Next Round:

Road Trip

Sugar Cookies

Hawk

Have a Merry Christmas!

Memory by Rachel

I stood in the dark kitchen, the smell of meat and gravy filling my nostrils. I could hear the two unruly dogs barking from the backyard. Grandma came through the door from the garage, a place I didn't like to go. That was where Grandpa's workshop was, a place darker than the kitchen, and reeking of smoke.
"Put your finger on this knot, Rachel," Grandma said in her raspy, smoked-for-too-many-years voice. "Push down hard so it doesn't loosen." I placed my finger on the twine knot that wrapped around the box, pushing it down hard. I didn't want to upset Grandma, I wanted her to be happy with me, to smile one of her rare smiles.
Grandma tied the bow above my finger, and at the last moment I slipped it out. "Good girl, good girl." Grandma placed the box on the counter. "I knew you would be a good helper." Then I went and sat on the old-fashioned couch, one of Grandma's hand-sewn afghans on my lap, and basked in her small, wrinkled smile.

A Step Toward Her Future by Gina

Sophia closed her laptop and leaned back in the creaky wooden chair where she had been sitting for hours. She wondered what she would do next – now that her thesis was finished. She let her mind wander through the last few years.
Sophie had dedicated her life to her education. Her professors knew that her work would always be exceptional. The librarians knew her by name. She’d read, written, copied, studied and researched her life away. Sophie used to be popular – she used to have friends. When did she decide to focus on school and exclude them? She couldn’t remember. Still lost in thought, she closed gathered her things, stood up, inhaled the wonderful, musty smell of the library one last time and walked out the door.
Sophie came through her front door with a mission. She put the teakettle on to heat and dug through her office until she found the little box where she kept names, addresses and phone numbers. The kettle began to whistle, and she hurried back to the kitchen. With a steaming mug in one hand, her phone in the other and the box tucked under her arm, Sophie settled onto her couch. Sophie covered herself with her old afghan, hoping to draw strength from all the wonderful women who had worked on and owned this afghan before her. She took a deep breath and was only faintly aware of the sound of the neighbor’s barking dog as she opened the box, pulled out a card and began to dial that once familiar phone number.

Kindle by Trish

If Kindle heard her husband's incessant knocking on the bedroom door you wouldn't know it. Her brown eyes, now swollen from so many hours of crying, stayed locked on the little green satin-covered memory box that lay tucked away on the top shelf of the bookcase in their bedroom. Although willing herself not to, she mentally thumbed through the precious memories that were safely hidden inside of it. The ultrasound photo of her baby's kicking, squirming legs. The tiny lifeless body that for five months had been inside of her and then two days had lied inside this precious box. The cards of condolences. Hospital bracelets. Her baby's footprint. Kindle's mind tenderly handled each one. Slowly, deliberately. She begged for the pangs of emptiness and longing. She prayed to feel the ache of her baby's life cut short because that pain at least seemed more beautiful and purposeful than the heated hate and anger that was now threatening to destroy her marriage. At last, she closed her eyes and willingly succumbed to the grief.
It was 1:15 in the morning when Kindle opened her eyes again. The pillow on Darrin's side of the bed was gone. She sat up and listened in the dark for signs that he might still be awake but the only thing she could hear was the faint barking of the neighborhood dogs. Carefully and quietly she peeled off the old afghan that had cocooned her these past hours and the fact that this warm, soft friend had comforted her once again was not lost to her as she slipped off the bed and out of the room.

Cedar by Iris Rosewater

It’s Thanksgiving and for some reason it seemed like a good idea to host it at my mother’s house. I’m re-evaluating this decision as I whisk around her kitchen, trying to find a decent saucepan. She has not thrown many away - I recognize a couple from when I was about 4 years old - and they have accumulated over the years, all with handles loose and cracking from one-hundred runs through the dishwasher, their Teflon coating thin, scraped, and chipping. Every lid doesn’t match or fit exactly and must have come with a pot that actually found it’s way to goodwill, or maybe that’s where they all came from… I can’t decide. I make a mental note to buy her a new set for Christmas. I sharpen all the knives I can find that aren’t slightly rusted, and take a sip of egg nog before preheating the oven.

My husband is watching football in the living room, and the dogs bark when he gets excited about a good play, which makes me laugh. My son is sitting at the table, making his fifth turkey out of construction paper, and his hands are lined with a fifth color between every finger and over every tip as he traces out a thumb-head and four hefty finger-feathers. My daughter has dragged her grandma into the spare bedroom to put her dolly down for a nap, and I can see them through the open door, gingerly tucking an old afghan under the plastic chin, the doll’s blinking eyes closed, hemmed by a thick fringe of lashes. My little girl holds her finger against her lips, shushing grandma, and then guides her, fingers wrapped tightly around a wrinkled pinky-finger, to the door on tip-toe. The kitchen is calm and I am alone in it as I poke through the cupboards to retrieve mother’s box of family recipes to prepare our holiday meal.

The recipe box is a relic from my great-grandmother. Opening the cedar lid triggers a dozen memories. I stop and lean into the scent, closing my eyes and sorting from the blur of visions… my grandmother’s round thumbs picking through the file, how heavy a cup of sugar felt to my little hands as I helped my mother make cookies, the tickle of her apron’s red ruffle brushing against my cheek. This is a magical box, I realize with reverence, carefully pulling out our family’s nurturing records. If I follow this map -if I toast the pecans for the frosted cranberry salad just right, if I put the precise amount of brown sugar on the yams and pull them out when the marshmallows have just turned from golden to brown, then I will be a little girl again with my feet dangling from my aunt’s dining room chair. I will hear my father laugh, though he left us years ago. With these little handwritten slips, spotted with flour and egg, I can resurrect our dearest ghosts. I take my selections and lay them out on the counter for reference, taking a quiet moment to compare all of our curled script on varying shades of yellowing white… the matriarchs’ collective history of family and love… tying the apron behind my neck and smoothing its dusty ruffles before I begin.

　

Afghan, barking dogs, and a box by Daniel Fear

I hope this is how this works. Here is my first post! Enjoy.

The Box. By Daniel Fear

I was wrapped snuggly under the afghan my Mother had crocheted for me. It was the best afghan in the old drafty house. The stitching was done from my three favorite colors of brown, tan and green. Mom had used a wavy pattern. I really love this afghan. I watched her for hours, as she would work on it while I was a kid. Now, I cling to it for hours at a time. It will be treasured forever and will bring me comfort only a mother can give. My Mom is now gone, but the love in the afghan still comforts me.

The weather outside was atrocious. Cold, blistery, windy, snowy, foggy, and just generally crappy! Especially for someone that craves warmer weather. What am I doing this far north? Anyway, I’m not going to go outside anytime soon, so I will stay under my afghan! I’m just going to sit here and keep watching my favorite daytime TV programs. Besides, I only watch them when I feel like this. That is, I feel so good that you could stab me in the eye with a spoon and I would think it was an improvement. The only thing making me remotely comfortable is the nice hot Constant Comment tea that just finished brewing and my two trusting dogs curled up on top of the afghan. One of them a pure-bred mutt named Honey; and the other a great and fantastic Dachshund named Prince DaShaR; or Prince for short (inherited of course, again from my Mother).

As I usually do when feeling ill and watching my favorite daytime TV, the History Channel, Science Channel and Military Channel, I was beginning to doze off when my wonderful cozy foot warmers turned into an Early Warning System – the dogs began barking endlessly! I’m not sure what they were barking at, but it was quite cacophonous and really down right annoying. They continued barking and jumping, jumping and barking, bouncing, and jumping and barking. If there had been someone dead in my house, they would have stirred…what could possibly have set them off so badly. I wasn’t expecting any visitors, especially in my current state.

After running out of throw pillows to toss at the EWS, I begrudgingly extracted myself from warmth of the afghan and the comfort of the couch to peak outside and see what was could possibly be going on. There was nothing out of place, nothing overtly disturbed, but to my surprise a small wooden box had appeared. Intricate in construction and simple in decoration, it sat neatly in the snow just off of the front step of the house. My curiosity piqued, I threw open the door danced outside, scooped up the box and launched myself back through the door hoping to move fast enough so the cold air wouldn’t be able to catch me. Man, I hate being cold!

I jumped over the back of the couch and quickly snuggled back up under the afghan. The Early Warning System had turned itself off and they had resumed the duty of cozy foot warmers as I began to stop shivering and started to puzzle over the little wooden box. Absolutely quaint in every way, I was completely puzzled by it. A plain pine box with a dark stain stared curiously up at me. There were no hinges, but it seemed to fit together like a shoebox. There was a very simple carving of a frog on the top of the box and the letters DSR were neatly etched into the bottom. This was surprising and comforting all at the same time. My Mother’s initials were D.S.R, Diana Sue Rogers (Rogers being her maiden name), and frogs were her favorite item to collect.

I found this surprising because my Mother had passed away over a year ago, a victim of cancer at the age of 54. Mom created an atmosphere of love and support all through my childhood for my brothers and I. That sense of love and support has continued into our adult hood. She had been a solid partner for my father and a devout Christian. Her love has continued to amaze me over the past 14 months and will continue to give me the same strength for the rest of my life. So, to find this small token that appeared to be from my mother was quite unexpected. This little box brought an instant sense of comfort.

I decided that I needed to open this little box, so I did. Inside I found a piece of paper neatly folded to fit perfectly inside. I carefully pulled it out and tenderly unfolded it. The paper was aged and discolored. It had frogs and roses stenciled along the edge as a border. Inside that border written in my Mom’s script was a letter, with no date, but addressed to my daughter and me. Yep, my daughter! She is a precocious two, and my Mother had the privilege of spoiling her for nearly 18 months. During that short amount of time at such an early age for my daughter, she created that same sense of love and support that I had shared with Mom. They were wonderful moments to watch!

This is what I read:

To my Son and Granddaughter:

I love you both more than can be measured. You will have fun learning from each other while you both continue on your paths.

Son, always remember that patience is the most important part of raising a child. When that little girl is destroying the house, remember to first smile, breathe and then put things back together.

Granddaughter, I love you and had hoped to teach you all the things that a Grandmother is supposed to teach a grandchild, but I’m not going to get that opportunity. Just always remember that I love you!

With all of my love forever,

Mom and Nana

I no longer felt as ill as I had earlier in the day. Now I couldn’t wait for the end of the day when my daughter would come home and I would be able share this new discovery with her. The laughter and joy we would share this afternoon will make my Mom smile down on us. Even with her gone from day to day life, she still knows how to make me feel better.

Three Random Things by Trish

Okay fellow writers, let's see what we can do. My three random things you are to include in your next creative writing piece are:

1. an old afghan
2. the sound of barking dogs
3. a box (the type of box is your choice, be creative!)

Good luck! I can't wait to see what we all come up with!

The Box by Iris Rosewater

Lynne finished the last of the dishes alone in the kitchen. She hadn’t bothered to put on the yellow rubber gloves under the sink, and found herself regretting it as the hot water and soap burned into the cracks in her overworked hands. So happy to finally have a moment to herself, forcing no reverent smiles and accepting no more pitiful hugs, engaged in something mindless, she dove in without taking the precaution. It wasn’t working as well as she’d hoped, however. Thoughts were still creeping in. Since the dishes hadn’t done the trick, she started tidying the whole kitchen, scrubbing the crusty brown ring around the base of the faucet with an old toothbrush, sweeping, condensing into plastic containers the leftover array of casseroles and gelatin salads with bits of carrot and fruit suspended inside. The broken skin on her hands stung as she worked, asking her to stop with each forceful scrub and scrape, begging for a healing balm and some rest. She ignored it and kept on. She painstakingly picked and peeled off a grubby piece of ancient scotch tape leftover from someone’s artwork on the fridge… found her little boy’s boot, caked with mud, under some empty paper bags at the bottom of the pantry and threw it away in disgust, crushing it into the overfilled trash can.
　
　
Her hands hung at her sides, weighted down by trash bags filled with sympathy cards and used paper plates and dried up bouquets of flowers, as she walked into the mud room. Out of habit and without looking, she stuck her feet into the shoes nearest the back door. They slid on easily, loose on her feet as she shuffled into the crisp night air. Then, realizing whose shoes she wore, she stopped halfway down the driveway, dropping the bags on the frozen ground, and looked at her feet. Derrick’s favorite running shoes seemed to look up at her. Her bare feet shook them loose and she pranced inside on the balls of her feet. It was irrational, she knew, to be angry, and she was angry at herself for feeling it, but there it was, gnawing at her insides. “I’m alone, Derek. What am I supposed to do now?” She asked the empty living room. It was silent. Her children were staying at a friend’s house for the night. Why do people take away all your distractions and try to stuff you with food when someone dies? she wondered irritably, flinging off her coat. Lynne flopped onto the couch and grabbed the remote control, filling the room with the noise of tinny laughter and closed her eyes. It stopped abruptly. Her eyes opened to darkness. “Perfect…” she muttered to herself, as she got up to find a flashlight. She fiddled with some breakers for a few minutes, in vain, cursing Derek again for leaving her. This was supposed to be his job. Defeated, she rooted into the boxes in the fading light of her battery-operated torch and found a box with some candlesticks and brought it inside.
　
　
Her brother had been kind to light the fire in the woodstove before he left. Gratitude found its way into her heart as she stoked the embers and added a piece of wood to the flames. She lit a candle and set it on the kitchen table. The light revealed his handwriting on the cardboard, with their names. Somehow, in the dark, she had managed to find this of all boxes in the whole garage. She traced her finger along the blocky capitol letters and sat down, bracing herself. Carefully, Lynne sifted through the remnants of their courtship, filled with letters and photographs, matchbooks from restaurants, poems written on napkins and paper lunch sacks.
　
　
They met when she was 16 years old and Lynne couldn’t imagine herself with anyone else since. Derek was her soul’s twin. He went away to college for two years before they were married, which nearly killed her. Lynne pulled out dozens of pictures they’d taken on visits to each other, some taken by Derek with one arm around her and the other extended to snap the shutter on the disposable camera. They looked so young, smiling and bursting with happiness just to be in each other’s company - it had been so rare. The end of every letter held the same promise that it wouldn’t be much longer before there would be no more goodbyes. His devotion had filled her to brimming. She recognized the candles from a picnic he’d made the summer before graduation… when he’d asked her to marry him. Officially. Unofficially, he had asked her a thousand times. They decided on a name for their eventual first daughter before they’d been together their first year. He was her only. Only. Only.
　
　
The days after his death, Lynne pretended he was away again, just like college. She could handle that, she reasoned somehow, because she had done it before. She had gone whole months without seeing his face and feeling his arms around her. Beyond that, she did not dare try to imagine enduring. The world began to cave in when she tried to picture living without him much longer than that. To stave off the black hole of thoughts that threatened to devour, she stayed safely busy, her worn hands a blur. To stave off the pain, she had allowed anger to numb her senses, and it was rapidly wearing off. Toward the bottom of the box, the darkness began its tug at her insides. She stayed perfectly still, listening to the wood crack as the fire consumed it in the next room.
　
　
“Can you hear me, Derek?” she asked the darkness. The walls danced in the delicate glow of the candle. “You said you’d never leave me…” she whispered. Under the ragged edges of envelopes torn-open, was a book Derek had given her the day he left for college long ago. Inside it, she found a faded scrap of notebook paper, marking a poem.
　
　
The neglected wounds on her hands burned with the brine of her tears, and she thanked him for this last promise, clutching the book to her broken heart.
　
　
　
“now all the fingers of this tree(darling)have
hands,and all the hands have people;and
more each particular person is(my love)
alive than every world can understand

and now you are and I am now and we’re
a mystery which will never happen again,
a miracle which has never happened before---
and shining this our now must come to then

our then shall be some darkness during which
fingers are without hands;and I have no
you:and all trees are(any more than each
leafless)its silent in forevering snow

---but never fear(my own,my beautiful
my blossoming)for also then’s until”

The Audition by Iris Rosewater

The sun burned wickedly into the fabric Evelyn’s black dress as she walked up the familiar steps of the concert hall. Heat burrowed into her shoulders and the back of her neck, releasing a trickle of sweat and sending it down her well-postured vertebrae. Her mother’s shoes clicked an embarrassing staccato along the corridor, which was much too cold to compensate for the oppressive heat outside. The damp spots beneath Evelyn’s arms had gone cold, and her teeth began to clatter. She held the leather handle of her case like the hand of a dear friend, and followed obediently the metronome of the shiny bronze shoes that led the way. The matching purse swung on her mother’s elbow as she signed forms, the smell of stale cinnamon polluting the air around her every time she opened her mouth to give Evelyn a direction. “Sit here.” “You better start warming up. You only have half an hour.” “Go to the ladies room and freshen up - you look like you’ve just been jogging!”


The bathroom was full of women in black dresses. They chatted around the mirrors. Some fiddled with their hair and make up. Evelyn tried not to see them as she entered the room, gazing instead at the intricate pattern of black and white tiles that swirled on the floor beneath her black flats and the puddles of water on the marble counter tops. She was still nervous, she was surprised to discover, sorting through the layers of emotions and shivering in front of a basin. Her hands had lost all blood flow and were white, webbed with purple from her chill. She went through her routine, turning the silver knobs of the faucet and letting the hot water spill over her wrists, inviting the blood back into her hands. It flowed gently over her delicate palms and agile fingers, slipping over their calloused tips. Twenty five more minutes, she thought to herself, splashing a handful of water on her pale face. Her insides danced with excitement.
　

The first time Evelyn touched a violin, she was four years old. She would always remember the way it felt - running her finger around the curled maple scroll, down its neck and glossy spruce belly. Learning to play came as naturally as running or laughing. She worked through Suzuki Book One in the first three weeks, and then her teacher referred her to one of the members of the Santa Fe symphony, who she loved dearly. Ms. Bell had red hair so curly Evelyn was strongly tempted to pull down a lock and watch it bounce at every lesson. She was patient and nurturing, fostering her tiny student‘s fledgling gift. Evelyn’s Mother, however, was not so patient. By eight years old, Mother had pulled her out of school and hired a private tutor so that more of Evelyn’s waking hours could be spent practicing. By ten, she was the youngest concert master in the Santa Fe Youth Philharmonic’s history. At age twelve, she began to notice things. Once the other members of the orchestra got over her astounding musical ability, they largely ignored her. And, she discovered, when a person is quiet, they are assumed to be deaf as well. She listened the girls talk about boys and dances and their friends at school, pointing at the faces smiling through the clear vinyl on the fronts of their notebooks. Evelyn’s notebook stared up at her, vacant. Her schedule had been tightened the older she got, rigidly enforced by Mother. Wake up, get dressed, eat, practice, study, eat, practice, study, eat, practice, go to sleep - not to mention orchestra rehearsals and performances… and, the compliant soul that she was, she got up and executed Mother’s will every day. The music was good, and she did love it, but she began to wonder if there wasn’t more to life than just music? Wasn’t music an expression of experience? Once, she tried to compose something of her own, but kept finding that she only mimicked someone else’s song… someone who had felt something real, be it joy or pain. At age fourteen, she had been concert master of the Santa Fe Youth Philharmonic for four years and Mother had decided it was time that she moved up in the music world. Today, she would audition for the Santa Fe Symphony Orchestra.



The fear began to creep in again as Evelyn walked in the green room to warm up. Her mother shot her an exasperated look and glanced at her watch as she opened her case. Expectations were everywhere. They were on the faces of the other violinists in the room, in Mother’s impatient foot, fidgeting away in its tacky shoe, in Ms. Bell’s proud smile. It was loud in the green room. Fellow musicians tuned and plucked, playing simultaneously in discordant swells, every neck marked red with devotion from the push of rosewood and ebony. Her violin seemed happy to see her as she unsheathed its sweet face, tenderly cleaning white rosin dust from its strings and belly before bringing it under her chin. It was easy to choose her solo. It was the first song she heard and asked what made such a sound… the music that made her heart full to bursting. Nonchalantly, the other violinists grew quiet as Evelyn drew the first long, gushing note of The Young Prince and the Young Princess. She forgot there were any witnesses after the first phrase and played the story as innocently as only an innocent could, weaving into every cadence her own longing for life. When she finished, the room kept still for several moments, before bursting with applause. “Rimsky Korsakov would have wept,” Mrs. Bell whispered at her side. Evelyn bowed deeply as the musicians stood cheering. Her heart cheered, too. There would be no audition. She had played the final performance of her young years, played as proof to her comrades that it was a choice… and her life would begin today.

Conclusions by Iris Rosewater

Eva was a newcomer. She moved in just as the trees were losing their blossoms. Her manicured lawn was sprinkled with tiny white flowers which fell lightly from their branches as Susan walked up to the front door earlier that day for the first time, their symmetrical petals sauntering in the unseasonably hot breeze and swirling around her ankles. Several of them managed to find themselves nestled between the chocolate chip cookies on the plate she carried. Susan shifted her weight and looked around uncomfortably after knocking on the freshly painted red door. That was supposed to mean something, wasn’t it? Good luck, maybe? A white-painted wrought iron set of chairs and café table sat in front of the bay window, beneath the covered porch, looking like a picture she’d seen of France. Susan had never been to France. Something told her that her new neighbor probably had. And, when the red door opened, she was sure of it.
The interior of Eva’s house was unbelievable. There was no possible way that this woman moved in only days before. It was impeccable. And so was Eva. She answered the door in a pair of grey trousers and a pink silk blouse. It hung delicately around her small frame, the v-neck plunging low enough for Susan to count a few visible ribs splaying out from her chest bone like butterfly wings. The pink hue was rosy against the pallor of her skin. Eva had the kind of face that must have stunned men. High cheekbones, icy blue eyes, a thin pointed nose and petal-pink lips. All of the striking features were softened by the onset of middle age. Shallow lines marked the edges of her eyes, the ghosts of old laughter and sentiment. Her face was pulled into a bright smile even before she saw who had come to visit. Immediately, Susan regretted waiting on the doorstep. She kicked herself for not writing a little note and leaving the plate on the welcome mat, instead. It would have been easier. Who knew what her children were probably up to next door and what destruction awaited there upon her return. Jimmy was asleep, she was sure, having been up vomiting all last night. Susan also regretted not having yet taken a shower. It was a miracle that she’d gotten the stupid cookies made, having been interrupted ten times by the girls quarrelling and the baby eating the puppy kibble. Her smile wilted when she realized that she’d also forgotten to comb her hair.


Like the lady that she was, Eva politely invited Susan to come inside, gushing about how wonderful the cookies looked and carrying them to the kitchen. Susan lingered in the entry way, tucking a loose curl around her ear before setting a tentative foot in the house. It was like something out of a Home and Garden magazine. Not a single pair of shoes sat by the door. The wood floors shined, un-scuffed. She looked down at her ancient Reeboks which she’d transformed into slip-ons after stuffing her feet inside hundreds of times without bothering to untie the laces. Should she take them off, revealing her sweaty feet? Eva returned, still gushing. The gushing was a little much, Susan thought. They were just cookies, after all. She kept on her dingy sneakers and followed her new neighbor into the sitting room. The walls were vertically striped an airy blue and chocolate brown. A couple of ficus house plants sat companionably next to the leather sofas and a furry area rug. Everywhere she looked were artifacts of world travel. Photographs, souvenirs, maps… mostly of glamorous places. Paris, London, Rome… Susan hadn’t been any further than Disneyland.


Eva asked lots of questions… how long had they been in the neighborhood? How old were her children? Did she work? What a stupid question - she had four children! Eva laughed at her silliness, placing a tiny hand against her butterfly sternum. She acted overly-enthralled by Susan’s humble world, punctuating her answers with an occasional “Hmmmm.” “How about that?” “Really?” “Wonderful.” Susan found herself begging her facial muscles to hide the irritation that began its own kind of gushing. “What do you do?” she asked, turning the subject from her own less glamorous lifestyle. “Oh, I retired early. I really just mull around these days. I used to be a business woman. Boring stuff… you don’t want to hear about it!” She laughed again, playfully dismissing the subject. Susan laughed along, less playfully. The way Eva moved bothered her. How she fiddled with the hair at the nape of her neck. The way she uncurled her lips from her white, even teeth when she smiled. Her legs crossing and uncrossing, toes bouncing circles in the air. The gushing over Susan’s admittedly mundane life. She was too much, perched gracefully on her sofa, the leather beneath her devoid of any ice cream drippings or kool-aid stains, pretending to care. It was insulting, really. Eva sat in her beautiful home, surrounded by momentos of her thrilling history, living comfortably in retirement and looking like a goddess while Susan (who could only be a year or two younger) sported a marsupial pouch of skin thanks to four pregnancies, rarely showered before noon or uninterrupted, refereed siblings and scrubbed crayon off of her dingy walls. Sue stood finally, making an excuse about the baby waking from her nap soon and acting regretful that she had to leave so abruptly. She bustled to the door, off of the cool skin of the sofa and the plush carpet, stepping lightly on the waxed pine.
“Please be sure to bring the children next time!” Eva called after, following her to the porch. Susan imagined her children playing with the little English phone booth and Eiffel tower and half-smiled. “Sure…” she answered, as the door opened and a wave of heat rushed in. (“Yeah, right.”)


That night, Susan picked through her irritable feelings. It was impossible to say what particular thing Susan detested about Eva. Probably the whole package, she decided finally, rolling over in her oven of a bed. That day had hit a record high. It was the hottest in eighty-seven years. Susan blamed the heat some, of course. It made her lay in bed agitated after a long uncomfortable day, pajama top pasted to her flushed skin, locks of frizzy hair dripping with sweat. Sue imagined Eva lying in her cool sheets under the gentle breeze of her air-conditioning vent… waking slowly in the morning, stretching her rested limbs and smiling through the last moments of her dream. Susan’s bedroom window opened to the teasing hum of Eva’s air conditioning unit. Off and on it grinded its motor through the long, sticky night, startling Susan out of her light sleep. Around three a.m. she found herself fantasizing about passive-aggressive revenge: shining strobe floodlights into Eva’s bedroom window, blaring the Mexican radio station at random intervals throughout the night… and she imagined with satisfaction as she fell into the strangeness of dreams, her perfect neighbor suffering from one imperfect night’s sleep.


Eva laid in her four-poster bed, fighting the nausea that came as an unpleasant side affect of the medicine that was supposed to buy her time. She contemplated the value of it - extra time to live - hugging her bony knees to her frame to keep warm. The air conditioner was still on, blast it, and bile rose in her throat every time she made the slightest motion to get up and turn it off. So she stayed very still, her teeth clattering, adding up her life. She found herself thinking of her new neighbor’s visit that day. Susan had such beautiful children. They laughed and chased each other around the front yard. How wonderful it must be to make a person, she thought. To see yourself in your own child’s face, in their expressions and mannerisms, while discovering with them their own uniqueness and identity. She had put off family. Men were a nuisance and she distrusted their shallow attraction to her. She’d been too busy, anyway. Work had been her family, her love, her reason for getting up every morning. She’d filled all her holidays with travel, seeing the world solo. Having been forced into early retirement after the diagnosis, she found fewer and fewer reasons to get up lately. Everything that needed doing was hired out by her old personal assistant. Even the house plants had an employee to take care of them. It would feel nice to be needed by someone. Now, her body was too unpredictable to rely upon for much. How lucky, she thought, that this morning she felt good enough to make herself look decent. Susan was so kind to bring that plate of cookies. So thoughtful. Alone and shivering, the sharp edges of consciousness were smoothed by the thought of someone so gracious living right next door.

Ladybug Summer by R.F.

My eleventh summer was one of my best. Fifth grade at a new school was behind me, along with much misery. My best friend had moved from a nearby town to only five minutes away, and my dad had bought us passes to the local Country Club pool. Life was good!

The fenced in pool was surrounded by a golf course, and several green bushes lined the fence. Bugs of all sorts managed to find their way into the pool, usually discovered long dead. My friend and I mourned their passing, as we tried to love all of God's creatures. But one particular day as I surfaced from from an underwater tea party, I noticed a ladybug floating on the water. I scooped it up and put it on the warm concrete by the pool ledge, only to notice another ladybug swimming unhappily along. And another; and another.

“Look at all the ladybugs!” my friend shouted from across the pool. There were hundreds of the red and black creatures, floating on the water's surface, doomed unless my friend and I came to their rescue. We began hurriedly scooping them and depositing them on the dry ground, yelling excitedly at each other when one looked good or flew away.

“Where did they come from,” I wondered to myself. Perhaps a recent hatch on the nearby bushes? The amount made me think that someone had deliberately dumped them into the pool, but who could be so cruel? As I looked around, I realized that no one at the pool that day could be. Nearly everyone there had joined my friend and my crusade to save the ladybugs. Fathers and their water-winged children scooped and deposited; teenagers in colorful bikinis put down their bottles of tanning oil and leaned carefully over the pool's edge; grandparents in their permanently-pruned skins pointed out the bugs to whoever was nearest. The entire pool community, mostly unknown to one another before, had joined together that day to rescue the tiny, helpless ladybug victims. I had to pause to soak in the scene, my heart swelling with gratitude and pride.

After all the ladybugs were rescued or laid to rest, my friend and I sat on our beach towels, basking in the warmth of the sun, and also the feeling that we were heroes. Perhaps no one's life had been permanently changed, but for that brief hour several strangers had come together and done something good for the world.

Salt 6/1/1996

in the wintertime i forget.
the snow and icy chill bock all emotions:
pain, joy, everything.
you can see me if you look carefully.
i'm the one with the stone face
and a perpetual twitching frown.
i tried to inhabit your icy lake
but i forgot how to read your
"DANGER!" signs,
and i slipped under
through a crack in the ice.
all through the re-birth you'll watch me
hopelessly flail my arms
and kick my aching feet.
so when summer burns your white skin
mine will be wet and pruned.
my exhausted body will shut down
and i will drown in your waters.
leave me there
with the sand and the salt.
yes, your freshwater lake is no more.
i've cried the dead sea.

~Rachel Nicely

Farewell Nonage 1/10/1995

The last look came
and went
No long goodbyes
No tears or aching hearts
I travel on
Leaving behind things too quickly forgotten
Looking ahead to only a few
bright lights
Why aren't they as bright as they were
When I longed to touch them?
I look back
And watch shadowy hands wave
goodbye,
Then fade away forever.

The Appointment by Iris Rosewater

Amy was not running late to her appointment. She found herself, however, in an anxious flurry - fumbling with the hangers in her closet, looking wildly all over the apartment for her left boot, only to find it after ten minutes sitting innocently in the middle of the living room floor. She tried to look at her face without seeing herself as she applied make-up, drawing shakily around the rims of her honey-brown eyes with charcoal eyeliner, rubbing the mascara-smudge with a wet Q-tip. She met her reflection in the mirror and hesitated. A mixture of excitement and fear arranged her features unnaturally. She stopped and sat on the edge of the bath tub, forcing long, deep breaths through her short, shallow ones.

As she waited for Gabe at the doctor’s office, Amy distracted herself by looking around the waiting room. The walls were a soft orange sherbet color, with a floral wallpaper border. A table water fountain bubbled musically in the corner next to some oversized house plants with broad leaves that sprawled out and weaved between the legs of the seats beside them. The phone rang softly behind the secretary’s desk, and she answered each time using the same generic greeting, her voice rising and falling with the same melodic inflection. Otherwise, it was very quiet. Amy was glad to have made her appointment during a workday morning. The waiting room was sparsely filled. The patients sat with a comfortable number of empty chairs on either side, some thumbing through outdated Parents magazines or reading books they’d brought with them. Several women had large round bellies, all of whom seemed to smooth their hands over the protrusions absently. Amy looked away, as memories of her last visit to this office flooded into her mind.

When Amy found out she was pregnant, she was ecstatic. Gabe bought her pickles and chocolate to celebrate. They bought piles of books about pregnancy, marveling over the photos of zygotes and embryos, pouring over what to expect from week to week. They said goodnight to the baby when they went to sleep and Gabe kissed Amy’s belly good morning before he got up for work. They couldn’t wait to bring home a fuzzy black and white glimpse into her womb. When the day came for her very first ultrasound, they held hands as the technician dimmed the lights. She watched the monitor intently, searching with untrained eyes for a feature she could recognize… a hand, a curved spine, a silhouette… the flutter of a heart… but, it was over very quickly. She saw only for a few moments a small curled figure - still and white. The technician said something Amy didn’t hear and excused herself. And then the doctor returned alone. “It looks like this is a miscarriage. I’m so sorry.”

It rained that night, and Amy laid awake in her bed long after Gabe fell asleep. Her thoughts overtook any chance of rest. She wondered what she had done wrong… if maybe she shouldn’t have jogged in the mornings, or taken the cold medicine before she knew… as if it mattered now. Those questions quickly gave way to bigger ones and she stared at the shadow of her window on the wall, water splattering and smearing down the pane, evaluating her life. They were good people, weren’t they? She had felt so strongly that this was the right thing… maybe she had been wrong, and she was somehow unworthy of motherhood. Through the long night, sorrow gave way to anger and she felt cheated. Why would she be given a life only to have it snatched away? How stupid and silly of her to have believed this was real when it was only a cruel joke. She touched her belly, which entombed her deceased child and wept to the sound of the rain chiming against the dark glass.

It was seven harrowing days before the bleeding began, and it came so heavily and painfully that she felt faint. She realized distantly, crumpled and groaning in bed, that this must be what it feels like to give birth, and then almost laughed through the misery of it, because she also realized that she was.

For weeks, the public was a brutal place to be. Everywhere she went, she was surrounded by what was denied her. Pregnant women seemed to congregate at the grocery store, leaning back uncomfortably, looking flushed and exasperated in the summer heat. Babies chewed on their chubby little hands, babbling and cooing with gorgeous round eyes at their mothers, who seemed always to ignore them. The jealousy was consuming. In her mind, Amy judged them for taking what they had for granted. And what they had was everything… and what she had was nothing… until Christmas came.

On Christmas morning, Amy felt a bit “off” again. The celebratory brunch made her stomach churn just smelling it as she walked through her parent’s front door. Nibbling her toast (and breathing through her mouth discreetly) she ticked off the days since her last period. She was terrible about keeping track, but it had been irregular since that Summer, so she had stopped paying much attention. The numbers added up like a punch in the stomach and she politely excused herself from the table, grabbing her purse and keys on a hunt for an open drug store.

As Gabe arrived at the office and they kissed hello, their tension met and multiplied. They were much more guarded this time, unwilling to believe that it was real, afraid to dangle their hopes at the altitude from which they had previously fallen.

With sweaty hands clasped, they watched with unbridled emotion, the tiny black and white strobe of their baby’s heart.
　

Better By Iris Rosewater

She is an angel

(my better self)

She watches from the outside
In the inside
Of my head
And shows me
How she would have done it
Better

The control she would have kept
Over her emotions
During that argument

The perspective she will keep
Through the trials

She observes my mothering
And chides with righteous patience
That a glass of juice
Spilled on the floor
Is really not so terrible a thing
To happen

She disregards the build-up
Of juice cups spilled
And diapers
And directions gone unheeded

She lets each go
And starts fresh at every fiasco

She forgives
Everyone but me.

I have yet to learn
What her role is
In my life
If she were meant
To plague me
Or lift me up

But she feels a heavy burden
Teetering at the top of
The load I carry

Maybe she is not
My best self

Maybe she is inhuman
And I do myself
A disservice
Comparing the two of us
As if I were really
Capable
Of meeting
that measure of goodness.

Or…

Perhaps she is my true self
Whispering reminders

Buried under the shrapnel of guilt
I choose to bear
Rather than rising to the glory
Of what I was made
To become.

Beginning

On the first day of Lilly’s new life, she was driving. Her ’08 Subaru wove its way through the gorge, following the curvy highway that ran along the columbia river. The landscape started green, with lush forests rolling up beside her. Heavy grey clouds hung above blanketing the sky, mingling with the tree tops and obscuring any view of the sun. As she pressed east, the scenery made gradual changes. The trees thinned… bare rocks exposed themselves in the earth… and then the clouds lifted and lightened, having lost the strength to carry the darkness and the rain to the other side of the Cascade mountains. And the sun broke through.

Native Portlanders were appalled at Lilly’s choice of location. They called it barren. They said it was too hot. They couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to leave the beautiful backdrop of varying shades of green that covered every un-developed square inch of earth. Lilly, however, was not a native. She grew up in the desert, naming every cactus and taking pictures of the particularly breathtaking sunsets. She preferred her mountains jagged and bare against blue skies. She could not imagine anyone wanting to stay where the rain weeps nine months out of every year, hiding the sun with layer upon layer of indigo-gray clouds. By the time she decided to leave, her least favorite colors were grey and green. She only lived there in the first place because Mike had gotten a job there. And, now, it didn’t matter where Mike worked. If he were a color, it would be grey. She was done with him, too.

As she made her descent into the dry country, the view opened into a panorama. Just two hours ago she had been hemmed in, her vision barricaded by giants knit tightly together, stretching the mountainsides higher into the thick wet clouds. And now they released her into vastness… endless blue sky with miles and miles of warm brown. She recognized immediately that it was different from the desert she knew. Rather than tall mesquite and creosote bushes, it was covered with low sage brush, and not a single cactus gnarled its prickled hands against the backdrop. The sand was even strange, covered with thin, honey-colored grass. There were no craggy mountains - only rolling hills that seemed alive to her, the wind moving the grass like a high desert sea. Three-armed windmills dotted the hill tops, turning slowly. She glanced in the little child mirror attached to her rear view to point them out to Eden, but saw that she was already asleep, along with her little brother, Mason. Lilly turned down the Debussy she’d been listening to and listened to them breathe in their dreams, pulled into her own quiet reverie.
Mason’s face was pale and freckled with deep-set green eyes, like Lilly’s. Eden looked like Mike. So much that Lilly wondered at first if she had a single dominant gene to contribute to the pool. It felt strange to be able to love so dearly the feminine version of a face she despised. Of course, it hadn’t always been that way…

When Lilly met Mike, she was a photography major in college. They frequented the same poetry readings and bookstores. And, finally one day, he struck a conversation with her over the Cummings collection she flipped through as she sat on a winged chair by the coffee shop. She remembered thinking he bore a vague resemblance to e., glancing down at his picture on the back cover. She liked that. They were so similar, everyone said. They started to share the same mannerisms. They sincerely enjoyed each other’s company, whether they were lazing around reading, or walking to class together, or studying… their college life together had been fantastic. She tried to remind herself of that now. In the beginning, it was good. When Mike asked her to marry him, hiking together (though neither of them were outdoorsy) to the top of a mountain that overlooked their university town, she didn’t have to think about it. She had made that decision a thousand times, listening to his laugh… catching his glass-blue eyes staring at her while she wrote… brushing her cheek along the bristles of his beard… he had asked with each gesture, and each time her heart said yes. It wasn’t until after the fairy-tale wedding and graduation and the move to the Pacific North West that the souring began.

The first time Lilly became pregnant, they were thrilled. They decorated the nursery together, and Mike had filled the baby’s bookshelves months before she was born. Lilly fantasized about their family life with a baby, and Mike made promises to change his schedule so he could be home with them more. Mike was a committed man, which was usually a good thing. He excelled at everything he pursued. Entering the business world, people recognized that and moved aside for him to rise. The firm he worked for demanded long hours which he gave them willingly. Lilly, on the other hand, did not hand him over quite as easily. She rarely saw him. He promised it would only be for the first couple of years, until he could prove himself to the company, but the higher he ranked, the longer his hours stretched. He missed most of Eden’s infancy, coming home long after she had gone to bed and leaving for work before she rose for the day. At first, Lilly had longed for him to be with her… but, after a while, she dreaded his homecomings. She pretended the deepest sleep when he came into bed and reached for her. Some nights, held her anyway… and then he stopped trying… both relieving Lilly and breaking her heart at the same time. Their waking hours together were busy, filled with Eden’s diapers and demands. She was a beautiful little thing. Those blue eyes took Lilly’s breath away. Mike’s, too, on his days off. But, Eden didn’t know Mike very well and preferred her mother. Mike bought lavish gifts for both of them. He surprised her with a new car. They moved to a house so big he hired a few cleaning ladies to help her with the daunting amount of upkeep. With every gesture, the look on his face seemed to both beg for her approval and demand it.

They had agreed that one child was enough for the moment - and then, a few weeks after their anniversary, Lilly discovered the addition of one more. Mike was not so happy this time. His architecture firm had just taken on a major international client, and he was supposed to be out of the country for the entire month after the baby’s due date. She told him to go anyway… and, when Mason was born, she hardly noticed he was gone.

As passionately as Mike threw himself into his work, Lilly threw herself into Motherhood. She read stacks of books to them. She took them to the duck pond and the children’s museum and swimming lessons, snapping albums of pictures at every turn. She tried to be the other half that was absent ninety percent of the time. Every mother knows she will fall short no matter how hard she tries to replace the father of her children… but it doesn’t stop her from working desperately to fill in the gap.

The dissolution of their marriage came on just as naturally and gradually as the creation of it, like the decrescendo at the end of a composition. The intimacy that once bound them slackened and unwound day after day… until in one moment, with one look, they both knew it was over. Mike came into the bedroom around two in the morning and peeled back the down comforter. Thick, drizzly raindrops pattered on the roof above them. Lilly opened her eyes and looked into his. Dark circles hung beneath them and they were bloodshot. Lilly noticed for the first time that his hair was beginning to thin. They stared at each other for a long time, as if across a chasm that could not be bridged. They had both made their decisions.

It seemed rash for Lilly to move to “nothing” and she knew it. The truth was, she had only been to Richland once, to visit an dear friend she’d known since childhood. But, she loved it instantly. So, when she and Mike signed the papers, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to her to go there. She would leave the memories and disappointment on the other side of the Cascades and cultivate a new life under the blessed rays of the sun.

The children awakened in time to see the town as they drove to their new home. They pointed out horses and cows excitedly, and Lilly acted just as in awe as they were. The house she chose was an old red-brick bungalow on an acre lot ten minutes from town. The white paint on the shudders was chipped and faded. The flower garden was dying and choked with weeds. It needed work, obviously, but so did Lilly, so she figured they could do it together. While she created business cards for her photography business on her laptop, she mentally renovated the kitchen.

After the children chose their rooms and wore themselves out running around the yard, they ate a feast of delivery pizza and went to bed early, exhausted. Lilly sat on the back porch in her rocking chair and watched the sun for a while. In the southwestern desert she knew, the sun was heavy, falling in a stunning spectacle of blazing orange behind the mountains in the space of an hour. This new desert was not in any hurry to surrender her. She hung, gathering pink and gold on the horizon, saying goodbye to every curve of the land below, kissing it goodbye and promising to come back in the morning.

Time By Iris Rosewater

If I were at home, I would still be asleep right now, Lori thought to herself as she watched the dust motes dance in a beam of sunlight. The curtains were yellowing lace, probably hand-tatted decades ago. She lay in the creaky day bed, letting her eyes wander over the fake wood-paneled walls in the tiny “guest” bedroom. The room was a combination of ancient artifacts and someone’s attempt to redecorate in the late sixties. The green shag carpeting complemented her scratchy polyester bedspread perfectly, as if a swatch had been cut to be sure the swirling paisley would be an exact match. A black sewing machine sat on a drop leaf table in the far corner on top of a doily. The night stand was stained a dark brown and had a lovely skeleton-key hole in the rounded drawer. There were pictures in tarnished frames... black and white, mostly. Some of them smiled in formal poses, with striking and outdated hair styles. The men had pants that reached halfway up their torsos. Several women wore dresses with shiny belts at their waists and high heels. And in the really, truly antique photos, the faces did not smile. A baby sat, in a white gown and bonnet, blurred in his mother’s lap... her brunette hair piled neatly on her head, her dress buttoned all the way up to her chin. Relatives, most likely. Distant, deceased strangers, hauntingly familiar by genetic traits. On one woman she saw the distinctive “May” nose - thin and pointed. And the man on her left had the big forehead every female descendent unlucky enough to have inherited hides with bangs. Lori tried to imagine herself in a dress with long sleeves that puffed at the shoulders and covered every inch of skin possible, her own mousey brown hair fixed with dozens of pins in an intricate bun. Her parents’ muffled voices moved from the adjacent bedroom to the hallway and lingered in front of her closed door.

“...a garage sale would be so much work, Tom. I don’t know if I have it in me. Why don’t you just sell some of the decent stuff on ebay and donate the rest to Goodwill?” her mother sounded exhausted already and it couldn’t be much past seven.

“You think that would be less work? I don’t have time, Sharon. Let’s just have an estate sale for a day or two and it’ll be done with. We only have a week to wrap all of this up...”

Their words faded into rumbles as they walked to the kitchen. Certain now that there would be no more dozing, Lori got up and picked some clothes to wear from her suitcase in the closet. She took a weak shower in the mint-green bathtub (someone really liked green) and came out to join breakfast already in progress at the formica table in the kitchen. Great-Grandma looked to be in a good mood this morning, humming and smiling in her mumu (which looked to have been purchased at the same time as the bed spread). Debbie, her over-fed poodle, waddled along beside her.

“Lori, dear? Is that you?” she said, her voice shaking along with her head and her arms as she reached out for a hug. This was the reason for the good mood. She had forgotten again.

“Yes, Grandma, it’s me,” she smiled, embracing the old woman’s bony frame gently.

Lori’s parents shot each other a look. They were clearly having an unspoken conversation. Her father cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows,“Do we tell her again today, or leave it be? She’ll only forget again tomorrow.” Sharon rolled her eyes,
“She will want to know what we’re doing with her belongings, don’t you think? We’ll have to explain somehow.” Lori helped herself to some oatmeal on the stove, but skipped the prunes. Grandma pulled a jar of honey from the cupboard and offered her some, but Lori politely declined when she saw the amount of gnat carcasses entombed in the sweet goo. Apparently Sharon had noticed, too, because Lori watched her throw it away when Grandma’s back was turned.

Sitting at the table, Lori watched as her grandmother ate. Debbie sat at her feet, wiggling her puffy little tail. Even with her large glasses, rimmed with purple plastic and gold, strong enough to fry a colony of ants in the sun, Grandma Lorraine could hardly see. Tom had found a phone for her with unbelievably large buttons, but she still couldn’t use it. It was painful to witness her grandmother eat. Often, her violently shaking hands missed the food she was trying to skewer with a fork. And, when she finally speared or scooped a morsel, half the time it fell off on its turbulent journey to her wrinkled mouth. Lori winced every time she watched the poor woman, unseeing, close her lips around an empty utensil. It was heartbreaking. She felt some relief watching grandma eat her oatmeal, which stuck reliably to the spoon.

Great-grandma Lorraine had turned 93 that fall. Her face was so old that it was hard to imagine what she must have looked like as a young woman. It was now framed with white hair, cut short and round around her head in a tightly curled permanent. Her eyes were cloudy blue, usually kind, but lately filled with confusion and frustration. Some days, she looked far away, perhaps living a memory. Today they were clear and kind. Her nose had grown comically bulbous over her long life span, and above her shriveled lips grew wiry, white hairs. Her teeth were still her own. Yellow, but sturdy. All in all, she was a sturdy woman. She lived through influenza epidemic and the great depression, both world wars... she mothered two sons and lost one to polio. She outlived three husbands and both her children. She had lived independently until age 93... when her mind began to give out on her. Tom used to visit monthly, until the neighbors reported that she’d been behaving strangely, asking which way to the train station, answering the door naked... growing violently fretful as she wandered the trailer park in search of her “little boy”. Lori considered how sad it was, her body having held on and stayed true and capable - only to be forsaken by her mind.


After breakfast, Lori’s parents made phone calls before going out. Most likely, they would be picking up cardboard boxes to pack up the contents of the single-wide trailer. It seemed odd to her that, after living nearly a century, all of a person’s belongings could dwindle to some out-dated furniture and nick-knacks. Lori felt uncomfortable with the idea of pulling the rug out from under the old woman. Every day Grandma woke without the memory of Tom and Sharon’s purpose for visiting. For the first two days, they re-explained. Grandma would be moving to a “nice, cozy home” filled with other elderly people, where “everything would be taken care of for her,” and she “wouldn’t have to lift a finger.” Lori felt sick as she listened to the sugar-coated version of the facility they were taking her to. She’d seen it for herself. It was clean, but in a sterile, hospital-ish way. Decorated with generic motel paintings on the walls, which were all a drab faded peach color. The employees seemed nice enough. But nothing - no soothing color scheme, no amount of fake flowers in vases, no assortment of desserts in custard dishes - could take the feeling out of that place. Although she tried not to be rude and stare, Lori couldn’t help but look at all the people that lived there. They were like her great-grandma Lorraine when she had one of her episodes (which were becoming more and more frequent). Some of them looked confused, like they had forgotten what they’d meant to buy at a store, and they wandered slowly and aimlessly around the halls, puzzling to themselves. One woman sat on a rocking chair, holding a teddy bear and smiling like a child. An old man’s voice permeated his room’s closed door as he argued with the nurse that he had not just taken his pill five minutes ago, and demanded the nurse give it to him now. It was filled with people who had lost themselves, and that strange, other-worldly feeling invaded Lori’s soul and left her sad and disquieted.

She tried not to think about it as she followed her great grandmother out to sit on the old wicker chairs just outside the front door. The concrete patio was cracked, and tufts of grass poked up and waved in the breeze. The tiny yard was overgrown and covered with dandelions. Their yellow heads bent and bobbed carelessly, unaware that they were unwanted. Lori glanced toward the toolshed and could see that her father had the lawn on his to-do list. His own graying-yellow head ducked through the doorway. His tall shadow stretched over the concrete and the weeds... Grandmother squinted up at him through her thick lenses.

The television seemed to drone constantly at a deafening volume level. Lori imagined it was a good way to keep from feeling lonely, but it was awfully hard to tune out or get away from in the small space. When she saw that Grandma was asleep halfway through Days of Our Lives, with Debbie snuggled contentedly beside her, Lori turned it off and looked around for something to do. There was no computer. The books she had were mostly about cooking, or religious. Out of sheer boredom, she began poking in the closet her parents had begun sorting through. Lots of old clothes. How did all old people seem to smell the same? She wondered, marking the familiar musty odor as she stirred the fabric. A few items were truly vintage: a fancy dress that must have been from the thirties at least, a pair of cream-colored peek-toe high heels, several clutch purses. And then, deep in the closet, she found a filing box. Lorraine’s favorite color, green. It had a lock, but opened easily when she slid the latch. Inside was a veritable time capsule. A stack of photos. Lorraine as an infant, wearing a long white gown in her mother’s arms. Laughing in a woolen bathing suit and thick-rimmed sunglasses. A graduation photo shot with a soft lens that made the contours of her face fuzzy around the edges. The famous nose, elegant and distinctive, was there. Lori realized with a start how clearly this face resembled her own. The same doe eyes, high cheekbones, pointed chin. Intrigued, Lori looked on. Pictures of her first marriage, to Lori’s blood-related great-grandfather, Joe. And then, as their little family grew in number, baby pictures of their sons. Clearly, they were Lorraine’s pride and joy. Her smile looked exultant, holding her second born on her hip, and the hand of her oldest standing beside her. More pictures of the sons... and then the family with a noticeable absence. And obvious pain behind smiles. Lori noted the distinct change in her eyes. In two pictures, most likely taken only a year or two apart, Lorraine’s face had aged dramatically. The exuberance was lost somehow. Color photographs near the bottom of the box showed another wedding. And another, dated twenty years or so ago. Loving and losing cast a shadow over the youthful smile, made the dimples more shallow somehow, the eyes a bit deeper. Wordlessly, Lorraine’s story was played out through yellowing photographs, filled in with the scraps of history Lori could remember. The lady snoring gently in her mumu on the couch seemed a far cry from the woman she was looking at. All of a sudden, time seemed fickle and unfair. It gave at first... ripening childhood into youth and capability... tending and growing love after love like a tree bears fruit. And then, it harvested in a cruel way, plucking away loved ones. Wearing on and on, knitting wrinkles into skin, pulling out hair, bending joints and making bones brittle. Time seemed like the creditor every human comes into the world first anticipating, then ignoring, and finally begging after for more.

Lori took her favorite picture, the mirror-image Lorraine at eighteen years, and carried it reverently to her bedroom, tucking it securely into her journal. Then she went to the livingroom and sat next to her great-grandmother, still in dreams. She took her hand, with its papery, spotted skin and laced her fingers between the swollen knuckles, leaning her head gently on Lorraine’s frail shoulder. She closed her eyes, but did not sleep, and tried not to waken the old woman with her tears.

April By Rebecca Kahlsdorf

It is autism awareness month. I love/hate April for that reason. Two years ago, I was still struggling with the thought that my two year old son might have autism. I didn’t want to believe it, but the strong possibility glared me in the face. Since my mother brought it up months before, I had swung back and forth. When I had him tested through the early childhood intervention program, I asked the evaluator if she thought he might be autistic. She said she wasn’t an expert, but he didn’t seem like he was to her. I latched on to that for a while, and I was truly angry at my mother for scaring me like that (regardless of the fact that he did qualify for therapy owing to his significant speech and fine motor delays). The night my mom suggested the idea, my daughter was only 3 months old. Chadd had been at a seminar in Las Vegas and would be flying home that night, so she had come over to stay with the kids while I picked him up. I had just finished nursing Audrey to sleep and stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding her in my arms, when my mother started in carefully, clearly uncomfortable and concerned. “Does Charlie answer when you call him from across a room?” “Does he play with toy cars by pretend driving them across the floor, or does he flip them over and spin their wheels?” “Does he make very much eye contact?” “What?” I remember asking, “Do you think he’s autistic or something?” To which she replied, “You said it. Not me.” And then came the hollowing out. I was holding my little girl in my arms, just five minutes ago thinking I had a normal life with a normal family and a pleasantly normal future... and then my heart froze and I could barely feel my extremities. Probably because I knew somewhere that it was real. I held it together, but just barely, when I collected Chadd from the airport. I waited until we were laying in bed together and it was dark to say anything. Chadd held me. If it were true, he said, then Charlie would just be the best autistic boy in the world.

The support for the autism theory did not last. Chadd really didn’t want to believe it. So, he kept pointing out ways that Charlie was doing “normal” kid things. But, as time wore on and we waited on that accursed list for an official diagnosis, I began to slowly accept the doom of autism as something happening to us. So, it became a contentious point between us - at least inside me, anyway. I remember a fight we finally had about it. “Be careful what labels you put on him - they will follow him for the rest of his life!... You just want there to be something wrong with him!” he said as the argument heated. “Are you serious?” (I am a terrible fighter, I don’t think offensively on my feet, but this one meant something to me, so I kept duking it out) “Of COURSE I don’t want there to be something wrong with our son!” I said - having following him up the stairs and into the shower as he tried to evade me with the last word, “All I’m trying to say is that if there IS something wrong with him, I want him to have HELP!” That was the climate in which we entered our first Autism Awareness April.

Autism Speaks had a commercial on that year with a little boy throwing a football with his dad in the back yard. Printed over the sweet footage were lines that went something like this: “Chances of your child being a player on a professional football team: 1 in x-million. The chances of your child having autism: 1 in 150.” Chadd played football in college. All my hairs stood up... and I tried, without looking right at him, to see his reaction. It was unreadable.

Johanna and Ashley, Charlie’s early intervention therapists, were wonderful. They came over once a week and played with him and showed me how to talk to him, how to give an effective time out, what toys to buy, how to engage him... In short, how to give him what he needed. I will always be grateful to them for their gentle guidance. I remember asking Johanna if she thought he had it, and she answered kindly that autism was a medical diagnosis only a doctor could give... But, that she would not rule it out as a possibility. In retrospect, I asked some really tough questions for a person in her capacity to navigate successfully. She did it beautifully - with support and hopefulness - not hope that he was “normal,” but hope that everything would be all right. I needed that hope more than anything.

Sitting on that waiting list was torture for me. I remember feeling the same when my father died, only it dragged on and on. I lived with that gutted feeling. It was the last thing on my mind as I fell asleep every night. I woke at least once to nurse Audrey, and I thought about it half-asleep. And then in the morning, even before I opened my eyes, it was there waiting for me. When my father died, it was the end of someone I loved. For me, I felt I was facing the end of the life I had expected, the end of the son I thought I knew - as the one I had felt taken from me and replaced by a stranger. Possibly. The desperate and silly teensy bit of hope still remained, although I tried to smother it. And I was alone, mostly. Chadd still hadn’t come around.

A month or two before Charlie’s diagnostic clinic, Chadd went to his sister’s wedding in California. His nephew, who is only days younger than Charlie, was there. I think that was a turning point for him. He suddenly had a comparison, and a stark one at that. One Sunday, we were driving to church and Chadd said he wanted Charlie to have a Priesthood blessing. He would ask our home teacher, Brother Gillins, to help him after church. He believed now that something was amiss. Charlie sat in my lap and wriggled under their anointing hands. Chadd asked brother Gillins to offer the blessing. I remember blessings of health... but, I don’t remember much of what he said. Afterwards, brother Gillins shared with us that he didn’t have the impression that Charlie needed healing... that the feeling he received was that Charlie wasn’t “sick”. I understood what he meant, and I know Chadd did too. Yes, he was not typical. But, Charlie was not broken - he was as God intended him to be. After our home teacher left, Chadd and I sat and had the most emotional conversation of our marriage. I reminded him of a talk we had long ago, while we were still dating. I had forgotten it completely, until my mom reminded me. I told her about it, because I thought it was interesting. We had been driving somewhere together and I said, “Sometimes, I get the feeling that I’ll have a child with special needs.” He looked over at me quizzically. “That’s funny... I’ve had that feeling, too.” Sitting on the couch that Sunday, I asked if he remembered that conversation. Through weeping I had not seen before or since, he replied that he did. I comforted him with whatever strength I had left in my soul. We cried together for our broken hopes and our fresh fears. And, from that moment on, I was no longer alone.

The clinic was not fun. I had talked to the social worker on the phone about how positive I was trying to be - how I just wanted to know so we could give him all the intervention he needed, armed with a medical diagnosis. I wanted our life to officially start, whatever the outcome of the evaluation. So, she looked like she expected me to be unsurprised with their answer to our life-changing question. I stared back blankly and felt any preparation I thought I had mustered over the last seven months disintegrate as terror flooded through me like a tidal wave.

I delved into research, but it only depressed me. Autism is such a spectrum and so individual, the possible affectations are many, and they are heartbreaking to learn as possibilities for your child. He may never speak. He may be eight before he’s out of diapers. He may be aggressive. He may inflict pain to himself. He may never live independently. He may never have meaningful relationships outside of the family. And on and on. I had my first migraine headache the first week after his diagnosis. I had reached a level of anxiety I had never experienced before. One look at Charlie, and I stopped breathing. I had to say out loud over and over, “He’s the same little boy he was before. You’ve been doing this all along. He’s the same little boy as always. This doesn’t change anything.” (Phrases blessed Johanna had comforted me with). I was surprised that I felt angry about it, too. I didn’t want my life. I wanted the one I had planned for myself. But, it isn’t my plan that’s important... and I understand that now.

Therapies were aplenty and sometimes conflicted each other. The cost of private therapy began at around $100 per hour. Insurance labels autism as a “learning disability,” which makes no sense, seeing as it can only be diagnosed by a panel of medical professionals. But, it’s a coverage cop-out. ABA methodology suggest 20-40 hours of therapy per week. Our insurance offered 90% coverage up to $2000 for any therapy per YEAR (after the $500 deductible). You do the math and figure out how quickly that runs out. I made lots of phone calls, and I kept a special notebook for everything I researched.

I figured out how to stretch our therapy money, and when to plan it. He received private speech therapy as well as occupational therapy for several months. I started taking him to horse riding therapy, although gross motor skills are actually one of his strengths. I stumbled upon autism assistance dogs and felt excited at the prospect, and then deflated when I learned the average cost was around $12,000. (Later, we were blessed to find the Joys of Living Assistance Dogs, and to have had the amazing experience of a community rallying to fund raise on Charlie’s behalf. Bonnie the wonder dog joined our family earlier this year.) Charlie started at the Early Childhood Center in an autism-specific classroom just after he turned three. I started attending a pro-active autism support group. I was a woman on a mission. And I crashed. I continue to cycle through manic super-charged-therapy-mom, crash - overwhelmed and depressed, and then go through a denial phase when I pretend we are a normal family. The grieving took a long time. The trouble with grieving is that you can’t do it all at once and have it over with. It creeps up on you when you aren’t expecting it, and reminds you of something else you’ve lost... some new element to mourn that you hadn’t thought of before. And guilt ensues, sweeping away any productive energy. My cycles are getting further from the bottom now. They are working their way up. I hope someday to master the balance that is essential in my situation. I’m working on it.

I like the fact the Autism Awareness month is in April. It is the month we celebrate the resurrection of the Savior. It is the season through which life begins to come out of the sad remains of winter’s depression, and the sun comes out again. There are new Autism Speaks commercials on the television. I wonder how many families there are who are watching, oblivious that their gorgeous little baby is fated to be different from his peers... a puzzle attached to a trillion of his parents’ heartstrings. Charlie is the source of my most intense joy and pain. I want for him what I want for Audrey: happiness, fulfillment, and the realization of his potential. If I didn’t believe in a life beyond this one, I don’t think I would have made it through that first year. Thankfully, I believe deeply in a perfect Creator who makes no mistakes. So, here we are. It is April again, and here we are... for many more April’s to come, carrying with them uncharted territory. Unknown, atypical, uncharted... but, full of hope.

First Writing Assignment

Candle’s Futile FightThe creamy white wax of the candle sits in a hard glob inside its translucent glass hurricane. The glass which is half empty of the wax widens in the center and rises up into a narrow opening. The hole is an elegant and undersized ring encircled with a shinny ribbon imprinted with the candle company’s name and the bouquet which has been selected to encompass the wax. On top of the wax, a smaller shimmery liquid puddle, about the size of a quarter begins to form in the center of the hard wax as the tiny pointy flame burns motionless on it’s short dark black wick. I imagine how that glossy wax puddle will grow larger and larger, in perfectly uniform and completely subtle rings until the entire top layer of the candle is fluid. It is as the wax becomes runny that the scent of the candle becomes evident. As I sit and the pool of liquid swells, the aroma of lime and coconut resonates out into the room. As I sit, the flame seems to gain confidence inside its small glass enclosure and it stretches taller as if trying to reach outside the rim of the glass. As the fire matures, it becomes frenzied, flickering and swaying against the invisible breeze that taunts it. The flame seems to be working harder now, trying to stretch, and expand into something significant and long lasting. It fights against the elements inside its glass house knowing that it takes but one of my breaths to douse it. It struggles between its two personalities, one of creating a welcoming atmosphere of vision and scent and it’s other of providing its dangerous heat, which it knows is truly its only defense against my effortless extinguishment of its dance inside the glass.

The Cure by Iris Rosewater

If I had really stopped to think about it, I would have been much more careful with my answers on that questionnaire.

“Have you lost interest in your hobbies?”

Yes, for the most part. (But, I keep up some extracurricular activities. It keeps me away from home.)

“Do you feel disengaged from your loved ones?”

Absolutely. Abandoned, in fact.

“Do you have difficulty facing the day, and wish to stay in bed?”

Who doesn’t?

I blitz through the questions like an easy exam, not thinking ahead to any outcome in particular, and hand the clipboard to the nurse, who whisks it out of the room. I sit uncomfortably on the exam table, my legs dangling, listening to the white paper crinkle beneath my backside. My hands are cold, so I wedge them under my thighs for warmth. I’m too tired to get down and grab an outdated magazine from the basket on the floor, so instead I think about all the times I’ve been to the doctor that I can remember. Pneumonia as a five-year-old, that nasty fall off my bike when I was nine, all the lengthy bouts with bronchitis in middle school… and now, at 15, mononucleosis. I didn’t get it in any worthwhile way, either. This is probably from a germy doorknob – because it definitely isn’t from any kiss. What a gyp.

The doctor finally meanders in. I know we’re at an army base clinic, but it still weirds me out to see nurses and doctors in camo. It makes me feel like I should be prepared to duck and cover in case war breaks out. I peek under my knees at the drawers in the exam table. Maybe they store ammo in there. He sits on his rolly-chair for a few seconds, flipping through my chart. Then, sticking the stethoscope into his ears, he starts listening to me breathe. The stinking thing is like an icecube, and I start to shiver. The mucous in my lungs rattles audibly as I take a deep breath (I don’t need any medical instrument to detect it), which triggers a deep, wet coughing fit. He asks if I’m doing any better than last time, blah blah blah, and then notices the questionnaire answers.

“How long have you felt like this, Beth?”

What was their wedding date, again?

“For a few months.”

“Months?”

Yeah, months. About six of them, unless you count the courtship. But, that wasn’t nearly as bad as living with him.

“Well, I’d like you to see Dr. Cromwell before you go. I believe he’s free at the moment. He may be able to help you that.”

Sure, send me to Dr. Whomever. Am I done here? He writes me another prescription for that terrible stuff I’m supposed to gargle to numb the ulcers on my tonsils, and then leads me down a hallway. The atmosphere gets progressively more nicey-nice the further we walk. Like we’re going to a place prepared for fragile people. Soft colors are painted on the walls, instead of sterile white, and bulletin boards covered in pictures of people with hopeful looks in their eyes. And then, we walk into Dr. What’s-his-face’s office, and my eyes squint and then widen, adjusting to the darkness. It is seriously dark in here. Maybe this guy treats people who are allergic to light. What am I doing here, exactly? Dressed in an argyle sweater vest and sky-blue collared-shirt instead of camo, he stands up and gingerly shakes my hand. He’s middle aged with a graying beard and receding hair line. They speak with low voices to each other for a moment, and then my doctor nods to me and shuts the door behind him. Then, daft, tired Beth, I finally put it all together. He’s a psychologist.

His dim office is covered in hunting décor. Apparently, he’s big into mallards. They are EVERYWHERE. Wooden figures, sitting placidly on the edges of his desk… a large painting on the wall with a whole flock of them trying in vain to make an escape. All of them have a vacant, soulless look in their eyes. Which, by the way, is not how a duck really looks. My aunt had a few. They were rather clever, I thought. I pictured them, waddling devotedly behind her around the garden while she pulled weeds, quacking happily when she’d toss a slug or a worm their way. How in the world am I supposed to take this guy seriously?

Dr. Cromwell starts asking me some questions about my home life. I explain about my stepfather, who lays on the couch day and night, with the TV blaring away. I explain that I am sick with mono, and of course I want to sleep all the time – I have been asleep 16 hours of every day for the last few weeks. He asks about school, and I tell him how I’m first chair cellist in my orchestra, I am in 3 honors classes and have a 3.8 GPA. Do I think it will get better? He asks. Well, I can’t be sick forever, I reason. If only my stepfather was a nasty disease that I knew would run its course and then we’d all have antibodies that would keep him away forever. He seems to pick up on the unspoken, never-ending half of my depression. He looks at me for a while – an uncomfortable amount of time, I might add – leaning back in his black leather office chair. And then he starts to tell me what a great kid I am, how I really seem to have my head on my shoulders… how lucky my parents are. Clearly, I don’t seem to be “clinically” depressed (which is apparently much worse), just “situationally” depressed. Well, I think, if the situation doesn’t end, does that make it clinical? But, I don’t want to tamper with his tidy diagnosis, so I don’t say anything more. I let him prescribe me something that will “help get me through this difficult transition”.

In the car, my mom seems relieved… almost a little happy as we head to the pharmacy. We sit silently, and I think about what makes me happy anymore. I mentally comb through my everyday life. Rehearsals, essays, tests, sleep… all that comes up in the way of happiness is my golden retriever, Ranger. He’s getting old, even though I don’t like to admit it. His muzzle is turning white and his eyes look a bit saggy. I think if what few endorphins I have left in my brain and how they start to trickle out when I sit and touch his silky ears and let him lick my hands with his velvety tongue. I like the happy grumbling noise he makes when I scratch his tummy, and the little tufts of fur that grow between his toes. I even like the way he smells – sweet, and a bit like warm sand. Then, delving further into the last time I was really happy, I think about my sister, Sarah.

When Dad left, our Mother went to pieces. She stopped eating or leaving the house. She seemed only capable of two activities: sleeping and sobbing. Sarah was in high school at the time, and I was in middle school. I dreaded coming home from school for the first half of eighth grade. Sarah dreaded leaving… maybe because she was afraid of what she might come home to find if she left Mom alone all day.

We soldiered on, the two of us, through that horrible year. And, just when Mom had started to go stretches of days and then weeks without crying, and Sarah and I thought we were going to be okay after all, she met Bob. Bob the blob. They met online of all places… both feeling lonely after messy divorces. He lived a few hours away, so Mom would leave us for a week at a time to visit, leaving Sarah in charge, of course. (As if that was any kind of change… Sarah had been running things for the last year).

It’s funny that, in the midst of all the garbage I had suffered, my mind pinpointed these times as the happiest for me. When Mom went on her visits, Sarah would shoot me a sly smile, explaining that I was needed at home that school day, or gee, didn’t I look sick this morning…

We ate lazy breakfasts… like bowls of an assortment of sugary cereals mixed together. We laid on a blanket under the tree in the back yard, sunbathing with the cat. We got fountain drinks at the drive-through during happy hour. We did puzzles. We laughed. She played the piano and we sang songs from old musicals like West Side Story. Sarah was my sister and my best friend.

And then Mom decided to marry Bob the Blob. And take me with her. Sarah was starting college by then, and had no plans to move five hours away to live with Bob. So, it was just me against the world, instead of the two of us. I was alone.

I am alone.

Mom has started to talk by the time we pull into the pharmacy drive-thru line. She’s obviously happy at this point, and a clear endorser of anti-depressants. Someone should hire this woman to do an ad, the way she’s going on. Isn’t it wonderful this day and age to have medicine like this… something to get us back in “the right frame of mind.” She wishes someone would have told her sooner about them, when Dad left. It would have changed that whole experience. You mean, we wouldn’t have been orphans for a year? I almost ask. She pulls up and pays for my prescription, reaching for a white bag through the little window.

As we drive away, I take out the little orange bottle with my name printed in capital letters. My Mom leans over and smiles, patting my leg reassuringly.

“See, Honey?” she says, “Everything is going to be all right.”

Prologue

It was a hot day, probably the hottest of the summer, but Ethan Fields didn’t notice. He was unaware of the sweat dripping off the end of his nose. He was actually quite thirsty, but he didn’t realize it, even though a bottle of water sat just a few feet from where he was working. Ethan was exploring, his favorite thing in the whole world to do. And living on his grandfather’s ranch was perfect for the twelve year olds preferred pastime. He’d grown up there, spending as much of his free time as he could outside.

Once in a while Ethan’s grandfather would join him, but he hadn’t been able to for the past few days. A cow had kicked him during a recent branding session so he had been mainly in his bed or on the couch. It was strange to see him prostrate, instead of driving his truck around the ranch or taking care of cows or alfalfa fields.

Finally the heat caught up with him and Ethan grabbed his water and sat down in the shade of a juniper tree. He surveyed his work through squinted eyes. A large pile of earth sat next to a deep hole. A sieve was sitting on the dirt, along with an old lunchbox. He’d bought the sieve with his allowance, and today he was enjoying sifting dirt through it to see if the ranch had any secret treasures. Anything he found worth keeping went into the lunchbox, which unfortunately wasn’t very full. But to Ethan, the hunt was much more important than the end result.

After a few minutes Ethan got up and went back to his sifting. The sun was getting awfully hot, and he decided to give it 15 more minutes, and then head home.

“Oh well,” Ethan murmured when his time was up. “I’ll dig somewhere else tomorrow.” He dug his sieve into the dirt once more, and lifted it out. He wasn’t even going to sift the dirt, just dump it out, but something caught his eye. As the loose dirt fell through the sieve, Ethan gasped. There at the bottom was a key. It was obviously old, the brass tarnished and caked in dirt. Ethan lifted it out carefully and studied it. There was nothing written on it, but the top section was a strange symbol, almost like a letter “g” but not quite.

Ethan felt his heart pumping in his chest. He had finally found treasure! Even if is was only the key to the old bee house, it was exciting none the less. He grabbed his sieve and lunchbox and started running home. He was going to try every lock on the ranch until he found which one this key opened.

Chapter One

Nathan Fields was bored. It was summer, and it was hot, and all of his friends had gone away for the summer. Being twelve was not easy, especially when his dad was gone all the time, his mom worked, and his older brother only thought about girls. There was never anyone home to drive him anywhere, and the family lived too far from town to walk. Even Grandpa, who Nathan used to be able to follow all over the ranch, was laid up in bed, too sick to even talk to.

“I guess I’ll just go for a walk, like I aways do, alone, like I always am,” Nathan said outloud to himself. He felt like he did that a lot these days, talked even when no one was around to listen. He felt pathetic, like a complete loser. But there was no one to notice that, even.

Opening the front door to his house, Nathan scanned the sky. It was a clear day, with just a few white puffs way off in the distance. It was also hot, typical for a summer day in the desert. It was tempting to stay inside with the air conditioning, playing video games or watching tv. But he had done that yesterday, and had felt no satisfaction after doing so.

Walking up the stairs to his room, Nathan quickly rubbed on some sunblock, grabbed his red hat, and headed outside to the shed. That was where all of the tools were kept, and Nathan had decided to go digging. It was something he had done for years, only less and less in the past few. When he was five his older brother Ethan had found a mysterious key, and had spent that entire summer looking for what it opened. He didn’t find it then, and even thought he did look the next summer, he hadn’t found it, and had given up and imparted the key to Nathan. By then he was more interested in girls anyway, he didn’t really care about childish things like digging in the dirt.

Nathan heard a car’s engine and looked up. His brother’s old pickup was coming up the driveway a bit crazily, and Nathan guessed that Ethan was trying to impress a girl inside. He watched the truck park in front of the house, and Ethan and a girl Nathan hadn’t seen before hopped out and walked into the house hand in hand. All Nathan could do was roll his eyes and shrug.

Pulling out his digging tools which he kept in a bucket, Nathan closed the shed door and headed towards Elephant Hill. His grandpa said he had named it that when he was just a kid moving with his parents to settle the land. It wasn’t hard to understand where the name came from. The hill was a big lump with a long thin protusion sticking out one side. Nathan decided to head for the north side, which happened to be the end of the elephant’s trunk.

When he reached his destination, he sat down on a large rock and wiped his forehead. He wished he had thought to bring water; it was a really hot day. Glancing around he looked for a good spot to dig. Nothing looked very promising. He started walking around the trunk, feeling the stone as he hiked. It was sandstone, and quite rough and gritty.

Then, unexpectedly, Nathan felt something smooth, like glass. He peeked his head into the crevice where he felt it, and saw an oval, about the size of a baseball, of what looked like diamond. In the center was a small hole, with a smaller hole directly underneath it. Nathan rubbed his finger over it. It seemed familiar, like a keyhole, but what would a keyhole be doing in a rock?

Suddenly Nathan’s eyes widened, and he stood straight up. Ethan’s key! What if it fit this keyhole? Maybe there was a treasure hidden inside Elephant hill! Nathan quickly stuck a shovel in the ground under the keyhole, then ran home as fast as he could. It was usually a twenty-minute walk, but he ran it in what felt like two. Throwing the door open, he ran upstairs to his room and opened his top desk drawer. There, in a small box, was the key. He seized it, then ran back downstairs to the living room where he heard voices.

“Ethan, I found a keyhole!” he exclaimed, out of breath and wheezing. His announcement was met with silence. “Did you hear me, Ethan? I found a keyhole!”

Nathan’s head poked up from behind the couch, which faced away from Nathan. “What are you raving about?” Another head came into view, the unfamiliar girls.

“Ethan, listen to me. I found a keyhole. In Elephant rock. You have to come with me.”

Ethan just sighed, kissed the girl, and got up and walked over to his excited brother. “Look, Nathan, I’m a little busy here. And you’re probably just imagining things. You must have just found a hole that looked like a keyhole.”

Nathan stomped his foot. “No! I know it’s a keyhole.”

Ethan shook his head and went back to the couch. “Well, you go try the key and tell me what happens later.”

Nathan wanted to scream at his brother. Why was he being such a jerk at such an important time? “You’ll wish you came,” he muttered, storming out the door. He would find a treasure, and he would keep it all to himself. It would be Ethan’s own fault he didn’t get any of it; Nathan had tried to get him to come.

Nathan ran all the say back to Elephant rock without stopping, the key clutched tightly in his hand. When he reached it, he dusted the keyhole lightly with his hand, then slid the key slowly into it. It fit! His heart pumping in his ears, he turned to key first to the left. Nothing. He tried again, this time to the right, and it turned slowly, making a small screeching sound. Then there was a small pop and whir, and the stone slid back away from the diamond. What was left looked like a doorknob. Nathan turned it, and an outline of a curved door appeared in the sandstone. It slowly moved back, then swung back to reveal what looked like the other side Elephant Rock. Nathan was confused. Why would someone make a door that just led right through the rock?

Stepping through the doorway, Ethan expected to see the ranch in the distance, but instead he saw only landscape. Confused, he turned around and went back through. Going around the trunk of the rock, he again looked where the ranch should be, and there it was.

“What is going on here?” He wondered aloud. Walking back through the doorway, he again saw the empty landscape. Turning back once more to see if Ethan had come to his senses and seeing no one, he began to walk. All of the scenery was familiar, but it all lacked something. Pieces of the ranch. The hills were familiar, but they lacked power poles. The land he walked he’d seen a thousand times, but it lacked a dirt road he’d driven on with his grandpa over and over again. Why? Had walking through the door erased his grandpa’s ranch from the earth? Had it transported him to another part of the world?

On and on Nathan walked, looking for something familiar. He was hot, but his curiosity drove him on. He watched birds fly over, wondering if they were as confused as he was. One of the birds landed a few feet away, and Nathan stopped in his tracks. This was no bird he’d ever seen before. It was shaped like a robin, but it was a brownish purple, and instead of a beak it had a pointy snout. It opened it and showed pointy little teeth. Nathan stared at it wide-eyed, then began to back away.

“Haven’t you ever seen a sneefle before?” a voice to his left called out. Nathan looked up to see a girl standing next to a tree, looking at him curiously. “You look like you’re afraid of him. He won’t hurt you.” She began walking towards him, and he could see that she was wearing what looked like a brown sheet. Her feet were bare, and her blond hair was braided and twisted around her head. She carried what looked like a helmet in her hand.

“I’ve never seen one of those in my life,” Nathan said finally. “Are there a lot around here?”

The girl smiled as the “sneefle” flew off towards a group of trees. “Oh yes, they are the most common animal in these parts. You must not be from here.”

“I’m not sure,” Nathan answered. The girl looked at him questioningly. “I mean, I guess not,” he finished.

“Well, it isn’t safe to be wandering around, especially with that thing you are wearing on your head. Why don’t you come home with me, and you can tell me where you are from.” She motioned him in the direction they should go, and he began to walk next to her.

“My name is Sweethala,” the girl said. It sounded like silk running off of her tongue.

“Mine is Nathan,” he replied.