortoiseshell, held in a thin metal frame that rested gently on the bridge of my nose. They were my most prized possession besides my blue-cased 910 Hamilton classroom record player. My glasses were an...obsession of mine, as they were the only thing my mother ever did right for me.

That’s actually how I got in this place, this “Charlene’s Home for Wayward Girls” at 787 w. Main Street, Laurens, SC 29360 (I memorized the address to get books sent to me by my dad).

My story isn't one of woe, or pity. It's of revenge. See, my father was fine. All he ever did to me was love and care for me, never doing anything to upset me or hurt me. I missed that.

Anyways, back to revenge. While my father was the kind, gentle soul in my old house, my mother was Satan in human form, if you could call her human. She would never hit me with her fists, but her words stung just as badly. She would call me the most awful names she could think of, her verbal abuse a slap in the face. We hadn’t gotten along since the day I turned three and stopped being a cuddly baby she could coo over and show off to her friends. A trophy wife at its finest, my mother took my dad for all he was worth, literally. She had movers come in during a weekend trip that was supposed to help us “bond” when all it really did was tear us further apart.

We got home that Sunday night to an empty house, and when my father confronted her about it, she was too busy leaving to reply. What I did next is my story, the only thing people care about, the only way the state sees me now.

A mover was in my room, boxing up anything of value, which included my costly record player. I screamed in a fit of rage and attacked the man, clawing him with my unkept nails, beating him with a packaging tape gun until he finally let go of the device.

The man spent three weeks in the hospital.

The state evaluated my case unusually fast, and I ended up in Charlene’s.

I was 15 years old.

That was three years ago. --

I finished writing in my journal and closed the worn leather cover. The old floors creaked in my bedroom, alerting me to someone’s presence. Kitty. Her perfectly sculpted figure reeked of Bath & Body Works perfume as she sauntered in. “Hey, Jessie,” she drawled sweetly. My eyes narrowed into a squint behind my glasses. “What do you want, Kitty?” Her doe eyes rounded innocently as she blinked, only furthering my annoyance. “What do you mean, Jessie?” “Don't call me Jessie. My name is Jessica. What do you want, Kitty?” The girl’s face morphed into an expression reminiscent of my mother, and I shivered fearfully inside. “You better not go for that Harry Potter book, Allan. That book’s mine.” I stood up from my bed, my journal falling forgotten to the floor. “You know what, Kitty? I'll go for that book if I want it. Unlike you, I actually might deserve to read it.” Kitty scoffed. “You? You assaulted a moving man. You're insane. Crazy. Lunatic.”

I squinted my eyes again, stepping closer to Kitty. I knew she was here for possession, so she was at a serious disadvantage to my sober self. Putting on my best Sarah Michelle Gellar “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” look, I sized up my opponent. “You have to understand those words to say them, you ignoramus.” Kitty gasped and lunged for me, but three years of living with these girls, watching them come and go and establishing myself as the alpha each time made my reflexes sharp. Since the first time I was defeated as a newbie in the house, I vowed never to lose again. I ducked under her grasp and out the door, down the thin flight of suede brown steps. The book rested on the table like it had this morning, and I immediately grappled for it, but Kitty was also fast from years of practice. She tackled me from behind, sending us crashing to the dining room floor. Heavy footsteps ricocheted through the house as the other girls came to see what was happening. I whipped around the tangle of limbs to wrap my elbow around Kitty’s neck. She sputtered as she was asphyxiated, her face tinged purple. “Jessica, this isn't funny anymore, let go,” she gasped desperately. I gritted my teeth, pulling tighter around her neck. My thin arms burned with the strain, but I kept pulling. Nobody disrespected me in this house, not ever. I was the teenage form of the Warden, god-like, omniscient.

Kitty finally stopped squirming just as the Warden and the other girls made it down the stairs. “Jessica Allan, what have you done?” Charlene screeched, pulling me off of Kitty’s limp body. The other girls cowered by the entrance as I crawled to the dining room to the dish hutch. As sirens wailed in the distance, I pulled my doll out of the back of the lowest cabinet. “I did it, Dottie. We’re free.”

Watch the piece in video format here: https://youtu.be/rFp6XFvyrPc?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

Just Friends

Terry didn’t grow up wanting to be a TV ghost hunter, he had wanted to be an anchorman. He wanted to tell people news that matters to them. Not whether or not this random building that they will never go to is haunted. This definitely was not the ideal job for someone who is terrified of ghosts. Joe had told him, “You’ll be fine. Just go on camera, say some stuff about dead spirits, and let me do the rest.” but Terry was still not convinced he would come back alive. The car rumbled as they drove to 787 West Main Street. Terry gripped onto the lunch his mom had packed for him as if it was his last shred of hope. His stomach dropped as they pulled up to his first assignment. A Victorian two-story house with broken windows, missing siding, and a balcony that looked straight out of Gone with the Wind. “Don’t worry, people always claim these kinds of houses are haunted but it usually ends up being a squirrel or some kind of animal.” Joe chuckled as he unloaded the camera equipment.

“Usually?” Terry asked as he got out of the car. Weeds licked Terry’s legs as he walked up to the front door, the ivory paint was beginning to peel off and the door was barely on its hinges. “Terry, you ready? We might as well get started,” Joe picked up the camera and angled it towards Terry. “What’s up MTV, welcome to my crib,” Terry joked as he nervously walked onto the porch “Just kidding. We came to see whether or not this house is haunted. Hey Joe, knock knock,” Joe was caught off guard but responded, “Who’s there?” “A ghost, probably.” Terry then turned towards the door and tried to pry it open. After several attempts to jiggle it open, Joe came the rescue and pushed the door with ease. Terry didn’t understand why he was shaking so much, Joe had said himself that it was probably just squirrels making the mysterious noises that they had been sent to investigate.

Wilbur heard murmurs from the third floor. He peered from the shattered glass in the sitting room out onto the front porch. To his dismay, he saw what he feared most: a middle aged man that still, most likely, lives with his mother. Also ghost hunters; ghost hunters aren’t the best things to come across when you are very, extremely, positively dead. Although ghost

hunters are to be feared, Wilbur was lonely and wanted nothing more than to be noticed by someone. He sat erect on the couch in front of the front door, for he wanted to make a good impression. What better way to impress someone with immaculate posture? The door handle began to jiggle and turn. He could hear the hefty man ramming his body into the frame as he struggle with opening the door. “Silly man,” he thought, “you can’t open a door when it’s locked.” Just a few moments later, out of the goodness of his heart, Wilbur unlocked the door for the poor idiots.

Terry hated old houses, especially when they were abandoned. The musty air choked him as they walked through the door. He fumbled with his flashlight until Joe came and took it out of his hands. “Relax, there’s nothing to worry about--” but before he could finish a loud bang came out of nowhere. “Joe, let’s leave. That was definitely a ghost, what else could it possibly be?” To Terry’s dismay he followed Joe straight ahead into the parlor. Picking up a dusty lamp that had fallen off of the nearby table, Joe observed, “You see it was just a lamp. There is nothing to worry about,” laughing as he put it back in its place. Everything about this house screamed horror film to Terry, from the starchy linen covering the old furniture to the creaky floor boards that could give you a splinter through your shoes. “I’m going to go set up the lighting in the kitchen. Go look around the house and see what you can find,” Joe offered. “What, are you crazy?! This house is definitely haunted!” “Stop being such a baby and go check out the house, you’ll be fine,” Joe reassured him. He was going to die, he was sure of it. There was no way Terry was making it home, he might as well call his mother right now and tell her to make dinner for one tonight. Against his better judgement, he wandered into the library that was adjacent to the sitting room. Terry’s jaw immediately dropped at the vast collection of books that the house had acquired over the years. He reached up to pick up the oldest book he could find when another loud bang came from behind him.

Wilbur hadn’t been this excited to see people since, well, ever. He was lonely and all he wanted was someone to sit with him and talk about how terrible this afterlife is.

“Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD.” Wilbur squealed like a little girl. Excitement surged through his body as he jumped around the parlor. During the electric excitement, he didn’t see where his body was going and knocked his old vintage lamp onto the floor causing one of the visitors to become quite startled. He never knew that such a big man could have such a high pitched voice when he was spooked. In a frenzy, he quickly ran into the next room. He didn’t want the new visitors to think he was the one being clumsy or untidy. After all, he could just blame the fallen lamp on a cat or something. He sprinted into the library and hid behind a large, Victorian sofa. The one visitor followed him in there but never said hello. Quite rude. At this point, Wilbur had decided on formally introducing himself to his new friend. He started to walk over to him, knocking over the antique urn of someone’s ashes from long ago, he died, even more so than he already has, of sheer embarrassment.

Terry whipped around to see an urn on the ground with ashes scattered all over the carpet. “What in the world is that?!” He shivered. Joe came back from the kitchen and saw the

broken urn on the ground, “What did you break?!” “It wasn’t me I swear. I think it was a ghost.” “Oh really? Always gotta make up some stories about ghosts huh? Ghosts aren’t real, do you get that?” Joe responded, rolling his eyes.

Wilbur’s mouth hung wide open in disbelief. He welcomed these two schmucks into his home and this was how he gets treated? “Okay, pals, you DO realize that I am RIGHT HERE?” Wilbur stomped to the Victorian couch that he once hid behind and sat on it, crossing his legs and arms he proceeds to mimic the men and what they were saying. “Then why are we doing this show, if you think ghosts aren’t even real?” Terry managed to spit out in between the hasty breaths he was breathing into the brown paper bag that had once held his lunch. “It’s a TV show, nothing’s real on TV. People want entertainment not the truth!” Joe exclaimed as he picked up the remains of the urn and put it back onto the nearest table. “That’s why I wanted to be an anchorman, people want news to be truthful and straightforward, none of this nonsense.” His breathing was starting to calm down and he could feel himself stop shaking.

“Maybe we should find you another job,” Joe suggested as he began to pack up the camera equipment, “I don’t think this is working out.” “Yeah, maybe it’s for the best,” Terry replied as he walked out of the library and into the sitting room.

“No, no, no,” Wilbur moved towards the door frantically, “My friends can’t leave me, I was just beginning to know them.” He made it to the large front door in time to lock the scared men inside. At this point, they would have to be friends with Wilbur. Terry jumped and hid behind Joe’s back. “Did you just see what happened?!” Terry shivered. “Chill out, it’s just an old house with an old lock,” Joe reached out and unlocked the door. Wilbur quickly locked it again. “Huh, that’s weird,” as he reached out to unlock the door again. It quickly turned into a battle of who could lock and unlock the door the fastest. This was the closest Wilbur had gotten to playing a game in almost a hundred years. However, Terry was not having as much fun as Wilbur was and proceeded to pass out, landing with a large bang on the wooden floor. Staring at the robust middle aged man that was now knocked out on his floor, Wilbur decided it would be best to let his friends go. He unlocked the door and opened it slowly so that his guests could seek some much needed medical attention. Joe frantically swung open the door, grabbed his camera bag, and dragged Terry by the feet out of the door and eventually into the car.

Wilbur leaned against the door frame while he watched his new friends drive away down the dirt path into society once more. He felt his eyes burning and he gulped air into his lungs. His bottom lip began to quiver as he closed the door slowly behind him. He collapsed into a ball at the bottom of the door and sunk his head into the palms of his hands. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” his words were muffled and he struggled to annunciate through the tears and deep breaths, “You let your friends leave you again.” He got up slowly and shuffled up the stairs into his room. He lay gently on top of the corpses of the people that too once visited his estate.

Watch the piece in video format here: https://youtu.be/Y-obD797lkk?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

A House of Generations

How many have passed through your threshold? How many feet have trampled your aching floors? Your foundation buckles under the weight of the years. Your walls sag with knowledge, never to be shared. What would you say if could could talk?

A house of generations You once stood in grandeur, Your turrets arching towards the sky. A porch wrapped around your base, hugging you tightly. White walls hid the secrets that lay within. A perfect form, reminiscent of what used to be.

Your tourrets now topple. Your porch crumbles and rots, No longer able to hold you close. And those walls are stained with years gone by.

A chandelier of cobwebs decorates every room. Purple wisteria mounts your walls, Cracking brick and splintering wood. Moss clings to your rafters As a lonely breeze stirs a tornado of littered leaves.

They have pinned your execution note to your unhinged door A bright pink banner among the faded paint. It is now a waiting game. But life for you was always a waiting game. Waiting for the next family, The next occupants, The next visitors. And the game begins again,

But this time you wait for death.

Your windows weep ivy. Your hallways howl from the grief. You shudder and settle and groan.

A roar of machinery disturbs your solitude. It grumbles and spits, Coughing smog as it sizes you up. Its arm is drawn back and back, A metal ball on a string goes with it.

The game is over. The waiting is done.

Watch the piece in video format here: https://youtu.be/wH4YVD47x8M?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

If I Were a Building

If I were a building, I wouldn’t be one that people gaze at. I would not be a skyscraper, part of an impressive skyline that amazes in the light and dazzles in the dark. I would not be an art museum which people see and are immediately inspired by its beauty and the treasures that it holds. I would not be a world famous tourist attraction whose uniqueness makes it brilliant. No, if I were a building, I wouldn’t be one that people gaze at. If I were a building, I’d be an abandoned one. Abandoned by others, abandoned by me. According to the dictionary, abandoned is defined as “left without needed protection or care.” What type of protection or care do people really need? I think it’s that feeling of love, that feeling of being wanted and desired. All my life I have needed to be loved, needed to be looked at so that I knew I was appreciated. Needed to feel like I wasn’t so abandoned. Somewhere along the way, this need for company left me feeling more alone than I could have ever imagined. I started out as a building with people I knew and adored, a small one, just a house. The

thing about houses, however, was that not everyone could appreciate a house. Some people didn’t like my tan wooden sidings or my white door or the bright twinkling sound of my doorbell. So I changed, just a little, just enough so that people could like me more, so that they’d want to move in. I painted some of my sidings red, because people like red and I knew that. I hung a wreath of daisies on my door, even though I have allergies, because people like daisies and I knew that. Then I changed my doorbell into one of those cheesy doorbell songs that everyone has, but I didn’t like that sound at all, and I knew that. I dealt with it though, because more people came and for a while I felt appreciated, treasured, complete. Even so, I wanted to grow bigger, taller, to attract a larger crowd, so I changed. I added layers, each one more different and more artificial so that I could be appreciated by everyone. I noticed one day, that my house had been crushed by my added layers. I had become an apartment. People came, but people also moved out. They left their furniture, their stories, and their memories. They left me too, and I couldn’t stand it. I needed them to stay, to feel like I was the reason that nomadic people could finally settle down. So I became a hotel. I sliced myself into rooms and halls and redecorated. One of my halls was brightly lit with orange shag carpeting. Another one had purplish walls and green tinted paintings of fruits in bowls hung on the walls. Nothing matched to me, nothing fit into place, but more people did come. They stayed for a while but they always ended up checking out, and when they did, I was left alone with an empty lobby, empty halls, and empty rooms,

none of which I really liked. I had become someone I didn’t know, someone I didn’t appreciate. I had added on layers that weren’t me and I couldn’t stop. It didn’t matter how much I changed and how much I wanted to feel complete, I could always see the cracks in my walls and the stains adorning my tiles. I could see the wallpaper peeling off in some rooms. I couldn’t see anything else but these faults. So I checked out too. That’s when I started to feel what the world “abandoned” really means. The dictionary defines the word as “left without needed protection or care.” I realized that the protection and the care I ever truly needed and was deprived of, was the ability to protect and to care for myself. This changed one day. I had a friend who moved in, checked into one of my rooms that I hadn’t seen in awhile. The room had a plain white door, a color that reminded me of pureness and innocence, the sense of starting over with a clean slate. The room itself was plain too. For decoration, there was just a single picture with a tan wooden frame. It had a little alarm clock that made this bright twinkling sound that I remembered liking a long time ago. I waited for him to leave, to check out, but he didn’t, and I asked him why not. “I like who you really are,” he had said. That’s when it hit me that I did not like me. I didn’t even really know who I was anymore, and I wanted that to change. I started from the top, from the newest layers, and started to tear them down. I took down the levels and watched them crumble. I saw these new parts of me fall into piles of rubble collecting on the ground. I felt nothing, for these new parts of me were never real parts of me. The only emotion I had was fear, fear that maybe no one would like me once I finished, but I kept going. I tore and destroyed until there was nothing left except that cozy little house I had started with in the beginning. The house, the me that was never good enough, I had missed it, me. I had missed the tan wooden siding with its unique designs and swirls, unlike ones of the Louvre, but one that was special and individual in its own way. The door that didn’t make me feel uncomfortable and the twinkling sound of the doorbell that was strong and expressive in its own way. My friend stayed and so did many others. They never left and that was important to me, but it was also newly important that I came back too. I stopped becoming something I wasn’t and made changes for myself. I painted the door light blue, not because others liked it, but because I liked light blue. I was still scared, scared that my door would be too blue or not blue enough, but I knew that settling for any other blue would be the same as that hated red siding and the wreath of daisies and the cheesy doorbell song. I am not an abandoned building, and I

never truly was until the moment I abandoned myself.

Potential

Hundreds of cars pass by everyday without a making a glance. So many people unaware of what beauty the house has to offer. Forgotten and unseen the aged white house sits untouched. Once a beautiful warm home filled with unconditional love. Now it is left stranded filled with nothing but emptiness. Cobwebs lerk all throughout the house in every corner. The willow tree sways back and forth in the front lawn to a sweet rhythm. The rusted metal swing on the screened-in porch creeks gracefully. Dust and debri dance in the sunlight that is reflected through the windows. Filled with mystery and potential; The lonely white house waits patiently to be rediscovered.

Waffles, Monuments, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show

It was a three a.m. Waffle House date over winter break during my junior year of high school that pretty much sealed the deal. Of course, for a long time before then, I’d always known that I felt a certain way about him. He was the kind of kid who made you believe you were truly special when he talked to you or shared something with you. He made obscure references to A Series of Unfortunate Events, always had a new skateboarding-related injury to show off, and how could anyone forget that vibrant blue hair? His devil-may-care persona was endearing; confidence exuded from every pore. But he wasn’t all just punk rock and funky hair--he was charming, sincere, and brimming with wit. One of the first times he texted me for something non-yearbook class related, he sent me the YouTube link to a song by The Weakerthans, written from the perspective of a cat. It’s kind of hard not to fall in love with someone who sends you a really good song sung by a metaphorical feline just because he knew you’d like it. It quickly became kind of hard not to fall in love with him, period.

It can be painful to look back on my early memories , mainly because he was close. Nine hours of I-95 have separated us now for almost a year since he started working at camp in Pennsylvania, save for a few visits and holidays. A million different things have happened in the year and a half since that first night, but there was something so magical about that beginning to me--the breathless cold, the sidelong glances, the jokes exchanged over dead-of-night breakfast platters. In many ways, it felt just like a movie. We were just two kids who had always had trouble loving ourselves, suddenly falling in love with each other. Everything was still so new and sacred and exciting. I think that newness can only be found at the beginning of something, because, later, it may still be good, but it becomes something else. In the beginning, you’re still being gentle. It’s like you’ve got this beautiful, precious, fragile thing in your hands and all you want to do is look at it. Later, if you’re lucky, it hardens and becomes less fragile. That precious thing becomes rough around the edges, which is crucial to its survival. As our relationship progressed past the first four months that encompassed our first kiss, Sadie Hawkins, my seventeenth birthday, his graduation, and our first prolonged goodbye, that precious thing that we shared became weathered, forced to withstand the pressure of distance. There have been fights. Bitter phone calls, doubts about the future. People believe our love to be a perfect fairy tale as it appears in sun-drenched, touchy-feely Instagram posts, but it’s been hard. No matter how much we care about each other, the distance always seems to hurt someone.

We tried to revisit that same Waffle House this past winter break, thinking we could make it into a tradition the way we decided to make it a tradition to see Rocky Horror every year around Christmastime (rice throwing, underwear run and all). However, when we pulled up to the dingy facade of the all-night breakfast chain, we found the building vacant and permanently darkened, not a soul inside. It was no big deal at the time--we mapped another location and ate our waffles elsewhere--but, looking back, it felt like the true end of something. Long distance is hard. It’s one of the most difficult, trying things a couple can withstand, especially a couple trying to navigate the immediacy of young adulthood. But it is what it is at this point. I remember when we met up in Washington, DC, last fall while I was touring my future school. We went traipsing around the National Mall late at night when nobody else was around, and he decided to lick the Washington Monument “just for the principle of it.” Nobody else is going to lick the Washington Monument with me. Nobody else is going to love the color yellow so much just because it’s my favorite color. Nobody else is going to marathon countless episodes of Kitchen Nightmares with me and be endlessly entertained. This is it. The big time. The real thing. Our Waffle House remains abandoned, but it holds our origin story, a story of mix CDs and Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World quotes and casual walks to the parking lot together after fourth period. And, in many ways, he’s a superhero to me. Not just in the expert way he can maneuver himself on a skateboard or the fact that there’s a light inside of him that never seems to go out, but because he makes me so unapologetically happy. That’s his superpower. The distance will ebb and flow with time and college and summer jobs, but the love between us persists. And I think that, no matter what happens, it always will

38 Watch the piece in video format here: https://youtu.be/1OtI5Nkgiiw?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

Dino Cop in: Triassic Trouble Cast: Sheriff Jeremy (aka Dino Cop), Deputy Banji Long, Clansman Triceracop, Clansman Ute, Troodon, Compso, Maia, Police Officer #, Police Officer #2, Black Claw Army In the last Dino Cop, Jeremy earned a job as a police officer and was assigned to work with another newbie: Banji. These two ended up discovering a secret about a Bank Vault heist that the own Sheriff of the town; Triceracop was leading. Compso and Troodon also were behind the plan, but in the end the heist was unsuccessful and the Volcano Vault Bank collapsed and everyone thought the Black Claw was dead from trying to rob the bank. Jeremy and Banji at the end of the last installment were promoted to Sheriff and Deputy for their heroic actions.

Scene 1 The screen is black and there is heavy breathing, a potato sack is taken off the head of the character from a POV perspective. The character sees the menacing grin of Clansman Ute. The camera zooms out to reveal Troodon in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a metal chair. Troodon: Shaking back and forth in the chair. Why am I here? What did I do?

Clansman Ute: Shaking his head, pacing back and forth. You’ve let down the clan...what a shame.

Troodon: Where’s Compso? What’s happening!?!

Clansman Ute: Chuckles. Your performance in the bank heist was pathetic, that “Dino Cop” handled you with ease.

Troodon: He’s...He’s powerful! He killed Triceracop!

Triceracop: I’m disappointed Troodon. Clansman Triceracop approaches the two.

Troodon:

Master! I did not mean to abandon you! I thought you were dead!

Clansman Triceracop: Did you KNOW I was dead? Or did you just THINK I was dead? Because you would have not abandoned me if you KNEW I wasn’t dead!

Troodon: Crying and begging. Please sir….please don’t hurt me!

Clansman Triceracop: Cackles as he puts his hands on Trodon’s shoulder. Me? Hurt you? I’m not going to hurt you! Gestures to Clansman Ute and grins. Leans in close to Troodon and whispers. But….he will…. The camera focuses on Troodon’s dilating eyes, the screen goes black, there is a loud roar and struggling sounds.

Scene 2 The scene transitions to months later, Jeremy and Banji make their way through a crowd of police officers and reporters to see the fossilized body of Troodon.

Sheriff Jeremy: Is that?

Deputy Banji: Troodon…

Police Officer #1: Yes Sheriff, we were notified of his remains at precisely 7:16 this morning, so it’s been sitting for about an hour.

Deputy Banji: Maybe way longer, I mean this body is completely fossilized.

Sheriff Jeremy:

No this Officer is right, this body could have only been here for an hour. There is no evidence of any decomposition on the soil, and - moves down close to the body to take a closer look - in fact the bones look scrubbed clean!

Deputy Banji: But...I don’t understand why someone would do something this horrific to Troodon.

Sheriff Jeremy: Looking closer at the bones. Wait a second - Reaches up under the skull of Troodon and pulls out a letter.

Crowd of Reporters and Police: *Gasp*

Sheriff Jeremy: Reveals the Black Claw stamp on the outside of the letter. I think we have our culprit.

Deputy Banji: The Black Claw clan? They’re back?

Sheriff Jeremy: Walking toward his cop car away from the crowd. Bodybag the rest of him. This is all we needed.

Police Officer #2: Yessir!

Deputy Banji: Chasing Jeremy down. Jeremy! What do you think this means? How could the Black Claw be alive after all of them perished in the fall of Volcanic Vault?

Sheriff Jeremy: Opening car door. Well using common sense, I believe that that isn’t true. They killed Troodon for reason.

Deputy Banji: What are you going to do about it?

Sheriff Jeremy: I plan to sit down in my living room tonight, nibble on a hash brown - shakes letter - and read this letter. Meet me early in the office tomorrow, we’ll have some work to do. Gets in his cop car.

Scene 3 Banji sits on the couch in his living room looking stressed out, his wife Maia walks into the room.

Maia: Relieved. O.k. all the kids are in bed. Notices Banji. What’s wrong sweetie?

Banji:

We discovered at work today that the Black Claw is still active. I have a feeling Jeremy won’t sleep until he knows the town is completely safe...I just can’t stand if the kid got hurt, this is just a very dangerous situation.

Maia: Sighs. I understand, but to Jeremy the citizens of this town are his kin. I hate knowing you two could be in danger at any time, but someone has to take the time to protect this town.

Doorbell rings.

Banji: Gets up. I’ll get it.

Opens door, Jeremy stands at the door with a large book in his hand.

Jeremy: Umm..Can I come in?

Banji:

Yeah sure Jeremy.

Maia: Smiles. I’ll clear the dinner table for you two.

Transition to the kitchen.

Jeremy: Rests book on table, and takes Black Claw note out of his pocket. So I was reading the note...let me just read what they said so this doesn’t get confusing:

We live, we breathe, we thrive We know you’ve seen Troodon not alive He met his maker We will do you that favor We come for the Heart of the Glacier

Banji: Aha! They did kill him.

Jeremy: Folding note back up. They did, but they did it for a reason. I don’t know which members are still alive or if they have gained any new ones, but they plan to use “The Heart of the Glacier” which they mentioned in their letter. Here look at this book! Hands Banji the large book.

Banji: The History and Myth of Glacierville. How is this supposed to help?

Jeremy: Smirking. Trust me, just flip it open to page 79.

Banji: Flips through the pages. The Heart of the Glacier: “It is believed that the founder of Glacierville; George T.C. Glacier, was a wizard. Rumors have been passed that he enchanted a stone that

he called the ‘Heart of the Glacier’. It is believed that this stone would give anyone in the T.C. Glacier bloodline immense wealth and power. However, the legend says that this stone is hidden deep in the ice of the Glacierville Glacier, very unattainable by anyone else not in the bloodline.” I don’t understand Jeremy, why is this important?

Jeremy: It says that his name is George T.C. Glacier! I looked up his family tree and I think Troodon is a part of it!

Banji: So that’s why Troodon was completely fossilized, the Black Claw needed some of his blood to obtain George T.C. Glacier’s crystal.

Jeremy: We can stop them but we have to get there first! Tomorrow morning at sunrise we go get that

crystal.

Scene 4

Scene changes to the next day, Banji and Jeremy stand in front of the giant glacier that rests behind the skyline of Glaciervile. Jeremy and Banji wear heavy police coats.

Banji: So....how are we supposed to get up there?

Jeremy: Shoves ice picks into his hand and gives an insane smile. Icepick!

Banji: Shakes his head. That stone better be up there.

The camera zooms out and reveals multiple helicopter shots of Banji and Jeremy climbing up the vertical Glacier slope. Very intense music is playing.

Jeremy: Reaches the edge and climbs over.

Banji: Ice accidently chips away and he hangs by one icepick. Whoa! Jeremy!

Jeremy: Grabs Banji by the arm and pulls him up. That was a close one!

Both turn around to see a white hooded figure facing them.

Jeremy: Draws bone bat. Hands up sir! This is the GPD!

Hooded Figure: â&#x20AC;Śdraws bone bat.

Banji: Draws bone bat. Sir, do not resist arrest! Hands up!

Hooded Figure: Draws bone bat.

Triceracop: Nice try Compso, now please take off your hood and we can try to settle this in less of a...how should I say... brutish way.

Jeremy and Banji turn around.

Jeremy: Triceracop, I thought you were dead.

Clansman Triceracop and Clansman Ute walk toward Sheriff Jeremy and Deputy Banji.

Compso: Takes off hood. You’re just scum that kills for power!

Clansman Triceracop: Digs claws into the ice. You see Compso…I don’t kill for a reason! I kill for a purpose! Your little friend Troodon and I weren’t really working out, so I had to end things with him.

Compso: Charges at Clansman Triceracop. Argghhhhhhhhh!

Clansman Ute: Grabs Compso by the neck and slams his head down on the ice. Hissssss!

Compso: Gasping for air. You won’t get...away...with this.

Jeremy: Raises his bone bat. You stand no chance! It’s over!

Clansman Triceracop: I like your determination, Jeremy! But unfortunately, I brought some of my friends to the party...

Jeremy and Banji look behind them to see a massive army of Black Claw members.

Clansman Triceracop: Points to Banji. Tie him up! Don’t tie the other one up. I’ll deal with him myself.

Clansman Triceracop walks over to Jeremy who is being held down by Black Claw members,he kicks Jeremy hard in the chest and kneels down.

Jeremy: Oof!

Clansman Triceracop:

You spoiled my plans once. But now, I will spoil yours. Come!

Black Claw Guards escort Jeremy over to an area being dug out by Black Claw members.

Clansman Triceracop: You see Jeremy we have located the Heart of the Glacier, and we plan to use it to destroy Glacierville. Pulls out vial of Troodon’s blood. With this blood, I can unlock the power of the stone!

There is a loud “THUNK”, one of the Clansmembers digging raises a small blood red stone in the air.

Clansman Triceracop: Snatches the stone out the dinosaurs hand. Thank you, my kind sir. Now time for immense power! Uncaps the vial and pours it on the stone, he waits for a little while. It’s not working! Tapping the stone. Hello? Can I get my immense power?

Jeremy: Whispers under his breath. That doesn’t make sense why is it not working?

Clansman Triceracop: Whatever I can take over the city without it! Looks down at Jeremy. I suppose you know what happens next... Triceracop hammers down a crushing blow with his bone bat and Jeremy topples over dead.

Banji: Screams. JEREMY!!!!

Compso: Tied up beside Banji. No...this can’t happen.

Clansman Triceracop: Fiddles with the Heart of the Glacier in his hand, and finally throws it at Jeremy landing is his bloodstained hands. You’ll be needing this more than me! Laughs.

Clansman Ute: Sir, when should we attack?

Clansman Triceracop: The takeover happens now. Dino Cop is dead.

Scene 5 Scene changes. Clansman Triceracop stands in the middle of town square, Clansman Ute stands next to him keeping Banji and Compso at their knees. The Black Claw army stands directly gathered behind him.

Clansman Triceracop: Dino Cop is dead! He has fallen like the Volcano Vault! He has fallen like an abandoned building!

Crowd of Citizens: *GASP*

Clansman Triceracop: Glacierville belongs to the Black Claw now!

Black Claw Army: *Cheers*

Jeremy: Stop right there Triceracop! Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all over!

Everyone looks up to see Jeremy on top of a building with all of his wounds healed. He holds the, now glowing, Heart of the Glacier in his hand and a bone bat in the other.

Banji: Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in the bloodline! Not Troodon!

Jeremy: Jumps from the building and slashes the rope that is wrapped around Compso and Banji. Agh!

Compso: Talking to Banji. I got Ute you guys take on Triceracop!

Clansman Ute: Hissing. You think you can take me on?

Compso: Flipping over Ute and striking him hard in the back. You’re too easy!

Clansman Ute: Gnashes teeth. I’ll show you why you and your dead friend were replaced!

Compso: Don’t make fun of my dead friend! HE HAS FEELINGS! Smacking Clansman Ute unconscious into the crowd of people.

Meanwhile Banji easily takes care of multiple Black Claw members and Jeremy and Clansman Triceracop face off.

Jeremy: It’s over Triceracop! There’s literally no chance of you winning! I have the stone.

Clansman Triceracop: I will never accept defeat! RAHHHHHH! Charges at Jeremy.

Jeremy deflects Triceracop’s charge and launches him to the ground.

Jeremy: I’m sorry Triceracop...but you’ve lost! Points bone bat directly at Triceracop’s throat.

Clansman Triceracop:

Stares Jeremy directly in the eye. Kill me... I know you don’t have the guts to.

Jeremy: Sheaths bone bat. I don’t kill for a purpose, I don’t kill for a reason. It’s not because I don’t have the guts it’s because I signed an oath the day I became a Glacierville Police Officer to never kill another living dinosaur on purpose. But it seems you forgot about that rule.

Police Officer 1 and 2 handcuff the two clansmen.

Clansman Triceracop: As he is being escorted by police. I will kill you Dino Cop! This city will be mine!

Scene 6 Banji and Jeremy are back in Jeremy’s office.

Jeremy: Sitting back in a chair with his feet up. You know, me being related to George T.C. explains a lot.

Banji: How?

Jeremy: Twirling the stone in his hand. I never really knew my Grandfather...I guess it was him.

Banji: What Triceracop said was wrong. You didn’t fall like an abandon building, you miraculously standing tall like one.

Jeremy: Now that he’s locked up we won’t have to worry right?

Banji: Laughs. Are you kidding?

TO BE CONTINUED

#10 DOHS

It began with the tenth house on DOHS. There were no streets at that time, no neighborhoods with hundreds of homes. There were only nine houses until my dada, my grandfather, decided to build our family home in Mohakhali, DOHS. My grandfather was a railroad engineer and even as he grew older, he stood each day and watched as the house was built. It was a two-story brick building with a balcony on the top floor, from where I would remember waving to my uncles in some years time. The roof was like the others in Bangladesh-flat, so that one could take a stroll or water the leafy plants on the roof, or dance in the pouring rains of the monsoons. The top and bottom floor were separated from each other with the garage. When it flooded, we would have to use the wooden bridge and cross over the water precariously, or we would fall in and be swimming with the floating fish. But my grandfather didn’t see the house through my memories. All he saw was a home being built for his family which at the time only consisted of him, his wife and their eight kids, including my father. My dad, the second oldest brother, attended cadet boarding school and then medical

school in Japan, so he wasn’t at home too often. But when he did come to DOHS, he came to take care of his little siblings, who were growing up there. It was always crowded and fun with my dad and his siblings. They were each other’s best friends and did everything together. Stories still circle around the family about my dad and my chachas (uncles), and my phupus (aunts). My phupu and my dad would go around catching bugs and releasing them outside. My oldest uncle would look after the cows with his dad. My youngest uncle tried sneaking in a dog he wanted to keep as a pet. It was black and most definitely a stray, though a kind and harmless one. My dadi, my grandma, wouldn’t have any of it; she thought it was a jinn--a supernatural creature, a kind of genie. Black dogs were always rumored to be possessed, so my uncle had to let him go. Over the years, my chachas and phupus grew more and more attached to the family home. Everyone agreed that DOHS was best for wedding celebrations, like my parents’ wedding in January 1992. Though the ceremony took place at a center, the real party was at the family home. Filled to the brim with my dad’s relatives and now my mom and her siblings as well, it was apparently a night worth remembering. Not only did my parents get married, my dad’s closest sister, his best friend, got married the next day. Even today, they are still close; they live just five minutes away from us and their three daughters are like sisters to me. Sometimes we still go visit Bangladesh together.

My other chachas and phupus got married there as well, and my parents say that Dada had never looked happier as he did seeing his kids get married and start their own lives. He stayed in DOHS with my dadi, watching as his kids drifted off into the world. He stayed in the home he built so many years ago, and felt some sorrow that the house that was once full of fistfighting and laughter was becoming quieter and quieter. But not too long after came all of his grandkids and with us, came more laughter and love. My cousins and I know about my dada building the family home. We know about how he was so strong, he was able to pull nails out of doors with his teeth (or maybe that was just a family tall tale). I know my father loved his father with all his heart, but what I do not know is the man himself. My dada passed away four years before I was born. Though he is gone, his legacy lives on through the lives of his children and in the house he built for future generations. For my cousins and I, DOHS was a haven. Though we couldn’t get past the black gates into the real world of Bangladesh, we didn’t ever think to. Everything we wanted and needed was in that old bright brick home. Many of my first memories are of DOHS. I remember when all of my cousins were playing cricket outside and my sister and I tried petting chickens that were running around and squawking. I remember how the home offered shelter to us during the monsoon floods, but it also offered an opportunity to dance in the rain, stomping in puddles and singing on the roof like we were in a movie. I remember watching the ‘family cat’ giving birth to kittens, and then realizing that the cat was just a stray, not our cat Snowy. I remember gathering in the one air conditioned room with all ten of my cousins and telling scary stories and sleeping together. Such memories still encompass my cousins and I whenever we go to visit Bangladesh, which is usually every two or three years. For us, DOHS was our childhood home, smelling faintly of mothballs but mostly of love. But over the years, something changed. I don’t know what, maybe it was time, or age. But after my dadi officially came to live with us and my two eldest cousins came to America for college, something changed. Less of us went to visit Bangladesh. Schedules conflicted, and childhood was replaced with reality. There wasn’t time to go visit Bangladesh, not when there was college and work and internships. More years passed for some of us, like my brothers who hadn’t gone to visit Bangladesh in six years. And it wasn’t just my relatives here--my cousins left Bangladesh and came to America. As more of them came here, less stayed to care for the family home which held so many nostalgic memories inside its brick walls. We still go to visit, but not as often. My khala’s son (my mom’s sister’s son) got married this past summer in Dhaka. Almost all of my cousins came together for that joyous occasion, and we had one more reunion at #10 DOHS. Once again, it was filled with pranks and jokes,

with kids running around pretending to film movies. It was full of the old TV’s static and books were dusted off and read. My boro chacha, or my dad’s eldest brother, was ecstatic since he is one of the few who has stayed in Bangladesh with his wife. The quintessential eccentric and funny uncle, he wore Hawaiian shirts to the wedding and spoke of the antiques in the family home with a passion. He showed us his pet pigeons on the roof and told us about how he named his favorite one Parkinson because it twitched so much. He complained to us about the war he waged against the neighbor’s cat. The entire summer, he picked juicy mango after juicy mango and peeled them all for us all while telling jokes and smiling so widely, anyone could see the joy and crinkles of laughter on his face. Even when we left, he promised to have mangoes and jackfruit ready for us when we returned. When I told my dad I was going to write about his family home, he was both jovial and sad. Happy that I was writing about our family history, but forlorn that I had labeled our family home as ‘abandoned’. He argued that DOHS wasn’t abandoned, and I agree with him. It may have become abandoned in comparison to how it was before, when there were always more people than there were rooms. But it is not completely abandoned, not even today. Though my dada

has passed away and most of my family has moved to other places in the world, the tenth house in Mohakhali DOHS will always be alive and thriving in our memories, and it will always be there to welcome us home.

Watch the piece in video format here: https://youtu.be/okHux2_NTUU?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

Glunkus song

My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus What does Glunkus do when the people are away? What does Glunkus do when the people are away?

Sarah's not home Where could she be? I'll scream at every closed door i can see Maybe if i'm loud enough She will hear me Then she'll scoop me up and we can watch TV Maybe she's upstairs Or in the shower Or maybe i'll see her from the top of my tower

My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus What does Glunkus do when the people are away? What does Glunkus do when the people are away?

She's not here or maybe she's hiding Either way it's my time i should not be biding I can run around Or jump onto the counter With the absence of scolding i'm starting to doubt her

My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus What does Glunkus do when the people are away? What does Glunkus do when the people are away?

My name is Glunkus and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got one eye

I like to run and jump and climb I can run up the stairs and then run back down them Then back up the stairs then I'll run right back down them

My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus What does Glunkus do when the people are away? What does Glunkus do when the people are away? My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus My name is Glunkus Gu-gu-gulunkus What does Glunkus do when the people are away? What does Glunkus do when the people are away?

Watch the piece in video format here:

https://youtu.be/5btghC2VDk8?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

Alone We’ve all imagined it-that huge party, the one all the cool people go to. The one where music blares, people dance and sing and stand around talking with those little red cups in their hands. We’ve all imagined that. Fantasized, even. Especially if you’re someone like me. See, I’m not the kind of guy to usually be invited (is that how you get in?) to one of those parties. I’ve never been very popular in school, so my typical Friday or Saturday nights would normally consist of reading or playing video games, not dancing or mingling with hot girls. I’m shy, nerdy and, if you asked most people, kinda lame. So, naturally, I’ve always wondered what those parties would be like. Also, naturally, I’d fully accepted and come to terms with the well known fact that I would never be able to get into a party like that. Until the other night. My stomach sank. The dark room, illuminated with neon lights, held silhouettes of dancing bodies against the walls. I was still. I didn’t belong here. I crunched the empty red cup in my hand and took a deep breath. Music blared around me and the loud sound of laughter and chatter filled my ears. What was I doing here? I closed my eyes and breathed out a large sigh. When I opened my eyelids, my whole reality was different. The lit up walls that scattered with posters now held chipping paint and spiders. The floor, which before, was littered with cups and snack wrappers was now littered with dirt and dust. The strobe and neon lights that hung from the ceiling were then replaced with leaking pipes and falling debris. Everyone was gone. I wandered across what used to be the dancefloor. Instead of loud music, there was an eerie silence that filled my ears. I could hear the faint squeaks of mice and rats from the corners of the seemingly abandoned building I was in. My footsteps echoed through the room and the hallway I was about to enter. I let out a deep breath and shivered as a cold chill went down my spine. The whole hallway whistled with a draft. Where was I? Certainly not the party I was at a few minutes ago. Where’d everyone go? I shook my head and grimaced. Anywhere, even being lonely in an abandoned building, was better than being lonely in a room full of people.

Houses and Homes The place is mine now. I have spent my whole life trying to escape this place, and now it’s mine. My right hand trails along the wall as I step past the threshold of the house that could never be a home. Further into the nightmare that had once been my entire world, the nightmare that somehow had the ability to drag me back into its depths despite the miles I put between us. My hand hits a dent in the wall and my hip throbs at the memory. My nostrils flare as the stench of alcohol invades my senses once again, the acidic smell of anger and raised voices; I know it well. As well as I know the pain and violence that always follows. Glancing down at my bare arms, I half expect to see the hand-shaped bruises of the past in the familiar darkness. The skin is clear, as the logical part of me knew it would be. And it’s the logical part of my brain that pulls my cellphone out of my pocket and dials the most recent caller. “Ms. White,” I begin, the anxiety of this abandoned building already alleviating, “go ahead and sell the house. I don’t want it.” And then I walk out. The same way I did ten years ago: back straight and shoulders high, ready

to move on with my life.

Watch the piece in video format here: https://youtu.be/KU21WbbS7p0?list=PLbHrLJewcsQRZWqVPlaEU9JkG9V_bn3KL

Nothing is Ever Perfect

Tommy: Thomas Keeper was a sales representative at Belk for 35 years before he was fired for a scam that is just referenced. He is 51 and has lived on the streets for several years. His best friend is alcohol and he tells graphic stories about Black Friday to anyone who will listen. He is a Latino and is very proud of his family and country.

Lisa: Lisa Abbott is a 24 year old ballerina. She is too old to become anything in the ballet world. She was world renowned and had several contracts with different companies at age 14. She went to the Sydney Ballet Company and studied ballet and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s history for college. She came back to her hometown of New York in look of love. She found it with 26 year old NFL player Johnny LeBrock. Suffering an injury to the spine in a car accident, she was unable to return to the ballet world. After multiple surgeries, they were able to fix her back but it left her with a significant limp. She contacted her ballet company to resign but found that they had replaced her with a 20 year old pro Courtney Black.

Johnny: Johnny LeBrock was a fantastic quarterback for the New York Jets and was number 1 in the NFL. He went out clubbing one day and met this fantastic girl named Lisa. Lisa was a ballerina in America after 5 years of being overseas. Johnny and her hit it off and went out on multiple occasions. After 5 months of dating, he asked her to be his girlfriend on his way to pick her up to meet his parents, and they get in a accident. A drunk driver hit their car and they went over a cliff. When he awakens 3 days later, he finds out that Lisa is paralyzed from the waist down. He feels grief and becomes depressed because she will never dance again. He pays for her medical care and leaves her only to become homeless 3 months later.

Amber: Amber Shawn is a 17 year old runaway. She ran away from her parents after they threatened her with a knife. She has already been caught by the police but escaped her home again. When she ran away the second time, her parents went under investigation and were found to be in possession of illegal pets. Going to jail her parents were no longer a threat but Amber preferred to live the homeless lifestyle than go back to her home.

Vicktor: A Russian enforcer who has been forced into hiding by the US government and is trying to learn to speak English. He is a big softie however and was probably used to scare the competition. He has been staying at the shelter for a matter of days and has taken a liking to

Amber. He is reminded of his little sister in Russia by her and takes her under his wing. Protection wise that is.

Joe: Joe Smith is a vegan book collector. He is a rather skinny individual with a huge nose. He owned an old book store on the West side of Manhattan. He bankrupted last year and has no ambition to go back to the real world. He has a standing arrest warrant out for him, because he went back and trashed his book store and stole the books back. He has several rolling carts full of his books and is very OCD about where his books are located all the time.

Debra: Debra Won, a 70 year old homeless woman. She went homeless after the shooting at her son’s school. She has been in the building for many years. Her son Marco survived the shooting and was best friends with the shooter.He went to jail for a year and was accused of accessory for murder. He watched his friend deteriorate and did nothing because he didn’t know what to do. Many blame Marco for not stopping the shooting. So, he went into depression and is currently at rehab for his 3rd time. Debra doesn’t understand why he never told her what was

happening and faces grief of her own because of the shooting.

Fifi: Fifi Dome is a 27 year old mother with a past of drug abuse. Raising twin boys on her own has been struggle enough but keeping them safe on the street, is what no one prepared her for. Once on the street, Fifi vowed to never start drugs again because she needs to be in her right mind to keep her boys safe. She used to be a waitress before she had a one night stand with a mysterious stranger and was left pregnant. She got the right medical care thanks to the father but they both agreed to put the twins up for adoption. Once they were born, Fifi knew that she could never give them up and did not sign the confidentiality agreement like their father did. Once he left the hospital, Fifi took it upon herself to care for her twins and has raised them on the street since their birth.

Chris and Crosby: Chris and Crosby Dome are twin boys at the age of 4, that live with their mother in an abandoned building on Jefferson Ave. They have never seen any life of luxury and love their mother with all their little heart’s desires.

Tommy: Hey everyone, I think Debra just arrived.

Debra: Hello! Can someone please help me with the groceries?

Twins: Of course, Grandma anything for you!

Debra: Thank you darlings, I appreciate that!

Fifi: Careful boys, that is our dinner for the next two days so be careful!

Twins: Okay, mama.

Fifi: How is it out there Debby?

Debra: Terrible, people are in the streets fighting each other and warrants are still out for Joe and Vicktor. It will be a while before they search the shelters but the mafia wants answers from the police about Vick and they’ve started riots.

Fifi: Really, are they that desperate?

Debra: The mafia is known for taking care of it’s own and when the police refused to talk to Mr. Morreli, I bet they started an all out war.

Fifi: I’ll warn everyone to stay inside for the next couple of days, did you happen to see Amber or the lovely couple while you were out?

Debra: No, but it is always like this, remember we are only in charge of our own lives and not the others. Control the mother in you, darling, it is starting to show.

Fifi: I know! I know! But, I can’t help but worry for their well being and you know Vick doesn’t like being prisoner here, especially with Amber gone. He gets worried and he doesn’t like what the streets are turning her into.

Debra: Then we must remind him that it is her life to live and we simply are here to guide her.

Vicktor: What are you ladies discussing?

Fifi: You, of course!

Vicktor: Me, why? Are you plotting something evil, because then I am at your service. If not, then come let’s eat before the food gets cold.

Fifi: Tommy, tell my boys to wash up before dinner, I don’t want them to get the food dirty.

Tommy: You heard your mother, boys get washed up!

Twins: But, Uncle Tom, we don’t wanna!

Tommy: We go through this everyday, boys go get washed up or I will take your leftovers.

Twins: Okay, okay, we will!

Vicktor: That gets them every time, doesn’t it?

Tommy: Yep, now has anyone seen my bottle?

Vicktor: Now, Tommy remember what I said about being a little whiny baby. No one will get what they want if they whine.

Tommy: Oh shut it you big log! Now where is my bottle at?

Fifi: That is enough, Tom, you are improving since I have been here. I threw it out. Go and play with my boys you don’t need to be drinking. Remember the 12 steps?

Tommy: That’s enough woman, just because you are clean doesn’t mean I have to be. I’m going out again! Bye!

Fifi: Please Tom not again!

Debra: Now honey what did I just tell you about meddling, you can’t be everyone’s mother only the one’s you gave birth too.

Twins: Mama, the food is ready, come eat everyone!

Fifi: Alright boys, Chris will you go wake Joe?

Chris: Yes, mama!

Vicktor: What are we having Crosby?

Crosby: Chinese!

Vicktor: Yummy, that was my favorite take out!

Joe: Me too, big guy how ya doing?

Vicktor: Just fine, how bout you little guy?

Joe: Tired but okay. Hey where’d Tom go, I thought I heard him earlier?

Twins: Yeah, mama, where did Uncle Tom go?

Fifi: Out to get something to drink, apparently.

Twins: Aww, but he will miss dinner!

Fifi: It’s okay boys, Uncle Tom knows where to find food if he wants any.

Vicktor: Come on, everyone it’s time to eat, let’s say grace.

Twins: Yes, Grandma would you like to say Grace?

Debra: Yes, darlings let’s gather round!

Everyone: Okay!

Debra: Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for all you have given us today. Safety, warmth, seclusion, and like always my family. Thank you for the sun and the moon, thank you for the air we breathe and the shelter you have provided. Thank you for my son’s safety and my family’s hearts. Mostly thank you for the building that keeps us safe from the world beyond. Amen!

Everyone: Amen!

Twins: Hey, Grandma why do you always thank the Lord for this building?

Debra: Because of how long it has protected me, from everything and more. It protects my family and keeps everything out that I don’t want to hurt any of you.

Twins: Oh!

Fifi: Now that you have your question, you darlings finish eating.

Twins: Yes, mama!

Amber: Sorry I’m late everyone, I had a run in!

Fifi: Darling are you alright?

Amber: Yes, I’m fine, Fifi is there still food left?

Fifi: Of course, we just started eating, here let me fix you a plate.

Amber: Thanks! Oh and I saw Lisa and Johnny on my way over, they said they won’t be back until later.

Fifi: Did you ask why?

Amber: Didn’t need to! They were probably heading to the New York Ballet Theater. There is a performance tonight by that witch Courtney Black.

Twins: Witch! Who’s a witch, we thought they didn’t exist mama?

Fifi: No, not that kind of witch boys, what Amber meant was an evil lady! Right Amber?

Twins: Does that mean you're a witch mama, when you tell us to go upstairs for the night?

Fifi: Umm, No boys now go up to our room and no dessert for you! You hear me?

Twins: Yes, mama.

Fifi: Now get going, and I don’t want to see you down here till tomorrow morning, is that understood?

Twins: Yes, ma'am!

Crosby: She is a witch!

Fifi: CROSBY ALEXANDER DOME, WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?

Crosby: Nothing mama, I just fell on my way up the stairs!

Fifi: Whatever, you say darling!

Everyone: Hahahahaha!

Fifi: Really, Amber could you not think of a better word?

Amber: Sorry, I forgot!

Fifi: Now, what exactly did they say?

Amber: Nothing actually, they were totally making out!

Fifi: Again?

Amber: Yeah, looks like Lisa finally forgave him for his driving skills or lack thereof!

Lisa: Okayyy! Who’s up for dessert?

Debra: Me!

Fifi: Me!

Tommy, Joe and Vicktor: We’ll have some!

Twins: Can we have some mama?

Fifi: No, but come sit with me and you can maybe take a lick if you can!

Twins: Okay!!

Narrator: And this is what family is truly about, accepting others flaws no matter what. Just because you live on the streets in a abandoned building doesn’t mean the rules of family change. It just means that you live in different circumstances than other families! Because no matter what nothing can ever be perfect.

Becoming A Memory

I’m laying here In this cold hospital bed Everything is sterile Everything is so routine. I hear the monitor's steady beep begin to slow And I realize my moments are few. I have a family. Two loving daughters and a son, And my precious grandchildren But I cannot fight it anymore. It’s taken over. As my last breath fills lungs I hear violins fill my ears And a figure forms in front of me. It’s him. My husband. He’s here for me. His hands beckon me And reach out for mine. I tell him I’m afraid. That I want to be there to see my granddaughters go off to college When my grandson goes to prom But he tells me it’s okay That I’ve done my job That it’s time for me to join him And reunite once again. As I reach to grab his hands I feel myself slip out of my body Piece by piece. My passion and love for ballet leaves the dusty attic And my hatred for cruelty releases itself from my fists. My love for my children runs through the halls before jumping into the pool

And my frustration and angst leaves the garage. My long lost loves and unrequited romances are lost amongst the garden And my hopes and dreams of becoming president melt into nothing. My anxiety fizzles and bubbles out of the chimney And my peeves run wild before leaving through the cracks in the windows. My exhaustion muddles its way to the back door And my adrenaline jumps off the second story roof. Fractions of me are let go until I am whole again I am whole But not here I am a memory.

The Old Route 64

The water lapped at the shore, hungrily grasping for the sand and the grasses and the forest beyond. Its surface turned and sparkled, gleaming and basking in the blaze of the sunshine from above. An osprey chittered up above, its cries echoing out over the lake. Clouds that were merely wisps swiftly fled away from the area, galloping across space and time toward another place on another horizon. A snatch of music wafted up toward the heavens and absent ears from a small portable radio being carried along the lake’s edge by a girl with golden hair. The water tickled at her feet greedily, but she paid it no mind, instead choosing to shake her head in the breeze in time to the music. “... Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes/ (turn and face the strange)/ Turn and face the strain/ Ch-chchanges/ Don’t have to be a richer man/ Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes/ Ch-ch-changes/ (turn and face the strange)/ Don’t want to be a better man/ Time may change me/ But I can’t trace time…” She hummed along to the tune, her voice fading in and out. She loved David Bowie. Her meandering path came to an end when she reached a huge log that had been bleached by the sun. She placed the radio on the sand and placed herself on the log next to it. Her gaze turned out to the water, where the crumbling edge of the old Route 64 disappeared, where the water had conquered it. She hadn’t spent her entire childhood in this place, but she had started to all those dozen or so years ago. She remembered being able to hear the traffic on the old Route 64 when she sat out on the porch with her daddy, or fed her chickens with her mother, or walked to the bus stop for the first day of school, the very first day of school. It had been green and spacious, cropped in only by the forest and the old Route 64. It had been a promise granted to her family for generations back, to all those strong Scottish Highlanders, to those farmers, to those people of the land. It had been a promise granted to generations of her great-great-great ancestors, but it had been a promise broken for her. The music continued to warble slightly while sounding from the radio. “... I watch the ripples change their size/ But never leave the stream…” She held her chin in her hand, propping her elbow against a knee, and brushed back the golden waves of her hair with the other hand as strands floated around on the breeze. She often visited this place, always sitting on the huge bleached log and staring at the old Route 64 for a few minutes before turning her gaze elsewhere on the water. Sometimes she imagined that she could see her house down in the water, over toward the middle of the lake. Today was one of those days, and her home was right there, over toward the middle of the lake, still standing tall and strong and happy. She brushed one foot back and forth over the sand, back and forth, back

and forth until the sand became darker and damper with the same water that surged toward her and receded, never quite swallowing her feet. Abruptly she rose, pausing only to set the radio up on the log as if to take her place. Her feet caked in sand, she strolled smoothly toward the water’s edge, never pausing, never varying. She kept walking until waist-deep, the cool water swirling around her and carrying eddies of sand and mud, the mud that had once been soil, the soil where she had once walked. She turned around in the water, no longer facing the center of the lake, and took in the gaze of the pine trees over behind the bleached log and the little radio. “... (Turn and face the strange)/ Turn and face the strain/ch-ch-changes…” The song was fainter now. Gently, ever so gently, she set herself down in the water, floating on her back with her golden hair splayed out behind her head, and let herself sink a tiny bit, so that she was just an inch under water. Just an inch, but that inch was like a pane of glass underneath which she was trapped. The sun shone down through the glassy water, and she could see the sky above and the osprey circling and the wispy clouds that seemed as if they were late to an appointment.

Underneath the glass, she was once again with her home, with her past and her history, with her memories that never happened. Just for a moment, she was home. Smiling, she breathed out her air, and surfaced. Her golden hair glowed and dripped, and her clothing was plastered to her skin, and she was shivering from the chill of the water evaporating off of her skin, but she was happy. Just happy, plain and simple. Happy because she had been able to go home, for just a moment, to be once again with the land of her family and of her. The lake was her lake, because it covered the ground where her house had once stood, its front porch wide and long, the windows leaded, the floors creaky, the stairs narrow, the clapboards white and the weathervane rusty. Though abandoned and long gone, this house would always be her home.

The Exodus of the Roguans, and Their Abandoned Buildings

Alexander Roguan held the flashlight in his shaking hand as his eyes danced over the wonderful architecture surrounding him. He was in the middle of an abandoned manor, its loneliness not lessening its grandeur. There were tall, dusty windows with dark grape-colored curtains trimmed by a color similar to the golden jewels of the former owner of the house. Each curtain had a tassel at least half a Roguan foot in length, made up of many strings of braided strings. On some of the window panes were swirling designs, their appearance foreboding in some secretly known way. All of the windows and all of the curtains were covered in dust that had only recently settled in. On the floor of the room was a cold, almost gelid, decorated marble floor. The colorful marble tiles seemed to be a mix of three main colors: rose petal pink, fresh spring leave green, and the bright early morning blue of all Roguan skin. The colors danced a waltz, moving in circles around each other, across the floor, the dance mirroring the one the house’s former owners did every Saturday night. Another reminder of the last homeowners were the instruments placed along the back wall. There was a harp, golden as sunlight through a dirty window, with strings looking still like the halos of angels. There was a piano, the color of Alexander’s onyx hair, the golden name of it's owner obscured by a thick layer of dust. There was a microphone, covered with dust to make even the best Roguan singer cough. The instruments, the floor, the windows, all hinted at the wealth of the house’s past owners. The hint was continued throughout the house. The Roguans still remember the day their ending began. They remember the words of a ship that had landed in an empty field of a wealthy Roguan, the words traveling faster than the messengers carrying them. The Roguans remember the feeling of all of them once they hear of the ship, the fear making the air so tense one could split it into and destroy the peaceful Roguan life. They remember the relief they felt when the Regal Roguan Zachariah talked with a being that had been on the ship, and it was declared that the stranger’s arrivals would lead to peace. They remember inviting the strangers into their homes and to their balls. They remember serving them fanciest of meals and playing the best music, always trying to quell the fear running like an electric undercurrent in all Roguans. The fear stayed, however, and created cracks between the two groups, cracks that would day turn into uncrossable chasms. The chasms stayed invisible for so long, one could almost forget they were forming. There were others who never let the chasms out of their mind, not even for a second. Among them was the leader of the visitors, or the Beastians as they came to be called. Grand High

Chancellor Harry Beastian was the leader of the Beastians, and he knew of all the chasms. He watched as invitations to balls became fewer and jokes about the Beastians grew in number. He was even a subject of many a joke, often commenting on his barren head and unfortunate first name. Both of those features were symbols of his high rank in the Beastian court, for he was named and took after the first Grand High Chancellor of the Beastians, a feat only a few accomplished. The fact that it was joked about deepened the rift between him and Regal Roguan Zachariah. The rift caused the potential of a powerful military alliance between two clever leaders and rendered it into a tense relationship that came to a fatal end. Alexander had moved onto a new building, this one seeming to be as dignified as its former owner, Regal Roguan Zachariah. There were two metal doors, twice the height of Alexander, that were covered in beautiful metal designs. The designs swirled around the gold door handles before curving skyward, then turning into lines and swirls across the door outwards. Mixed with these were Roguan letters, spelling in the custom up to down way “if you have governance, then you have knowledge. If you’re the governor, you have wisdom.” The message was a common one of Zachariah, for he’d said it to Alexander since they’d been

introduced. The pompous attitude of the message was echoed in the interior of the house, especially the dining room just off of the main hall Alexander had just entered. Alexander went into the dining room, and felt a gasp pass through his lips as he looked at the wondrous room. In the center of the room, there was a dark brown wooden dining table with detailed legs. There were also designs on the top of the table, but most of them were covered by a plum tablecloth. In the center of the tablecloth was the gold seal of Royal Roguan Zachariah’s house. The seal was the three letters of the leader’s title surrounded by three rotating horses, and seemed to be sewn from gold itself. On the rest of the tablecloth, there were curving lines and random circles in the same plum color as the base. The tablecloth was smooth to the touch, and seemed to insinuate corruption and greed within Royal Reguan Zachariah’s family. Sitting on the center of the seal was a porcelain doll with beautiful curled black hair and a callous smile. Its eyes seemed to follow Alexander as he walked through the room. The air of evil and corruption was continued in the purple cushions on the chairs surrounding the table. The cloth of the cushions was made of the softest silk Roguan dollar could buy, and the cushions sat atop polished mahogany. There were designs on both the cushions and the rest of the chair, mirroring the designs of the table. The chairs were spotless, and the kind of clean that came from being cleaned by people who made a living off of cleaning. The other features in the dining room hinted at enormous wealth. Hanging by a single golden chain above the table was an ornate golden chandelier. The chandelier had too many

golden loops to count, as if it were the blond, curly hair of one of the children who had once eaten under it. There were enough lights to illuminate a city on the chandelier, all from the finest craftsman. The dining room seemed to be one out of an architect’s dream. It fit in with the grandeur of the rest of the house, and reminded Alexander of the greed of the house’s former owner. Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian knew to be wary of Royal Roguan Zachariah, but he forgot everyone else he should be wary off. He didn’t realize that he had to be wary of Royal Roguan Zachariah’s wife, Regent Roguan Raina. She was known as the eros clematis, for it was said she loved her husband more than anyone loved before, and would do anything to keep him safe. It was also said that their marriage thrived on their ability to dress up their hatred of all who wasn’t a Roguan. Raina didn’t hide behind policy to express hostility like her husband did. Instead, she hid behind fancy dinners, complete with formal, fancy, expensive dresses and expected, perfected social curtesy. Raina would always invite traveling heads of state and leaders across the land for one of these dinners, and they knew they’d be a fool for refusing. For nowhere was the food tastier, the laughs louder, or the gossip juicier. Raina knew how to craft her words perfectly so that she could become friends with them immediately, and use her closeness with them to find out their plans in regards to the safety of her land and Royal Roguan. She was royalty too after all, and she served to protect and care for the Royal Roguan. Anyone who forgot would soon find themselves without a position in the government, left with only their title to their name, but only if Raina was thought the noble couldn’t hurt her husband’s kingdom with his title. If you underestimated Raina, then you would live to regret it, even if you didn’t live long after it, as Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian did on a fateful stormy night. Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian received an invitation to one of Raina’s dinners two weeks before the dinner, because Royal Regent Raina thought one should always have time to fully decide whether or not they wanted to dine with the rulers of the land. Harry pondered and did ruminate for many a Roguan day, and ultimately decided to attend the dinner. He couldn’t foresee the poignant sadness that the evening would bring to both the Beastians and the Roguans. As he went to bed the night before the dinner after planning exactly what he would wear and say, he fell into his last peaceful sleep on the Roguan planet. The morning after that peaceful sleep, Harry Beastian practiced his speech, his small talk, and his responses until they were perfectly polite. That afternoon, he put on his cobalt striped suit, his azure tie, and onyx shoes. He cleaned his teeth, his mouth, and his hands. He straightened his tie again and again and again. He prepared to meet his equal, a leader as perfectly crafted as what they would see. A man of polite words, clever strategy, and a loving

heart. He prepared to plead his case to Royal Roguan Zachariah. He was not, however, ready for the one person Roguan jury that was Royal Regent Raina. Harry Beastian arrived at the dinner exactly on time, and for the first hour, the dinner went splendid. The conversation stayed focused on Harry Beastian’s stay on Caroniana, and if he had seen this thing or that Roguan or if he thought the pasta alfredo was the best ever. The small talk was all practiced questions and rehearsed answers framed as conversation, and all parties talking knew it. The three diners fell into an easy friendship, each telling wild stories about inconsequential matters. Harry Beastain and Royal Roguan Zachariah talked of the problems of leading, of power-seeking nobility and wars with neighbors. Royal Regent Raina and Harry Beastian talked of the difficulty of always being the poised, elegant, dreamed-of leader of the land. The conversation was of everything and nothing, both sides connecting over falsely shared experiences. The second hour was when the real conversation began. The dessert had recently been brought into the dining room, the chocolate of the cake complementing the brown of the dining room. This was when Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian realized he wasn’t in the Royal Roguan’s house, but rather the house of his late

friend’s son, Alexander Roguan. Alexander Roguan had been called in by the Royal Roguan to deliver the dessert, for it was a house speciality. He had walked in and told the diners of the history of the chocolate cake, and how only people of his family had enough time or nobility to make it. He was ushered out as soon as he was done, but he stayed peeking at the keyhole. Alexander had made it too the final house he would explore that day- his own. He hadn’t been to the house since the dinner, for he had run fast as soon as he realized how deadly wrong everything was going. As soon as he had been shown out of his dining room, the trouble began. Over dessert and cherry wine, Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian demanded to know why he had been invited to a young nobleman’s house instead of the house of the Royal Roguan. If he was to invited to dine with the Royal Roguan, why was it at another’s house? And why wasn’t that other Roguan allowed to dine with them, if his house was nice enough to dine in? All of the friendship between the the three fell away, leaving only the undercurrent of hostility, swelling to fill up the empty space left. The invitation to only a lowly orphaned young Lord was against social custom, the Grand High Chancellor proclaimed. Royal Regent Regina had laughed before sourly, sweetly saying that how could she, protector of the Royal Roguan, let a filthy Beastian into their house? Royal Regent Raina’s answer caused a fatal series of events. Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian wailed about how could he be seen as a danger, when he just wanted to work

with the Roguans for a more peaceful universe? Royal Regent Regina’s answer was one of assumptions and concern over the actual intentions of the Beastians on her planet, asking why would the Beastians be here if not to take her planet from her? Harry answered he wouldn’t dare to take over the planet, and was cut off from finishing by the remark that it didn’t seem that way when he landed. When he admitted to the truth of it; the Beastians wanting Caroniana to their own, the sleeping volcano of violence erupted across Caroniana. Before he knew it, Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian was being held at staffpoint. The staff was a brown staff with carved swirling designs all along it. The designs were filled with a metallic, almost gold-like substance called pestis. The pestis shined under the chand. The staff was designed to end the life of anyone non-Roguan. It would kill Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian. It killed Alexander Roguan’s father. With one strike of the staff, Grand High Chancellor Harry Beastian was dead. There was a loud screech issued for aces. The sound faded into an amaranthine of silence, broken only by Royal Reguan Zachariah screaming to his wife and the rest of the Roguans to run. Alexander Roguan was the only one left.