Zipper

Day 11 of StoryADay September

The Prompt:

A person just starting out in their field takes a prestigious, entry-level position in a big city, but the result is not as perfect or exciting as they imagined.

David paused on the sidewalk and craned his head back, trying to see the top of the building through the clouds. The stream of pedestrians bobbed around him, bumping him gently too and fro. Slowly he lowered his eyes, letting them slip down the glass façade to the wall of glass doors in front of him.

He cut his way through the flood of people, his attempt to excuse himself unacknowledged. He stepped through the glass into a massive marble foyer. “Can I help you, sir?” a voice called from the right. David turned his head and found the security guard who had spoken.

“I’m Malia Thornton’s new assistant? I’m supposed to start today?” David moved to the high counter the guard stood behind.

“Your name?” the guard asked, pulling a clipboard closer to look at the page attached.

“David. Langer.”

“Come on around. HR left paperwork for you. I’ll need your picture to make an ID.” The guard pointed to a lower section of the counter that was broken by a swinging door.

David spent the next two hours filling out forms while the guard intermittently stared at him. Finally finished, he handed his work over to the guard. “Have a seat in front of the gray screen, please.” The guard moved behind his computer, turning the camera attached to the top of his monitor to peer at David.

David smiled for the camera.

“Keep your face neutral, please. Facial recognition software has a hard time with smiling faces.” David’s smile dropped away as he pondered why his face would be run through that software.

“Alright, David, I’ll have your ID at the end of the day. You can head on up to the 31^st floor. I’ll let Malia know you’re on your way.”

“Thanks,” David threw the guard a hesitant smile, then pulled it back in, wondering if his face was still being picked up by cameras. He headed to the bank of elevators, his steps echoing through the empty lobby.

David listened to a spectacular muzak version of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” as the elevator climbed into the sky. Since he was alone, he felt free to hum along.

With a ding, the elevator doors slid open, revealing a wide hallway. David looked both directions, then decided to head right. He saw a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. Scrawled across the doors in neon green script were the words “Malia Thornton Fashion Designer.”

David pushed through the doors and into Malia’s world.

The interior of Malia’s office space looked like her clothes. Bright colors, bold patterns, strappy slashes of contrast. David turned slowly, taking it all in. This was the job that was going to launch him into the industry.

While the walls and décor were loud, the air was silent. David broke it, calling out “Hello?”

“David?” a voice called from a short hallway to his left. David followed the sound  of the woman’s voice, entering what must be Malia’s actual office. Pictures of models wearing her garments as they strutted down runways in Paris and Milan were splashed on the walls. Malia herself was seated on a delicate purple chaise lounge, her bright yellow dress glaring in the dim room.

“David Thornton. I’m excited to work with you,” David said, crossing the room and extending his hand. Malia rose from the chaise, her movements smooth and sinuous. She clasped his hand, then pulled him closer, brushing her lips across his cheek. They were cold and dry, forcing David to resist the urge to pull away.

“David, I want to get to know you,” Malia said as she drifted back down to settle on the chaise. “The best way to do that is for you to make me something. My workroom is on the other side of the sitting area you came in through. You will find all the equipment and materials you need.” Malia ran a hand through her jet black hair, nestling it all behind her shoulders. “Make whatever you want. Just be finished and ready to show me by five.”

David stared at her. “Really?” Malia just smiled, nodding her head once. David returned the smile, then turned to leave the room. Possibilities began swirling through his head. Should he try to copy her style? Her words echoed through his head. She wanted to get to know him. This needed to be his piece.

David entered the workroom, taking a moment to survey the space. Four sewing machines were lined along the left wall. Two enormous work tables took up the center of the room. The right and back walls were lined with bolts of fabric and bins of other needed bits. David dove right in.

Four hours later, he held the finished piece in his hands. He had gone simple, worried about finishing by the end of the day. It was a play on the little black dress, a dark burgundy shift with a tiered hemline. He rolled the mannequin into Malia’s office.

Malia rose as he entered, circling David and his dress. “It’s lovely, David. I think you’ll do quite nicely.” Malia turned her back to David, looking back over her shoulder. “I would like to change, David, could you help me with my zipper?”

David stepped within reach, gripping the top of the zipper in his hand. Uncertain where this was headed, he pulled the zipper all the way to bottom in one fluid motion. The zipper tab slipped from his hand as he stumbled back, forgetting how to breath.

Malia reached over her shoulders and pulled the edges of the dress forward. David watched the olive-tan skin covering her neck and arms go with it. Malia shimmied, her dress, skin, and hair falling to the floor.

David stared at what was left behind. Jabba the Hutt came to mind. She was… blobby. Pale. She glistened, like maybe she would be slimy to the touch. David shivered, glad that her back was turned, keeping his reaction secret.

“Ahhhh, that feels so much better,” Malia released a delighted groan as she turned slowly in place, pointing her eyes in David’s direction.

“We’re done for the day, David, you can go.”

“All right,” David fidgeted in place, desperate to get out, but not wanting her to think he was running away. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he finally offered before turning to leave the office.

“Oh, David? I’m going to need you here early tomorrow to help me get into my dress.”

Tunnel of Love

Day 10 of StoryADay September
The Prompt:

Your main character is about to enter a tunnel.

Carl pulled the cotton candy from Janessa’s hand and dropped it in the trash can.

“Hey, I was eating that!”

“It’s purple sugar. This’ll be better,” Carl grabbed Janessa’s sticky fingers and pulled her toward the string of chasing lights over the tunnel.

“The Tunnel of Love? Seriously?”

Carl smiled, a laugh curling out into the night air.

“The only point of these is for couple’s to make out. While hoping a serial killer doesn’t jump out and kill them.”

“That about sums it up.”

“So why would we go? We’re not a couple. And I’m pretty sure there aren’t any serial killers inside.”

”When you’re at the carnival with another person, you’re required to float through the Tunnel of Love. I’m pretty sure it’s a law.” Carl nudged Janessa with his hip. Janessa laughed, shaking her head, but moved toward the tunnel.

They were greeted at the tunnel’s entrance by a crisply starched gentleman in top hat and tails. He swept open the door to the gondola waiting at the tunnel’s entrance. Carl and Janessa climbed in, settling onto the plastic bench. “Enjoy your journey,” the man called as he guided the gondola into the tunnel.

Janessa giggled as the heavy black drapes closed behind them, cutting off the light from outside. The gondola bumped between the two close walls before drifting into a wider space. Twinkle lights circled images on the fake stone walls. “We might be the only people to ever see these,” Janessa said, pointing out a painting of a couple twined together under the Eiffel tower.

Carl’s laugh rang through the tunnel. “Probably. I’m not sure anyone has been through this tunnel with their eyes open.”

The next couple of minutes were filled with giggles, as the quality of the paintings declined. “Oh, my God, look at that one!” The couple squinted their eyes in the dimming light to look at the belly dancer on the next segment of wall. “What’s wrong with her head?” Janessa asked Carl.

“It’s kind of deformed. Clearly the ‘artist’ realized no one was likely to see his work. Maybe that’s why the lights are dimmer here, too?” Carl sat back, his eyes skimming over the walls.

“That one looks kind of like Charlotte.” Janessa said as they moved to the next image.

“Yeah, it does. Weird.”

“And that looks like Max,” Janessa looked to Carl for agreement. He moved his head in a tight nod, leaning closer and bracing his arm on the wall, stopping the movement of the gondola.

Carl reached out a hand, resting it gently on the painted surface. “It’s not a flat wall,” he said, skimming his hand up the leg of the figure to the stomach. He jerked his hand away from the wall, falling back into the seat and sending the gondola into movement again. His eyes caught Janessa. “It’s a person stuck to the wall. I think that was Max.”

Janessa swallowed back the bile as her eyes sought the next image. This one veered sharply from the romance theme. This one showed her best friend Tisha, beheaded. Janessa screamed into the dark as the gondola bumped into the wall at the end of the tunnel.

Carl realized the tunnel had no exit as their tuxedo’d host stepped into the gondola, his smile flashing.

Abandoned

Day 9 of StoryADay September (This is actually the prompt from September 6, I couldn't make today's prompt work for me!)
The Prompt:
Write a story set in an abandoned location. It could be a foreclosed house, a closed-down theme park, a ghost town, or anything else. Think about the location’s past and its story, and use those ideas to fuel your plot.

Tucumcari was 50 miles in the past when I saw the horse. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at, the heat waving off the pavement blurring the scrub, sand, and figure at the road’s edge.

I slowed as I approached and passed, worried that the horse would move into my path. It stood still, reins dangling from cheeks to ground. An empty saddle perched on the horse’s back.

I stared at the horse in my rearview mirror and then it clicked. Where was the rider? I hit the brakes. I was literally in the middle of nowhere. 50 miles past Tucumcar, another 60 to Las Vegas. 110 miles of open nothing. No gas stations, no houses, not even an intersection. I hadn’t seen a single car since Tucumcari. A road through nowhere.

Out of habit, I checked to make sure the road was clear before shifting into reverse and backing to the horse. I pulled onto the shoulder a few feet away, and clicked on my hazards. I snorted, realizing the hazards were unnecessary, but left them on anyway.

I climbed out of my car, the oven dry air parching the lining of my nose on contact, and moved slowly toward the horse. It was huge, my head not even reaching his shoulders. “Hey, boy,” I hesitantly reached out a hand toward his massive head.

He chuffed once, then bumped my hand with his nose, blowing warm air into my palm. I rubbed his forehead, and slipped my fingers around the reins. The leather was worn, old. I moved my other hand to the saddle. It was worn, as well. “Where’s your owner, buddy?” I asked the horse. He didn’t answer, just nosed my hair.

“Anybody there?” I called. I waited. Tried again. “Hello?”

The horse and I looked at each other, contemplating what to do. “Wait here,” I said, then walked back to my car.

I sat on the driver’s seat, the door open beside me, and reached for my cell phone. Zero bars. “Of course. The middle of nowhere.” I couldn’t call for help, not that I knew who to call for a lonely horse lost in New Mexico. I was more worried about the rider. What if they were hurt? I could drive to town, but that was at least an hour one way. By the time anyone got back here, they could be dead.

I climbed out again, taking my water bottle with me. I opened the back door and pulled out my day pack, nestling the water in the side pocket, and pocketing my keys in the front pouch.

“I’m gonna see if I can find your owner,” I told the horse, rubbing him again on the forehead. “You should wait here.”

I adjusted the straps of my pack on my shoulders and headed off, moving between shrubs and around the curve of a stack of large boulders. In less than five minutes, I was unable to see the horse or my car.

As I walked, I looked for any sign that someone had passed this way before me. I saw nothing. I called, over and over, listening for any response. I heard nothing other than the creak of shrub in the breeze.

I crested a small rise and paused at the top, taking a deep drink from my water. I looked over the landscape spread before me. I saw her. Sitting, her back propped against a large rock, looking away from me, her gaze falling behind another curve of the landscape.

I smiled, glad to have found her, and started walking, my eyes not leaving my target.

Her eyes popped my way when my shoes scuffed through loose rock, sending them scuttling over the dry surface. Her eyes stretched wide, she shook her head “No,” willing me away.

I paused for a moment, then stepped her way again. He stepped into my view. “Ah, a bonus.” He smiled wide, rubbing his knife on the leg of his jeans.

I closed my eyes and pictured my abandoned car on the side of the road, hazards flashing.

 

Come With Me

Day 8 of StoryADay September
The Prompt:

Write a short story of conflict between two people, protagonist and antagonist.

Jared slid into the seat across from Lynn. “Come to the carnival with me.”

Lynn lifted her eyes from the book she was reading for a fraction of a second, shaking her head sharply from side to side before returning her eyes to the text.

“Lynn. Hello?” Jared tapped her foot under the table with his.

“No,” Lynn replied without looking up this time.

Jared’s hand splayed across the page. “Come on. Please?”

Lynn sighed, then lifted his hand from the book. Jared didn’t give her much resistance. Lynn turned the page.

“There’s a Ferris wheel. And one of those Zipper things.” Jared tried again.

“I said no,” Lynn was forceful enough with this answer to prompt hissing “Shhhhs” from people around them. Lynn’s eyes darted from person to person, avoiding only Jared. “No,” she whispered.

Jared moved around the table, taking the seat to Lynn’s left. “Why don’t you want to go? It’ll be fun. I want to have fun.”

“Jared, I don’t have time for this,” Lynn closed the book and grabbed another from the dozen spread on the table in front of her.

“There’s always time for love.”

Lynn’s eyes lifted to Jared’s. “Well, that’s easy. I don’t love you.”

Jared recoiled from the words as if Lynn had reached out and slapped him. Lynn pulled in a sharp breath, “Not like that anyway.”

“If you don’t love me, why are you doing this?”

“Because I loved your brother.” Jared looked away, his hand rubbing his bald head out of habit. “Because I can’t watch you go through the same thing.”

“It’s gonna happen. Which is why I want to go have fun.” Jared closed the book in front of Lynn. “How will this help, anyway? Wouldn’t you be able to find more information faster on the internet?”

“You need a miracle, Jared. I’m not going to find a miracle on the internet.”

“You think you’ll find one here?”

Lynn looked away, her gaze drifting to the darkening sky outside. “I can hope.”

Jared’s gaze followed hers. “I think we’re more likely to find a miracle out there, under the stars.”

There was a long silence as they both contemplated the world outside the window.

Jared pushed back his chair, holding out a hand to Lynn. “Come with me? Help me find the magic moment?”

Lynn placed her hand softly in his. Jared tightened his grip, pulling Lynn to her feet and out into the world. 

"M" is for Murder

Day 7 of StoryADay September (Yes, I know I missed a day. Life happens!)

The Prompt: 

“A killer is on the loose, having broken into the home of a wealthy woman and left her for dead. He absconded with a few items, then left the initials, ‘M.A.’”

“Whaddya think that means?” Rob pointed to the large “M.A.” scrawled on the cream wall, most likely in the victim’s blood.

Belle sat back on her heels, staring up at the letters. “I’m not sure. Initials, maybe?”

Rob stood still, his hands on his wide hips, pondering the possibilities. “Yeah, could be.”

“What is the victim’s name, again?”

Rob lifted his notebook and flipped a page. “Melinda. Melinda Abernathy.” Rob stared up at the letters again. “Could be her initials, I guess.”

Belle nodded her agreement. She’d already had that thought. Rob’s gaze went back to his notebook. “Her son is looking the house over, to see what’s missing.” Belle looked around the room. Polished surfaces were decorated with expensive knick-knacks. Rich oil paintings broke the monotony of the plain walls. Melinda was sprawled face-down on what used to be a lovely Turkish rug, her blood soaking the fine fabric.

“What’s his name?”

“Michael.” Rob stared at Belle, a look of concentration on his face that broke into a wide smile. “Hey, it could be his initials!”

Belle smiled back at Rob over gritted teeth. “Could be. What about her other kids? What are their names?”

“Uhm.. Madison, Mark, and Michelle.” The room was silent while Belle waited for Rob to think it through. “Oh, they all have M names. Could be any of them, yeah?”

Belle nodded tightly and stood from her crouch next to Melinda’s body. “Any other evidence?”

“A few prints. Tess is on those. Lotsa blood from the vic, including those initials,” Rob nodded to the wall behind him.

Rob and Belle turned at the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs. Brent was leading Michael back to the kitchen. Belle followed, stopping in the doorway to listen to the two men.

“Water?” Brent asked Michael, opening the refrigerator. Michael nodded in reply. “Mind if I have one?” Michael shook his head. Brent paused, holding in a sigh, then pulled two bottles of water from the fridge. He slid one to Michael and uncapped the other, taking a long swig.

“Did you notice anything missing?” Brent tried opening the conversation again. Michael nodded. Brent shot his eyes to Belle, anger flickering under the surface. “Wanna tell me what is missing? It might help us figure out what happened here.”

Michael turned the bottle of water in his hands, his eyes drifting over the label. “Pictures.”

“Pictures? Paintings?”

“No.” Michael began peeling the label from the bottle. “Photos. Of me and my brother and sisters.”

Brent looked up to Belle again, not sure what missing pictures might mean. “Were they in expensive frames?”

“No. They were in a photo album.” Michael finally took a drink of his water and looked over his shoulder to Belle standing behind him. “All the photos were from my senior year.” Michael turned his head back to Brent.

“Do you think those pictures would mean anything to anyone outside your family?”

“I don’t know. They were pictures of a bunch of kids. Who’d care about that?” Michael chugged off the rest of the bottle, then threw the bottle across the kitchen to the recycling bin tucked neatly in the corner. “Can I go? I need to tell my sisters what happened.”

“Yeah. We’ll be in touch.” Brent held out his card. “Call me if you think of anything else that is missing.”

“Sure,” Michael stood, then turned and walked to the doorway. Belle pulled back, allowing Michael to pass. His eyes locked with hers for a moment as he moved by.

“Brent, I’m heading back to the station. Keep me posted,” Belle turned and watched Michael move up the stairs before walking out the front door.

In her office, Belle slung her go bag into a chair before pulling the shades closed on her windows. Her eyes drifted to the plaque over her desk: “Detective Maribelle Anderson, Mayors Medal of Honor,” then back to her bag.

She reached into the inner pocket, removing a single picture. Two teenage boys, dressed in tailed tuxes. Two teenage girls, draped in silk and sequins. Four smiling faces. Belle flipped the picture over. “Madison, Mark, Michael, and Maribelle,” was written across the back in Melinda’s curling script.

Belle pulled a lighter from her bag and flicked it on. She held the flame to the corner of the picture and watched the waves of fire curl across the smiling faces.

Heroine

Day 5 of StoryADay September

The Prompt:

Your character is alone in the woods and finds blighted trees, drooping plants…rot and slime everywhere. It once was beautiful but overnight is turning into a swamp–its not natural. Your character must get to the bottom of this and stop it before something they love very much is threatened also.

It was nearing dusk when Trinka stumbled upon the cottage. She thought she knew every bit of this forest. Not knowing the species names for any of the towering trees that lined the paths she traveled every day, Trinka had given each individual tree a name. Brilla was her favorite. Brilla’s arms reached high into the sky, lifting delicate red flowers and fleshy green leaves to the sun’s light.

Brilla also marked the fork in the road. Normally Trinka turned left on her wanderings through the woods, but today she had turned right. The path here twisted through brilliant green shrubs flecked with tiny yellow roses and tall, willowy trees. The scent of the roses danced through the air, settling on Trina’s skin, perfuming her. She smiled and walked on, until she saw the cottage.

It was nestled snuggly in a cluster of white-barked slender trunks. Delicate white gingerbread trim lined the two windows looking out into the woods. Trinka paused, looking at the cottage, listening for sounds of life within. She heard only cicadas thrumming in the woods around her, singing their lullabies.

Trinka approached one of the windows, peering into the shadowed space. A small wooden table claimed the middle of the space, with a plate of goodies resting upon it. Trinka closed her eyes, took a deep breath through her nose, and was rewarded with the faint aromas of bacon and sugar. She opened her eyes, peering intently through the glass. Seeing no one, Trinka stepped over to the door.

Trinka paused with her hand on the door handle. One last moment to give someone a chance to declare themselves. Still nothing. Trinka pushed on the door and followed it into the cottage.

Few of the sun’s dying rays made it over the threshold. Trinka stood still, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. The first thing to come into focus was the plate on the table. Assisted by the aromas in the air, she was able to identify donuts. Maple-bacon donuts. Saliva poured into Trinka’s mouth.

She forced her eyes away from the confections to take in the rest of the cottage. Pressed against the wall to the right was a cot. On the cot was a man. A prince, judging by the fine fabric hugging his well-muscled arms and legs. And the crown upon his head. He was asleep.

Trinka gritted her teeth, and pulled her eyes away from the sleeping beauty. “Not my problem. Not today,” she said to herself, directing her eyes back to the donuts.

As she moved closer to the table, the smell grew stronger. By the time Trinka reached the table’s edge, she was swallowing waves of saliva. She fell to her knees beside the altar of deliciousness, reaching out to capture a donut and draw it to her lips.

Crisp bacon shattered and fell to the tabletop as she bit through the doughy delight. Sweet maple and smoky bacon mingled in her mouth, pulling a moan out from her toes. Trinka turned her head, her eyes darting to the prince. He slept still.

Trinka savored the first donut, scarfed a second, and tucked a third into the pocket of her tunic before rising to her feet. Sugar-drunk, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, mumbled a thank you to the prince, and stumbled out the door.

Trinka was almost halfway back to Brilla when she smelled it. The sulfurous smell of decay. Donuts shifted dangerously in her belly, forcing Trinka to the side of the path to lean on the closest tree. Her hand landed on the bark of the trunk, then pushed into its rotting center. Trinka pulled her hand back, gagging at the site of plump, white maggots swarming on her hand. She doubled over, expelling donuts to the forest floor. “I thought it was only apples. Dammit!”

She stood, surrounded by slowly crumbling timber and shrubbery, gagging again at each push of the rotten breeze. Deciding she couldn’t leave the prince to be swallowed by the decaying forest, Trinka turned back to the cottage.

The once charming building was being swallowed by black vines when Trinka arrived. She unsheathed the sword at her hip, cutting through the coils over the door. Streamers of slime unfurled from each severed vine. Trinka pushed into the cottage, again taking a moment to get her sight back. The smell of donuts was gone from the air, replaced by the smell of sewage. Trinka did not let her eyes drift to the table, pushing them to the prince instead.

So far, he was untouched. Trinka breathed a sigh of resigned relief and stepped to his side. She nudged him with her hand. No response. Poked him gently with her still drawn sword. No response. Tickled his ribs. Still nothing. “I didn’t want to have to do this again,” Trinka said as she sheathed her sword and leaned over the prince.

She stared at his face for a moment, willing his eyes to open on their own before closing her own and lowering her lips to his. She felt the life return to his lips as he pulled air into his lungs, and pulled her deeper into the kiss. She pulled away as he sat up and said, “You’re my heroine.”

Out the Window

Day 4 of StoryADay September

Prompt:

A person wakes up, not quite remembering what happened the night before, and is surprised and upset by what they see outside the window.
(The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams)

Out the Window

Sheila swims up from dreams of fire to the burn of unwelcome sunlight on her lids. She rolls away from the window, the motion rolling through her long after her body has stopped. Slowly her lids drift up, and she meets the day.

“Coffee. Coffee,” Sheila chants as she works her way to her feet, willing the walls to stop wavering. Grounds scatter the counter and floor before the precious liquid makes it to her mug. She clutches the beverage tightly in two hands, inhaling the sweet smell of caffeine glory as she shuffles toward the front of her house.

Shade trees block the worst of the sun’s rays, allowing her to stand near her sofa looking out at the fresh day. Blue jays jabber at each other, fighting for optimum position at the bird feeder. A squirrel waits below, picking up the spoils of war.

Sheila’s eyes skim over the animals, the grass, the pavement. They stop at the sidewalk’s edge. “What is that?” Sheila asks the squirrel. The squirrel doesn’t answer, just continues digging through the grass for scattered seed.

After a fortifying slug of coffee, Sheila slips her feet into sandals left helter-skelter by the door. Squirrel and birds flee when the front door swings open, spilling Sheila out into the world.

Now the slap of sandals is the only sound in the day. The sandals carry Sheila to the sidewalk and stop at the pile. Sheila nudges it gently with a sandaled foot before squatting down beside it. She lifts the top item, holding it up for a better look. A white tank top. Sheila looks down at the pile, and sifts through the remaining items. A simple white bra, pink lacy panties, a long purple skirt, two feather earrings, and a pair of green flip flops.

An image of the outfit dancing around a large bonfire flickers in Sheila’s mind.

“This is what Tracy was wearing last night,” Sheila mumbles to herself. She stands, still holding a feathered earring in her hand, and looks down the street. At the corner she sees another pile on the sidewalk. Sheila walks toward it.

“What the hell,” Sheila asks the second pile of clothes. This pile has a pair of cowboy boots, two white socks, jeans, blue boxer-briefs, a gray T-shirt, and a black baseball cap. Sheila doesn’t know the clothes belong to.

She stands over the pile and closes her eyes, partly to block out the bright light of day and partly to focus on the fleeting glimpses running across her mind. A bonfire. A group of women dancing. An old book. A lot of alcohol. A party at Jasmine’s house. That’s where she was last night, Sheila finally remembers.

Worried now about Tracy, wondering why her clothes were piled outside of her house, Sheila walks toward the site of the bonfire party. Along the way she encounters several more piles of clothes and accessories.

The worst is the small pile nestled inside a large stroller. With a binky laying neatly on top. Sheila stands for a long moment, one hand brushing the soft blanket draped over the pile of baby garments.

She continues walking. She sees no one. Only scattered piles.

At Jasmine’s, the front yard is marked by five piles. Sheila scans over them, not able to make herself investigate which of her friends they represent. She moves through the gate to the backyard.

Smoke is still rising in a thin stream from the ashes of the bonfire. The area around the bonfire is littered with more piles. Open on the picnic table to the right is the old book that had flickered across Sheila’s memory. She moves toward it, avoiding the piles in her path.

Sheila stops and looks down at the aged parchment. She closes her eyes and remembers. Tom, the guy that followed her through the grocery store last week. That found her yesterday at the park. That tracked down her phone number and called twice. She just wanted him to stop.

Sheila opens her eyes, reading the words scripted across the top of the page Leave Me Alone.

“This wasn’t what I meant.”