huh?”
All Marge could do was whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
Perry needed to do something but he was held rooted to the story. If he’d known any of this, he would’ve done something years ago. He looked around but there was no phone in the basement.
The drill started up.
Marge began screaming.
Perry watched in horror as Elton walked toward his wife of forty-five years. He screamed her name but no one heard.
He moved between them, but Elton walked through him.
If there’s nothing I can do then why am I here? Why torture me like this?
With everything he had, Perry moved up to Elton and screamed a violent torrent of rage.
Elton’s hair lifted up a little and he looked around for an open window. Marge was curled in the corner trying to get as far away from the drill as possible.
Perry screamed again, but there was nothing he could do.
Elton grabbed Marge’s hair, tilted her head back and rammed the drill’s business end into her right eye.
Perry fell apart as his wife’s body went through a series of convulsions.
Then he heard her say his name.
He spun around and saw Marge standing behind him. He did a double take and then looked back at her corpse.
“Marge?”
His mother showed up. The voices entered his consciousness again. His mother spoke first.
“Perry. We all have loved ones come for us when we pass over. I’m here for you. You’re here for Marge.”
He stared at Marge. She looked fabulous.
Then the basement was gone. They were moving outside. He thought he’d lost rational thought. Nothing made sense. Was he even sane anymore after witnessing what he’d just seen?
A gunshot resounded from the house below.
“Elton will be joining us soon,” his mother said. “Elton’s pain is over now too. Come. Join the rest of your family.”
No Trespassing
I am on a search for the rarest leaves I can find. I didn’t know that instead I would find death.
I’m a leaf collector. For me, the leaves glisten in their hammock of twigs. At times, they call to me with disdain. I hear my name whispered among them as soft breeze caresses their undersides. They don’t yell, they only whisper.
I fear trees.
They watch me. I can feel them. When they see me coming I can hear my name. That’s their way of telling the others I’m close. I often hear a branch move, a twig snap. In the past I would jump and look around. No one would be there. I soon realized the trees were stalking me. They don’t like me. I take their leaves, the art they created and put them on display. I steal their protection. I steal from their crown.
But I respect them. I steer clear when walking through the forest and I don’t respond to their small noises. But I listen. Oh yeah, I listen, because they call my name.
In my satchel I carry numerous pieces of magazine paper to keep the leaves I collect safe and dry. I also need bear spray. I keep it clipped to a rope, which I use for a belt. Alongside that, is my trusty umbrella. I couldn’t walk the forests collecting leaves only to have it rain and soak my work.
I slow to pick up a leaf, then stop myself. I can’t. I have enough regular leaves. Today I only want Honey-Locust leaves.
“ Seve …”
I hear my name again, drawn out. The trees whisper it. They always take their time saying my name. I feel it as much as hear it. I feel pleasure, like I belong here, but it’s fleeting. A stronger breeze has touched the leaves and they use this chance to sing to one another.
I forge ahead. Somewhere in this area I will find a Honey-Locust. I know it because it was documented in the Botanical Journal last week.
I ease a branch out of my face and look upon a clearing. The only movement I see are the various trees passing messages back and forth among themselves. I slip down a small embankment and open my satchel. The banana and jelly sandwich I prepared
All Marge could do was whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
Perry needed to do something but he was held rooted to the story. If he’d known any of this, he would’ve done something years ago. He looked around but there was no phone in the basement.
The drill started up.
Marge began screaming.
Perry watched in horror as Elton walked toward his wife of forty-five years. He screamed her name but no one heard.
He moved between them, but Elton walked through him.
If there’s nothing I can do then why am I here? Why torture me like this?
With everything he had, Perry moved up to Elton and screamed a violent torrent of rage.
Elton’s hair lifted up a little and he looked around for an open window. Marge was curled in the corner trying to get as far away from the drill as possible.
Perry screamed again, but there was nothing he could do.
Elton grabbed Marge’s hair, tilted her head back and rammed the drill’s business end into her right eye.
Perry fell apart as his wife’s body went through a series of convulsions.
Then he heard her say his name.
He spun around and saw Marge standing behind him. He did a double take and then looked back at her corpse.
“Marge?”
His mother showed up. The voices entered his consciousness again. His mother spoke first.
“Perry. We all have loved ones come for us when we pass over. I’m here for you. You’re here for Marge.”
He stared at Marge. She looked fabulous.
Then the basement was gone. They were moving outside. He thought he’d lost rational thought. Nothing made sense. Was he even sane anymore after witnessing what he’d just seen?
A gunshot resounded from the house below.
“Elton will be joining us soon,” his mother said. “Elton’s pain is over now too. Come. Join the rest of your family.”
No Trespassing
I am on a search for the rarest leaves I can find. I didn’t know that instead I would find death.
I’m a leaf collector. For me, the leaves glisten in their hammock of twigs. At times, they call to me with disdain. I hear my name whispered among them as soft breeze caresses their undersides. They don’t yell, they only whisper.
I fear trees.
They watch me. I can feel them. When they see me coming I can hear my name. That’s their way of telling the others I’m close. I often hear a branch move, a twig snap. In the past I would jump and look around. No one would be there. I soon realized the trees were stalking me. They don’t like me. I take their leaves, the art they created and put them on display. I steal their protection. I steal from their crown.
But I respect them. I steer clear when walking through the forest and I don’t respond to their small noises. But I listen. Oh yeah, I listen, because they call my name.
In my satchel I carry numerous pieces of magazine paper to keep the leaves I collect safe and dry. I also need bear spray. I keep it clipped to a rope, which I use for a belt. Alongside that, is my trusty umbrella. I couldn’t walk the forests collecting leaves only to have it rain and soak my work.
I slow to pick up a leaf, then stop myself. I can’t. I have enough regular leaves. Today I only want Honey-Locust leaves.
“ Seve …”
I hear my name again, drawn out. The trees whisper it. They always take their time saying my name. I feel it as much as hear it. I feel pleasure, like I belong here, but it’s fleeting. A stronger breeze has touched the leaves and they use this chance to sing to one another.
I forge ahead. Somewhere in this area I will find a Honey-Locust. I know it because it was documented in the Botanical Journal last week.
I ease a branch out of my face and look upon a clearing. The only movement I see are the various trees passing messages back and forth among themselves. I slip down a small embankment and open my satchel. The banana and jelly sandwich I prepared
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