At the end of Garden Road stood a garage. A block building with a set of double wooden doors swinging out for cars or chairs, depending on whether work needed to be done or sitting and drinking and getting high were the only tasks at hand. Strangely, Sunday was the day most of the work took place here, at the end of Garden Road. Other days, the doors were closed, tight as a nun’s knees. These days traffic sped down North Front Street that leads to the garage and to the trailer beside the old structure, gravel and dirt flying like split barrel ash, a dark thing flying through clean air. This is where folks from Calvary to Teller County would swing in to meet with Bill.

Bill’s brother, Stan, has been working on a 1998 Ford Ranger for more than four months at the garage, mostly Sundays, because the traffic to his brother’s trailer is too much for him or anybody to handle, really. He’s screamed away a few buyers, but mostly he had to walk back the quarter mile to his house and leave it alone. His brother helped locals with needs, but all Stan wanted was to get that Ranger running. Younger brothers and giving in and allowances kept his progress at a slow gate, a shoulder-slumped walk across the bottom that crosses Garden Road and led to Stan’s house across Route 122. From the front porch he can still keep an eye on the Ranger and how it tilts like a tired old man, the bumper at rest and easy going against the cherry picker.

“Stan! Phone!”

Stan shuffled his feet across the porch. His pant legs were stuffed inside the work boots. Grease coated the hard steel tips and sides. Up, he stretched from habit and eased into the living room. His wife, a stick woman he calls Eve but whose real name was Henry because she had a strange daddy, held the phone out like a dead cat.

“Who’s it?”

“Evan Meeks. Good company to keep, Dipshit.”

Stan called her Eve after the third date and she called him Dipshit, more often shortened to simply Dip, and it all worked just fine. Stan took the phone, pushed his boots off at the door and fell into the kitchen chair situated where the phone is attached to the wall. He pulled the tangles out of the cord.

“Yeah?” It’s more breathing outwardly than a greeting.

“Kevin been comin' over there to your brother’s?”

He’d seen Kevin Meeks come in and out a few times in the last few months. Young boy with a broken mama and Evan for an uncle. It made sense to Stan.

“I’ve seen him come by some. What can a person do? He’s got a car now, Evan.”

Stan waited with the phone hooked into his shoulder, putting bread in the toaster. A jar of apple butter sat in the middle of the table.

“He buying?”

Stan closed his eyes then opened them. Eve watched from the doorway. She seemed punier than yesterday. Everything did.

“I’d figure so, yeah. Bill don’t run a card game and he sure as shit don’t have a book club.”

The receiver went dead in his ear. Stan didn’t wait for the upcoming dial tone but handed the phone back to Eve.

“That what I think it’s about?” she asked. “That nephew of his. Kevin?”

She moved though the kitchen, her still nice body making a path behind her, hips and legs, the ivory arms bare from her pushed up sleeves, all weaving the air as she walked. She sat down at the table and opened the apple butter. Her hair was always sunshine, even in the most swallowing darkness. She pushed the jar to Stan. Her eyes watched him, that caring affection she hid so well held in check, but she pushed her hand across the table and he took it.

He didn’t answer her question about Kevin. He buttered the toast and walked to the window. Four cars were in Bill’s driveway, best he could tell. Two more were parked out in the bottom where the old man and woman once farmed, a long stretch that ran with the river’s edge and the train tracks beyond. No sign of Kevin’s Dodge Aspen. He’d check in a half hour or so for Evan walking up Garden Road. Until then, he’d check his shotgun, give it a good cleaning, make sure he had at two shells left from last season. Man needed to be prepared.

The broken sounds of Stan sleeping on the couch put Eve in a restless mood. She made some calls to her folks, worked to fix the porch swing, fed the dogs. But she was still restless. At last, she sat in the recliner and watched her husband sleep. He was a tall man and his socked feet lopped over the end of the couch arm. His pants, two sizes too big, were rolled at the cuffs.

Parts of his pallid shin were visible on one leg. The fall jacket she’d bought him two years ago was still zipped to the stubble of his double chin. He snorted, full and loudly, just as she was about to recall the jawline of his youth. She turned on the television, turned it off.

Cars and trucks kept coming to and from Bill’s trailer across the way, shifting up that gravel dust and banging shut the trailer door behind them. Ten minutes or so each one and then gravel and dust again and another crew. Eve put on her windbreaker, left the living room and sat on the swing, tested it for a few seconds, and then lit off down the porch steps. Crossing the bottom field she spotted two cars at one end of Bill’s then another when she rounded the corner to the porch. She knocked on the door and a stranger answered, shirtless and leaning. The stranger’s stomach was large and tight and shined full and round in the sunlight.

“Ain’t you a sight,” she said. “Where’s Bill?”

The stranger smacked his lips and stepped back from the doorway. “Bill!”

Eve flinched, but hid it well. She pulled her windbreaker around her and thrust her chin out.

The stranger turned left into the dimness of the trailer and soon her brother-in-law came through the living room.

He had always been smaller made than Stan. Narrow shoulders, tiny hands and short fingers.
When he was standing in the doorway, he scratched at one of two receding hair lines. “Hey, Hen. What’s wrong?”

“Stan’s up there sleeping with a gun tucked in his arm,” she said. “Think that’s got anything to do with you, Bill? I’m just saying. Do you think?”

“What the hell? What’s he doing that for?”

Eve straightened her back, tiptoed into Bill’s face. “Somebody’s coming to see you soon. Probably more than just this guy Stan’s watching for.”

“What guy?”

“Hush it! She leaned back, looked away from Bill and his hurt face, out across the bottom field. That field hadn’t seen a tractor in twenty years. “You need to talk to your brother. I ain’t waking him up.”

Without giving Bill time to answer, Eve popped down the three small steps of the porch and turned the corner of the trailer so the bottom field was stretched out in front of her, a flat track of land and history leading away.

“I told him.”

“You what?” Stan tugged at the sleeve of his shirt.

“And I told him he needed to talk to you. That you two need to talk.”

He tugged the other sleeve and paced the kitchen. Midday warmed the field and the front porch. The frost from the morning was gone now. Stan looked to Bill’s trailer and then across the way to the garage and his Ranger.

“It’s warm enough now for me to get some work done on the truck without freezing my ass off,” he said. “I’ll deal with him at some point. Or he’ll deal with me. Or Evan Meeks will.”

Eve pulled him back into the kitchen as he was opening the door to leave out to the garage. Her fingers pushed into the muscles at the bend of his arm, her face a blank slab of wood. She pointed out the kitchen window.

A Dodge Aspen slid past the garage and kicked gravel as it maneuvered into a parked position. Kevin Meeks stepped out wearing a camouflage jacket, sweat pants and a baseball cap eased just over the top of his brow.

“Sonofabitch.”

Eve said nothing. Stan left the kitchen and returned with the shotgun. He knew Eve would pull at him again, and he’d let her stop him. The gun wasn’t for Kevin, after all. And when she did, he allowed her to take it and, holding it in her hands like a newborn, she placed it on the counter. He pulled his jacket together and stepped onto the porch.

The Aspen was a pile of junk metal, he thought, walking across the field. Out of habit, he side-stepped around Lafe Hill’s patch of garden. The only life left in the bottom field was Lafe’s sprinkle of lettuce and greens. Lafe and his wife picked about once a week, hunkered over without talking. Just picking and placing and then gone. The two of them were in better shape than the Aspen.

Kevin Meeks’ beat down Dodge was parked more or less sideways about four feet from Bill’s front porch. The motor ticked loudly. Stan tried to remember to mention that some oil should be added or changed. That ticking sound was no good. Even the Meeks deserved some advice on cars from time to time. He sucked in a deep breath and knocked on the door. When Kevin answered, Stan pointed back at the Aspen.

“You’re gonna need to add some oil or have it changed,” he said and watched the young man’s eyes grow just a bit wider, pupils pinpoints. Just a baby, really. Hardly one-fifty soaking wet after Thanksgiving dinner. “Just tell Bill I’m working on the Ranger if he needs me.”

Stan had been trying to get a rebuilt motor dropped in the Ranger the past couple weeks. The hoist rocked above him while he pushed against the body of the motor. The thin, metal legs swayed and bent to breaking. Stan let a grunt gush out of him and stood back, took a chunk of cut wood and wedged it hard into a space just in front of the radiator. The truck rocked from his pushing, but nothing gave way. From the corner of his eye, he ignored the fact that Bill and Kevin stood on the front porch watching.

He dropped back into the plastic lawn chair at the mouth of the garage and rubbed his hands. The pressure had left dents in the palms of his hands and he thought of Manny, the dog he and Bill had when they were young. Hauling it out to the tree line beside the river at the far end of the field, he and Bill both had those same kinds of dents afterwards. They had cradled the bloated Lab in a potato sack, each of them holding a wrung up end until it seemed that rough cloth was going to push straight on through the skin and hit bone from the weight. Bill dropped his end three or four times and the scent of that bloat and death would come up at them and they’d gag and complain until the old man would yell in from the field and tell them to keep it moving.

Once to the tree line, both dropped the Lab, really a mixed breed mutt more than anything, and those dents from where the cloth had bitten into the skin were pink and deep on both their hands. Bill forgot the shovel and voted to toss the dog over the embankment instead of doing through all the burying, saying his hands hurt. What Stan thought about sitting in the plastic lawn chair and watching him talk shoulder to shoulder with Kevin Meeks was how he walked back that morning to get the shovel and had buried the old Lab himself. It got his ass out of the chair, and the motor was soon rocking again, shifting the Ranger around like a strong wind. He wore himself out and had just sat down for a second time when the corner of his eye watched Kevin go back into his brother’s trailer. Bill stood for half a beat on the porch and then started over to Stan.

When he was few feet out, he stopped.

“So Evan Meeks gonna show up today, huh?” Bill said. He looked back to his trailer and then again at Stan. “Hen said I should talk to you. Not sure she meant about that, but I figured as much. She’s the one told me about Evan, and said you had your shotgun shelled up and ready earlier. There’s some trouble coming you think.”

“I think.”

Stan opened the driver’s door on the Ranger and took a seat, glanced at the wobbling hoist and then got out and shut the door easily. The latch went into place with hardly a sound. He backed away slowly. His eyes were glazed, mouth slack. “There’s not much I can do about who comes here. They come or they don’t. I know you don’t agree, but it’s the damn truth.”

Having Bill cuss at him didn’t hit Stan’s ear just right. “That boy over there ain’t just started driving. He’s sixteen and got a uncle that’ll blow a hole through everything in the southern end of the county, including Garden Road. Most especially Garden Road.”

Stan imagined Kevin slanted on the couch in Bill’s living room or tilted against the wall in the kitchen. Wasn’t a soul in the county didn’t know how close Evan Meeks held his nephew to his torn heart. Evan came back from Michigan about a decade ago after two years working at a factory there. He showed up twenty pounds lighter and older in the face after he told folks two men mugged and beat him into the hospital. Few knew for sure, but Evan talked around town about how he got rolled for drug money up in Michigan and how druggies and dealers should burn. More than once Stan himself was in the diner when Evan would proclaim how more than half the county should probably burn.

Bill shrugged it off when Stan reminded him, the same way he had disregarded it before. The same way he disregarded most everything since being hooked became being a supplier. Blindfolded and high. Might as well be dead already.

“Boy could be in there with his eyes rolled back in head or foaming at the mouth right now and you’d be a world of shit,” Stan said. He had started back on rocking the motor from side to side. He quit and took the piece of cut wood again and began wiggling it into a place for some leverage.

Before Bill answered, a state cruiser pulled into the driveway. The driveway was a turnabout drive and troopers had been down and made a U-turn a few times in the past couple of months but nothing else. Bill turned and gave the cruiser a wave that seemed to say he care if they wanted to turn in his driveway, he could care less, have a nice day. But instead of turning, the cruiser parked beside the Aspen. A state boy Bill didn’t recognize, a young man likely fresh from academy, stepped out, nodded, and went to the Aspen’s license plate. He bent just a little, checked a small slip of paper in his hand. Adjusting his hat, he turned and started toward the garage.

“Hellfire,” Bill whispered.

“Gentlemen,” the state boy said and gave his hat a goofy tip. “This car belong to Kevin Meeks?”

Stan sat back in the chair and stared harder than he might should have to Bill. The state boy kept his eyes on Bill. Smiling, Bill stood up and stretched, scratched his bald spot and sifted his fingers through the tufts along the sides of his head.

“I guess it must be, officer,” Bill said. “You need to see him? Showed up here out of the blue about a half hour ago. I can get him for you.”

The trooper smiled fake and wide, all teeth and screw you. “I’ll just have a look.”

“Not without a warrant, officer,” Bill shot back evenly.

Stan stood up and walked to the trooper, stuck out his hand. “I’m Stan Hall, officer. This is my garage here and my old trap of a Ranger. I’ll get the boy if you’d like.”

Stan tried to hide that he was holding his breath and waited.

The officer looked to the trailer and then back to Bill, squinted his eyes, and then removed his hat. “I suppose there’s no harm in going about it that way, guys. I’ve just got a few questions for him. Get him out here and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Fine and good. Fine and good,” Stan said. “Bill, see if you can get anywhere on scotching the legs on that cherry picker and I’ll be right back.”

Bill cocked his head to the right, the way a dog might when confused, snorted once and went to the front of the truck. Stan started to the trailer and the trooper followed behind him. He was worried the fresh state boy was going to follow him in anyway but he stopped at the front of his cruiser and adjusted the butt of his service pistol just an inch or two then leaned against the fender.

The trailer was little more than a storage building. What furniture there existed sat more in piles than any other arrangement. A metal folding chair was discarded across the couch and in one corner of the living room were boxes, mostly opened, but some duct-taped closed. The only thing that gave the place a feeling that a human had been there recently was a new flat-screen television situated somehow on the wall. Stan pinched his nose shut through the kitchen and found Kevin in the first bedroom on the left down the long hallway.

The boy lay across a mattress in the floor. Beside him was a dinner plate with pill powder still stuck to sections, covering part of one petal from the design of hearts and roses. It was one of their mother’s plates. Many suppers off that plate and now this. The thought of it ran over Stan and he charged the bed and shook the boy by the shoulders, his head whipping back and then forward, powder flying from his nostrils as he came to and opened his eyes.

He mumbled awake and Stan took no time trying to decipher any of it as it hardly mattered. He also felt no need to warn Kevin Meeks that the leather backseat of a state cruiser would be the next thing he smelled once they made it back through the kitchen. He simply took him under the arms and lifted to a standing position and made his way back through the trailer, stopping at the front door long enough to shake him some more so the boy could stand on his own.

The state boy was still leaning against the fender when the he guided Kevin onto the porch then came out himself, side-stepping around him and down the steps. Kevin was wobbling in the weak sunlight, a limp version of Evan Meeks’ nephew, confused and tired. The trooper moved toward the porch.

“That’s private property there, officer.” It was Bill. He had at some point left the garage and stood behind the cruiser. “From the looks of it, he’ll fall right on down to you if you stand just about where you are.”

Stan hushed him with a glare and took the boy’s elbow, asking the trooper to step back until he could make his way down. As soon as they were both on the ground, the trooper stepped close to Kevin. He leaned in close and must have spotted the powder around the boy’s nose because he spun him quickly and popped handcuffs from his belt in one fluid motion. Kevin was arrested between gusts of fast wind, it happened so quickly. The trooper loaded him into the back of the cruiser without a word, tipped his round brim again in Stan’s direction and left, easing out of the gravel driveway, slower than necessary.

Stan and Eve lived in the old home place. The rooms were few but large. Black and white photographs framed in ornate wood hanged from the walls. Stan studied the photograph outside the bathroom of his parents. It was taken when corn still stood tall and tomatoes and lettuce made green and red the field. In the photograph, it’s easy to see the wind is blowing with the tree branches bent westward, his mother caught in mid-stride some five feet or so behind his father, staring away from the camera, and his father fully facing the camera. Stan leaned close and noticed again how it seemed his old man’s mouth was twisted just enough to be able to tell he was saying something, his leather arm sweeping out as if telling whoever was taking the photograph to move along, get away, nothing to see here. His face was severe. His mother’s face was regal, chin tilted, the look of a sharecropper hanging onto pride with every bit of energy she could muster.

Eve stepped behind him and placed a hand at his elbow. “I always liked that picture, Dip.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” He kept his eyes on the photograph.

“See you got the shotgun again.”

The over-under shotgun leaned against the wall in front of Stan. Two shells slept inside the chambers. He picked the gun up and, touching Eve lightly than he had in years, walked slowly down the hall and into the kitchen. Scents of breakfast nearly pulled him out of the place he’d fallen since Kevin Meeks had been arrested less than an hour ago, but is passed and he went to the window. From here he could see the turn off from Route 122 onto Garden Road and the entirety of that road until it ended at the block garage and his pitiful Ranger still tilting from the weight of the immovable engine stuck half in and half out of its body.

Then he saw him. Evan Meeks, always walking from always being hammered drunk, staggered down the incline of road. He had already turned onto Garden Road and moved faster than Stan would have expected. He didn’t see a gun on him, but then he probably wouldn’t. It’d be a pistol tucked away in his pants or in the armpit of his jacket. It was there, no doubt about it. A .38 maybe or, best case, a .22.

Just as Stan readied the gun, still looking from the window, keeping his eyes on Evan Meeks, he saw him duck into Terry Kimper’s house at the turn in the road. Stan scanned the stretch of land from his house to Bill’s trailer and Lafe Hill caught his eye, bent over his patch of lettuce, white hair bobbing in the middle of all that green like a swinging light bulb. Stan hated to put Lafe in the middle of something, but he didn’t tell him to go pick late season lettuce today.

“Don’t, Dipshit.” Eve didn’t look as puny now as before. It was her eyes, on fire and full of that gamey way she had about her when the world was still young for both of them. But everything was still good old Eve – arms crossed, hair pulled into a eyebrow-pulled ponytail, thin lips set firm.

Stan kissed her full in the lips and they didn’t move against his. He lingered on her bottom lip, holding his kiss there for longer than he had in many years. The over-under was cold in his hand, heavy and ready. He stepped out the door and Eve said nothing more. When he was off the porch and about to start across the bottom field, Stan looked back once and saw her in the window. Her arms were not crossed like before. One arm was now dangling at her side and the other was raised, a hand with fingers extended along the side of her face. He waved once and started toward Bill’s trailer.

He meant to pass by Lafe with nothing more than a nod. Lafe was good people and wouldn’t think much about the shotgun, but old man stopped him, pulling up from his stooped position and smiled.

“It’s a fine batch, right. Look at that?”

A door slammed down the road, Terry Kimper’s door. Evan dropped back onto the road, headed faster than before toward Bill’s trailer.

The over-under felt heavier now. Lafe was brushing his hand across the leaves of lettuce. “Let me know if you and Hen want some. I’ll pick extra. Man can only eat so much. No use in wasting, right?”

Stan’s eyes didn’t move from Evan, and Bill was likely back inside asleep or stoned. Lafe came up beside him. Stan saw he was watching Evan, too. “No use in wasting, but I could use some help here, Stan.”

A chain link fence ran along the side of Lafe’s patch, a lot where a single-wide once sat years before. He leaned the shotgun against the fence with care and took Lafe by the shoulder, squeezed it gently.

“What can I do? Where do you want me?”

Lafe smiled again and pointed to a section where the lettuce was thickest, near the middle, and Stan moved to the spot. Lafe’s hands working beside him could have been his old man’s, tending the crops even when he could hardly bend his fingers to button his shirt.

Stan didn’t notice when Evan Meeks passed them and disappeared around the corner of the trailer. He asked Lafe about his old man, and his father’s old friend told a story from years ago when all the land was ripe with crops and Stan allowed history to swallow up the present, working what was left from that time quietly.

Sheldon Compton is the author of the forthcoming collections The Same Terrible Storm and Where Alligators Sleep (Foxhead Books, 2012). His work has also appeared in several print and online journals including BLIP (formerly Mississippi Review Online), Thunderclap Magazine, Emprise Review, Keyhole Magazine, Kudzu, and the Appalachian anthology Degrees of Elevation (Bottom Dog Press, 2011). He survives in eastern Kentucky. To learn more, visit www.bentcountry.blogspot.com.

Daddy swung the tobacco stick, and I listened closely as it splintered against my brother. His face rough and confused with each crack thrown his way. Rays of light breaking through his shadow with each rapid movement he made. We did not cry, neither Jonny nor myself.

Instead we cheered our father on, begging him not to stop. “Again Daddy, again!” I chanted.

The old porch was worn with chipped and faded paint, the boards warped and tattered from age and weather, the nails rusted with a dull metallic. I sat on the rough swing that was as old as the porch itself. This was where I spent my summer days, floating back and forth through the muggy air, lost in a book with only sounds of the swing chain as it jingled and swayed.

“If you keep read’n like that, you’re gonna go blind,” Jonny said. I looked up at the screen of the porch’s side door. “But I like it,” I said and folded the corner of my page.

“You should be out there play’n, not sit’n here with ya nose in a book. School’s over fer now, ya know.” The door hinges squeaked. I watched the fluent movement of his legs walking toward me, and felt his weight level the swing. He reached over and tapped lightly on my leg.

“We’re all play’n ball this sevening. I’ll take you with me,” Jonny said. I pulled my book close.

“But Mommy said I can’t play with you boys any more. She says you all are gonna end up hurt’n me.”

My brother scoffed. “Awe, they ain’t gonna hurt ya. Hell, they’d be too afraid of the ass woopen they’d get.” He smacked my bare legs once more. “Go on and getcha shoes, Little Bit.” I knew my mother was right. The neighborhood boys played far too rough for a little girl, but I loved it. The girls my age were too prissy for my liking. They were too worried about getting dirty or staining their pretty sundresses.

My brother was only a few years older than me, and his friends did try to take it easy whenever I was around, but my mother was right, an eight year old didn’t need to be around a bunch of spitting, cussing boys. I ignored the thought of my mother screaming, “Laney Beth, I’ll bust your bare hide,” and went to fetch my shoes.

I laid my book down in the space between Jonny and me and scooted to the edge of the swing. That was another reason my mother didn’t like me playing with older kids. I was extremely small for my age. My hair hung long, curling at its ends, and my arms and legs were dangly, but I was strong thanks to the rough housing with my brother. Scrapes covered my knees and elbows, some scabbed and some new. I lowered my feet towards the porch, but stopped short. My gaze landed near the corner of the house.

I could see Cole staggering towards us. His arms searching for the outside walls of our home, to press his weight against. His feet moved slow and unsteady. He made little attempt to regain his balance. I sat very still, hoping I would be ignored though I should have known better.

The sickening scent that was him danced along with the wind towards our place on the swing. Cole’s eyes were a deep bloodshot red, and his face a sad shade of pale. I felt my tiny hands grip the wood beneath me. “Shit. He’s drunk again,” Jonny whispered. He placed his hand in the small of my back and urged me forward. “Go on in the house. I’ll go out into the baccer bed and get Dad.” Jonny said. I nodded my understanding and moved on.

Cole continued to stagger. I perched myself behind the screen door, believing that it would serve all the protection I would need. Cole was the oldest of my six siblings and the only one who seemed to become another person after a few drinks. It was as though he transformed, like the cartoon that came on every Saturday morning. He was Dr. Jekyll becoming his evil creation. I stood behind the netting and waited.

“Cole, you need to sit down a while. Don’t ya think?” Jonny asked. I was terrified of Cole, though I guess it comes naturally to fear a person who’s pulled your hair as many times as he had pulled mine, but I hated hiding inside while Jonny faced him alone.

Cole processed his words. He wore his intoxication all over his face. “What did you say?” I watched Jonny’s face change from bravery to fear. “I, I just meant that you didn’t look so good, that’s all.”

My drunk brother moved his hand along the grain of the house. His eyes drifted, unable to hold focus. Jonny stood waiting for a time to move, to run inside the house and join me. But Cole was too close now, and he knew what was coming. He knew how his brother was when the alcohol had gotten the best of him. Jonny shifted his eyes to me. “Go get Daddy.” My eyes widened, and my heart soared in size.

“What did you say, little man?” I looked once more at each of my brothers. Tears began blurring my vision. I nodded to Jonny, pushed myself off the facing of the door and ran. I zigzagged my way through the kitchen. I moved quickly around the table, not stopping to pick up one of my mother’s chairs. I ran through the living room passing the old tarnished coal burning stove and out the front door. The steps were steep, and my wobbly legs were weak, but still I ran. I knew Cole would hurt Jonny if I stopped. I knew that if I didn’t get Daddy Jonny would take a beating. So I ran. I ran around the edge of the house and up the small bank that led out to the opposite porch. The porch I left my brother on. I ran hard and fast, but I was too late. I heard Jonny cry out, and my big brother never cried. Never. It was at that time that I began to cry, too. But my legs were still moving.

Cole’s hands were around Jonny’s small neck, holding him high against the wall of the house. I fell to my knees. “Stop it, please.” I searched for something, anything that I could throw.
Jonny’s face was wrinkled with pain, his eyes staring at me. His feet scrapped at the porch straining to press his weight. “Go tell Daddy, is that what you said?” Cole asked in a slurred raspy voice. “Let him go!” I screamed again. “Daddy’s not here, is he?” Cole said. Still I searched for something.

I saw my brother cry and my heart ached. I didn’t have time to get help; he was going to choke him to death. I reached for the book I left on the swing. It was thick and hard bound. I grabbed it and swung with all my might. “Get off him. Get off him!” I held on to the book, placing the edge to the center of his lower back, hitting him over and over. He swayed with the intoxication and the pain from the hard cover.

“I said stop it!” I screamed. Jonny slid down the length of the wall, his feet catching his fall. I moved quickly off the low end of the porch. Cole staggered toward me. I ran onto the grass. My oldest brother stood in a slow manner. Jonny reached for his neck and rubbed.

“I’ll beat your ass, little girl.” My tears were gone. I knew I could out run him. I knew that my father was only half an acre away.

“Then do it,” I said. “I’m not scared of you.” He stood, and I prepared myself to run. I stood there waiting for his attack. His eyes were angry, but if I ran before he regained his stance he would go back to Jonny. I stepped closer, stood above him and smiled. He looked up at me, his eyes cloudy and glazed. I gathered all the spit in my mouth, drained it from my cheeks.
When I was satisfied with the pool on my tongue, I spat it at his face. The warmth plopped lightly between his eyes. I knew it was time. I saw how his muscles twitched. “I’m telling Daddy,” I said. He sprang upward, grabbing at me at the same time. I began running. I turned my head to focus on the ground in front of me, and pushed forward.

I heard Cole fall just as quick as he stood. Once his feet had planted on the boards beneath him, they were kicked away. His face bounced from the hard wood below as he landed, smacking with all his weight. My body, too, slammed against something hard. The breath rushed from my chest. I fell back, stopping short of the ground.

I looked upward and a rush of relief settled within. There was Daddy, his eyes burning bright with anger. “Daddy, I was coming for you. I was, I was a running…” My words lacked air. He leaned down and kissed the top of my. “Sissy girl,” he said. “I want you to go on in the house, and rest up a bit before supper.” I knew he wanted me inside because something was about to be said or done that I wasn’t meant to see.

“Bub, you alright?” Daddy asked Jonny, though his eyes rested on Cole. Jonny moved his hand from his throat and nodded. “Go on inside then. You and the baby get yourselves a snack.” I stepped over Cole, still lying on porch and knelt down to Jonny. “Come on, Bubby.” I reached him my hand, and we did as our father said. Daddy cleared his throat and walked over near the porch. “Cole, come on over here.”

Cole smirked, allowing a low laugh to escape. My other brother and I watched from the window in sheer joy. It wasn’t until then that I noticed the narrow piece of wood in my father’s hand.

“Boy, you’re already get’n the beat’n of your life, don’t make it any worse by cause’n me to repeat myself,” Daddy said. “Damn shame, a grown man hurt’n two youngens that can’t defend themselves.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I’ll bet, though, after today you’ll think twice about drink’n.”

Daddy swung the tobacco stick, and I listened close as it splintered against my brother.
Cole’s face rough and confused with each crack thrown his way. Rays of light breaking through his shadow with each rapid movement he made. We did not cry, neither Jonny nor myself. Instead we cheered our father on, begging him not to stop. “Again, Daddy, again!” I chanted.

Years later I stood in the weeded yard, gazing at the place in the sky where the hilltops met.
The house still remained, along with the memories. But Daddy was gone and Mommy wasn’t doing well. My brothers and I still came around, along with the rest of the kids, and I still liked to read on that old splintered swing. I remembered that times were always tough in that house, that lessons were learned but never the easy way. But somehow that swing brought comfort. Here I was, that little girl with her Daddy always there to save her.

Mikka Gamble, of Salyersville, is a BSCTC student.

I think Mamaw’s brain has turned into a DVD of her life. She lies in her bed in the nursing home and randomly pushes the invisible buttons. The shiny wheel spins and locates a particular time, a particular place, with particular people.  It is filled with people who were there.

“Go on up to the house and eat before you go home,” she says as she raises her head from the cloud-like pillow, craning her neck to watch us disappear into the cavernous hallway.

A few weeks ago, Dr. Cornett told us to do exercises with Mamaw to stimulate and exercise her brain.

Her brain is getting plenty of exercise, I thought. The wheels are spinning and the gears are grinding constantly. But I am always open to suggestion. So, I bring a picture of her three sons standing under the Walnut tree at the home place.  I show her the picture in the silver frame.

“Who are these people?” I ask.

She holds the frame tightly in her blue-veined, waxy hands.  Her eyes tighten as she stares at the image.

“They know who they are!”  she blurts out suddenly.

This takes me aback. There is no argument here. They do know who they are. Maybe she recalls. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe who they are has slipped away and is lost somewhere on a shiny disk and the laser light can’t locate it. Maybe she will happen upon it and divulge it at some unexpected moment – that’s Ivan on the left, then Eddie in the middle . . . Danny is the baby, he’s next to the tree, she’ll say.

The nurse tells us to rub lotion on Mamaw’s skin.

“Her skin will dry out. Old people get these pressure sores from lying around,” she explains.
“Take this Jergen’s and massage her arms and hands, her face, her legs and feet . . .”

I come in one morning. “Good morning sweet Mamaw, how’s my Ma-maw today?” I ask.

She looks at me as if I am some rank stranger.  It is a hollow look, as if she only knows that I am male, but doesn’t know my name or how I fit in this family.

“Do you want me to rub lotion on your hands today?” I ask.

A smile slowly moves across her thin lips – some memory appears on the screen – maybe a montage of memories. The image fades to black . . . another image . . . a dissolve to another, then disappears.  In her eyes are clouds flying under the sun.

“Others have been there before,” she says, her eyes suddenly warm and focusing on my face.

I am her lover . . . come calling . . . I caress her hand as if we are sitting on the front porch courting in the swing. The silver disc keeps spinning and spinning.

“Others have been there before,” she repeats.  I do not want to hear this. Some things you do not want to hear from your 80-year-old Mamaw.

Mamaw is trying to die.  She weighs 65 pounds.  She looks like leather stretched over sticks and rocks. When she starts to slip away, the people in white rush into the room with their gurney and whisk her away to the hospital.

They hook her up to IVs of glucose and other mysterious liquids. The pink begins to chase away the ashen gray.  She emerges from the fog—electricity restored after the storm.

“Honey, Honey, Honey . . . ain’t you got fat since I seen you last?” She says to me. At first, my feelings are hurt, but I have learned to be in Mamaw’s reality. Wherever Mamaw is, that’s where I am.

The nurse’s aides tell me stories about when Mamaw first came to the nursing home. Their favorite story is about her trying to court Mr. Turner who has a room across the way and down the hall. They tell of them walking up and down the corridors day-after-day holding hands and whispering in the shadows. They catch heads turned and exchange two-arm hugs and even kisses.  Once they were even caught in bed together. This came as no surprise to me.  Mamaw likes men. She always has. Every time one comes in the room, she lights up like a Christmas tree. Her eyes never leave them. They follow the men as they move about her room.  She flirts with her eyes and mouth. She ignores any women who are in the room. They might as well be fence posts.

They tell about her going down to see Mr. Turner one Sunday morning. When she came to the doorway, his wife, Ellen, was sitting in a chair next to his bed.  She eyed Mamaw, forming a sneer by raising the left side of her upper lip.  Mamaw froze in place.  Mrs. Turner looked at Elijah and said, “Well, who is this Mr. Turner?”

He opened the drawer of the nightstand, removed his black plastic rimmed glasses and cocked them on his crooked nose.

“I’ve never seen her before in my life!” he exclaimed.

This morning the phone rings.  It’s the nursing supervisor at the nursing home. They want me to come right away.  I know what has happened.  I tell them I will be there as soon as I can get dressed.  Outside, the trees are beginning to turn. The wind scatters the dancing leaves across the yard.  One tiny bird flicks and flutters in the swirl.  I take my time getting dressed.  I will go into the nursing home and do as I have done for the last twelve years. I will be in Mamaw’s moment.

James B. Goode, creative writer, essayist, photographer, and Appalachian scholar, has written about the Appalachian region since undergraduate school in the 1960s.  He has authored four books of poetry and two technical books on coal mining, produced and directed two documentary films, published short stories in two major anthologies and several national magazines, published over 500 poems in national and international magazines, and written over two hundred columns for the Lexington Herald-Leader, Harlan Daily Enterprise, Coal County Extra and various other newspapers and magazines.  His work has appeared in the Kentucky Encyclopedia, Encyclopedia of Southern Culture, Encyclopedia of Appalachia, Encyclopedia of the Midwest, and anthologies such as Robert Higgs and Ambrose Manning’s Appalachia: Inside Out, The Blair Mountain Anthology, God’s Plenty: Modern Kentucky Writers, Old Wounds, New Words, The Kentucky Book, Yearbook of Modern Poetry, and Forever Bear.

“Good evening, world. This is Samantha Renalds with U.S.C.E News. Last week we brought you a special piece on Mr. Robert Day, who has recently beat the record for longest living person–reaching an amazing 124 years of age. He has asked me back to his home for a one-on-one interview, which he promises will be far from anything we’ve covered before, and I, for one, am looking forward to it.” With that, the cheery blonde moved the microphone away from her face and the robot machine that was with her rolled in as well. “How did that sound, Mr. Day?”

“Perfectly fine. I just thank you for coming here to listen to me today.”

“It’s not a problem. It may be my big break after all.” She looked around his living room, small, mostly empty. “I don’t see how you live in this small place. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I’ma have to cut you off there, Mr. Day. Commercials are about over.” Her machine moved in closer, casting a bright light over his apartment, dark and poorly kept. She gave a thumbs up and a red light lit up on the contraption. She pulled some papers out of her bag and looked at the old man.

“So, Mr. Day, I have to say I’m really curious as to what you’ve got to say. Let’s start. When were you born? How has the world changed?”

“I was born in 1978, before we went in debt to China. The world itself has changed a lot. Technology wise, anyway. The robot you have traveling with you, back in my day, we were just figuring out how to make those things. It’s astounding, really.”

“Do you think that has something to do with why you have no ‘bots serving you?”

“That, well, that is for different reasons. But many other things have changed as well. When I was growing up, Steve Rogers wore red, white, and blue, not red and yellow. He kept the stars and dropped the stripes. Another thing, back then it was the U.S.A, United States of America --not U.S.C.E, United States of the Chinese Empire. Really, the debt we put ourselves in was pathetic. I could go on, but my world views are not what I wish to pass on here. That’s for the youth to decide.”

“Okay, so why don’t you begin telling us about it.”

“Well, it all started in 2001. I was a stupid 22 year old. Like anyone my age then, I was listening to music with my friends and ignoring the road while I was driving. But things played out different than what the other people our age were used to. I wrapped my poor car right around an old oak tree.”

“An oak tree? You must have gone pretty far out of the way to hit one of those.”

“No, trees were a normal sight on roadsides back then. . . .Where was I? Oh, yes, I wrapped my car right around that old oak tree. My two buddies didn’t pull through. I barely did.”

“Sounds awful.”

“It was. Ended up on life support for a few months. But the biggest change of my life occurred due to that. I saw Heaven.”

“Heaven?”

“Not common knowledge now? It was glorious, something beyond words.”

“Nothing is beyond words, Mr. Day.”

“Says your day and age who believes themselves to know everything. I could attempt to speak of it. But no matter the description I used, it would fall so short of the actual scene.”

“We will hear more after the break. I’m sure people have had their interest peaked.” The red light flashed again and the machine flipped the other off. Miss Renalds sighed and tilted her head back. “Is this how the whole thing is going to go? Mr. Day, it’s really not what I came here for. I wanted a look back through history, not the ramblings of a senile old man.”

“Senile? If that’s what you want to think of me, Miss Renalds, go ahead. But I called you here to get my story out and off my chest.”

“No offense, Mr. Day, but this seems a bit bizarre.”

“Think of it this way, Miss Renalds: If my story is a success, you are. If it flops and everyone thinks I am crazy, well, you interviewed a crazy old man. This can do you no harm, and you are already here.”

She considered this. “Fine. Commercial’s almost over. So be quiet and wait for my cue.”

Robert nodded. The light flipped on, forcing him to blink his eyes. “Hello, everyone, and welcome back. Mr. Day, please continue.”

“As I was saying, I saw Heaven.”

“Which you stated was something beyond words?”

“Far beyond. But it was a sad realization when I came to.”

“Why so?”

“Well, you see, I was out for quite some time. Missed most the year lying in bed. I was over sedated and barely breathing. But the sad part was waking up from that vision.”

“Dream.”

“No, it was a vision. But waking up from that to find my two friends didn’t make it. That, and also knowing I was so far off achieving the gift of going to Heaven.”

“So this Heaven is a reward for?”

“Heaven is the ultimate reward you achieve by following the teachings of a book called the Bible, but I didn’t follow the teachings, nor did the world as a whole. I didn’t think I could redeem myself. I then remembered as a boy hearing a story about a man who sold his soul to Satan–”

“Satan?”

“An angel who fell from Heaven, depicted as the ultimate evil. Imprisoned in hell?”

“Oh, I remember childhood stories of him and God.”

“More than likely your parents were reading you the Bible. But anyway, these pacts dated back to old stories. I always wondered about it, and I had decided what I wanted to do. I wanted to sell my soul to get to Heaven.”

“Okay, to make sure I remember right–your soul is what goes to Heaven or Hell after death?”

“Yes, I thought you didn’t know of Heaven.”

“I knew of it. But it hadn’t crossed my mind you would mean the place in those old stories.”

“Okay, then. May I continue?”

“In a few moments, let’s take another break.” The lights flicked off after the red light died.

Samantha stood up and stretched. Robert eased himself onto his cane and started toward the kitchen.

“Want anything, Miss Renalds?”

“I’ll take some bottled water.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any. Will tap do?”

“I’ll pass. I don’t want to be poisoned. You do know tap water will rush you to your grave.”

“I’m 124. Rushing isn’t a problem.” He ran a glass of the dark filth before making his way back to his seat.

“If you don’t mind me asking, where are your kids?”

“It’s simple. They are all dead.”

“Grandkids?”

“Dead.”

“Great Grandkids?”

“Dead.”

“Gre-”

“Never had any.”

“So you drink tap water, live in this dump, no offense, and have no family. How do you make it?”

“I have no choice.”

“Unresolved goals or ambitions?”

“Nope, just can’t make it to the grave.”

“What’s that sup--oh sorry, we need to go back on air. Wait on the qu-”

“I remember.” Lights, red light, and they were back for the billions worldwide to see.

“Before the break, Mr. Day was beginning to tell us what happened after he left the hospital. Please, Robert, it’s okay if I call you Robert, isn’t it? Please continue.”

“As I was saying, it was after I got out of the hospital: I was wrapped up in an old flannel jacket to keep warm and on my way to the nearest crossroads. It was a stupid idea, but I was young and reckless. I knew the potential consequences. But I didn’t care. It was my best shot. I arrived and saw nothing. I kept thinking to myself, how do I do this? What will let Satan greet me with his presence?

It was a very awkward thought and the fact the passing cars and the sight of my own breath were all that was there to entertain me didn’t help. But moments later a voice called out for me, and from behind a coal truck sat a man on a highway sign, waving me over. He was in a very fine suit, wearing sun glasses, and had a chain around his ankle, right before his shined shoes that ran straight into the ground and seemed to disappear.

“Robert James Day, 22. Birthdate, May 3rd, 1978. All-time favorite band, Smashing Pumpkins.”

“You are?”

“Lucifer, or Satan, as you’d apparently like to call me.”

“How did you know I was waiting for you?”

“Some computers are harder to crack than the human mind. It’s sad. Not to mention I can sense temptation a mile away.”

“Okay.”

“Before we discuss business, let me look you over first. Black Tee, ripped jeans, commoner’s shoes. With the way I see things going, I may need to dress like you in the future. Stir up some trouble.” He looked me over. I felt awkward, a bit frightened. But not as much as I figured I should be. My parents had always said he was the most beautiful angel. I’d be lying if I didn’t say he was far better looking than myself. Or anyone else for that matter.

“Can we get this over with?” I asked.

“Ah! The eager type, are you? So what do you want? Money? Power? Inhuman strength? A couple of extra inches? To be the true master of something? What about all medical knowledge? To play guitar or violin amazingly? You look like a violin man. Come on, let me hear it, boy.”

“I want a guaranteed passage into Heaven.”

“You want what? This is a new one. I, I like the way you think. You’ve tossed me a nice little curveball.”

“Can you do it?”

“Hey, don’t doubt me. If humans can make their way there, I can give you a way there. Only problem is, what do I get? Normally a deal with me costs some souls.”

“Tell me the cost. Let me hear what my choices are.”

“Impatient, are you, Robby.”

“It’s my afterlife we are discussing here. I think I have a right to be impatient.”

“Sure you don’t want super powers?”

“No.”

“Ungodly charisma?”

“No.”

“A pet turtle?”

“Lucifer, you know what I want! Stop playing around!” Some people would call yelling like that at the embodiment of evil stupid. At the time, I wasn’t thinking. Too many thoughts were swamping my mind.

“Fine, here is the deal. You, Robert Day, have my word that in death you will have passage into Heaven. But, in return, as you live out the rest of your days, I’ll keep your soul in hell with me, like a trophy to show off to the other idiots who made deals with me.”

“A trophy?”

“Yes, I want to show off. All those souls I’ve had pass through my fingers. Then there is you.

The guy who had the perfect request. I want to show them just how greedy and dumb they really are. That’s right! Keep smiling. You know, throughout this whole thing, you’ll be conscious and able to live. Nothing will change except the outcome.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“I let the blacksmith go, didn’t I?”

“What?”

“Never heard the story? Here is the Master over all Masters? No? Well, let’s put it this way. It was your idea; you sought me out. Don’t second guess yourself. Don’t back down to the Devil.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Then right before my eyes fire came from his hand. An old-looking piece of paper formed. On it were the details of my deal in red ink. The bottom had some weird symbols that I assumed was his signature. All that was needed was mine, and I signed away quickly.

“Miss Renalds, after the signing of my Faustian bargain, I felt so alive. Like I could live without regret free of the burden of the afterlife. But like I said, I was young and dumb.” Miss Renalds was now leaning forward, listening.

“So you sold your soul to the devil? That’s interesting. Bizarre but interesting. Do go on.”

“There isn’t much to tell about our meeting after that. Once my name was signed, he jumped off the sign and walked away.”

“But he was chained. How did he manage that?”

“The chain moved with him, still going into the dirt. But no matter how far he walked, it didn’t pull him back or so much as move the very dirt it went into.”

“Sounds like magic.”

“Miss Renalds, he is Satan after all.”

“I guess so. Well, what happened next?”

“I went home and my life began.”

“You mean that’s all to your story?”

“All I wish to share.” With that he stood up. Her ‘bot’s camera continued to follow him. He hobbled into the next room. He could hear some mumbling outside the door, which he took as her wrapping up. Moments later, a knock.

“Mr. Day, I decided to call it quits for today. But now you have me interested, and I’m sure many more want to hear more about you. Personally, I think you are crazy. But just like sex... crazy sells. Well. So how about I call you to set up another taping?”

“I have nothing more to tell.”

“You are 124, Mr. Day. People will want to know more. You just told us you sold your soul to the devil. Yet you say you have nothing more to share?”

“What more do you want to hear?”

“We should receive some calls. That will give me all the questions I need to ask. You rest up.” With that, he watched her and the robot leave. He longed for rest, but he wouldn’t fall asleep for good. He wished he could, but all these years waiting and suffering and it had yet to happen. Why hold his breath?

Next day, a new appointment was scheduled. He had three days to stare at the grey walls, and stare he did.

Robert let her in and the machine rolled in beside her. She looked around, disappointed.

“Mr. Day, I thought I asked you to clean up?”

“I’m 124, Miss Renalds. What did you expect to do? Get on my hands and knees to clean? Lying in the floor till someone visited me to help me up? You must be senile.” She scoffed and pulled up a chair.

“Let’s get started then. We had many callers to ask questions.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. Mostly, they wanted to know what you were taking back then.”

“What?”

“They believe you to have been on drugs, Mr. Day. But let’s have the light come on. Wait for my cue.”

Then the red light appeared, and again, he was live. “Good Evening, world. This is News Reporter Samantha Renalds from U.S.C.E here to bring you part two of Robert Day’s life story. Now last week we heard a tale of a car crash and visions of Heaven and a meeting fit for hell. Due to the unbelievable things mentioned, we left it up to you, the viewers, to decide if we should return. Despite the ridicule, the majority vote was yes–we are interested. So Robert, how do you feel about answering some questions for our viewers this time around?”

“Well, they heard me out, so I guess I owe them that much.”

“Thank you. First question, since, as you say, you have a free pass into Heaven, did you ever act out?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Mr. Day, I think the people at home would like to hear a bit about it. Not just a simple yes or no.”

“Fine. It was that summer when I realized what I had done. June 30th, I believe. It had just settled in. I could do no wrong in regards to affecting my afterlife. At the time if things got bad, suicide was always an option. During this time I’d become a pill head. It wasn’t so casual back then as it is now. Trust me. But I’d started shoplifting. Mostly, I stayed intoxicated. Drinking with people, sleeping in the streets. Really living.”

“Being homeless? That’s really living?”

“Being free, I was on my own. No payments to hold me down. Stolen goods to eat on or trade for alcohol and pills when I got the ole itch. I was rolling with the punches.”

“You were homeless.”

“Miss Renalds, you believe it to be homeless. I think of it as freedom. It was harmony.”

“Okay, next question, this had a lot of call ins. Who was your wife? How did you meet? What happened to her.”

“I was dreading this.”

“It’s an intriguing question. Seeing as how marriage now is looked down upon and hardly ever permanent. People find hope in things like this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Please, Robert.”

“Okay. Where to start? November 2002. I was still sleeping in the streets, buying in to this small group of angst teens protesting against Bush and Iraq. They made sense. Oil, oil, oil. But that isn’t where I met her. One of the boys had a job so he bought some cheap beer from the gas station where he worked. The other traded pills, or handed them out so we could all have a great time. Little did I care, but mixing pills and beer was an incredibly bad idea. I somehow found myself wandering out from under the old bridge and onto the streets to a bench where I overdosed. Between the phasing in and out, I could see the brunette with thick-rimmed glasses and a coat with a fur hood standing over me. She had found me on a bench, called 911, and then sat in the waiting room until I was able to speak. At the time I looked almost as bad as when I wrecked, tubes running in and out of my arms. Laid up in a bed in a big white room with humming fluorescent lights. I felt awful.

Then she came in. It wasn’t any of the slow motion walk-ins you’d see in movies. More like a worried, angry march. Come to think of it, her reaction to a total stranger in such a warm and scary manner was part of her appeal.

“Who are you?”

“Gretchen Ross.”

“How do I know you?”

“You don’t.”

“Am I dead?”

“You would be if I hadn’t walked past you.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, you were lying on a bench stoned out of your mind and barely alive.”

“I was not.”

“Yes, you were, not to mention your arm was bleeding.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. What’s your name? Who are your parents? The nurses need to know. Because at the moment I’m responsible for you.”

“No, I am responsible for me.”

“Which is exactly why you ended up nearly dead on a bench with a bottle of Jack Daniels in your hand.”

I later discovered Gretchen had stayed there overnight. She was one of the most innocent people I had ever met. I eventually came to and stopped sounding like an idiot. Gave her my parents’ names but explained that they were both dead. When Gretchen found this out, she had no choice, she said, but to come back to make sure I was okay.”

“You get out in three more days, James.”

“It’s Robert, not James.”

“I prefer calling you by your middle name. I saved your life so you can get over it.”

“Why are you even still coming here?”

“Because someone has to show up, and since your parents are gone, you have no siblings, and obviously you can’t take care of yourself, I promised the doctors when you get out, I’ll give you a place to sleep.”

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“You know what, Miss Ross?”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen a girl look so good with thick-rimmed glasses before.”

“You are not allowed to flirt, James. You’re a charity case.”

“Miss Renalds, Gretchen ended up stuck with me. After a few months I was clean and living in her home, sleeping on the couch. She wouldn’t have admitted it, but she liked my company. I had picked her to mend me, which her good nature wouldn’t allow her to decline.” “It’s sort of sweet when you put it like that. She fell in love with her charity work. What happened to her?”

“We went on to have three children. Autumn Day, Rainy Jane Day, and Gabriel Day. We were married before they came along. Gretchen, sadly, died in a car crash. She wrecked nearly in the same spot my friends and I did. She took Gabriel and Autumn with her. Rainy was all I had left. This was September 2009.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What became of your daughter Rainy?”

“At the time of her mother’s death, she was a month and three days old. Later on, she was relatively normal, opinionated, and rebellious, although in political ways, without the drug and alcohol influence. She ended up married at 18 to the high school boyfriend. She was going to change the world and have him by her side. But he ended up killing her four years later during a argument about his drug abuse. She left behind a son, who the father took after his charges were dropped by some twist of fate. My grandson killed himself at age 18.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Mr. Day, let me ask, have you ever attempted suicide to claim your reward?”

“Yes, I have. After Rainy died and that bastard husband of hers got off and kept the kid, I figured to hell with the world; it was already there. So I tried. I tried to hang myself. I ended up breaking my neck and surviving. I crawled to the phone to call 911, something the paramedics say I shouldn’t have been able to do. Later I cut my wrist, but the bleeding on my arm was no blood at all. It was my contract. Anytime I was supposed to die, it bled through my arm.”

“The one you signed for your deal with Satan. Correct?”

“Yep, watch.” Her eyes widened. She watched the blade run over his wrist. The letters began to form as the blood dripped from his wrist. Her mouth dropped.

“This, it–it raises so many questions. Oh, Robert, stop.”

“Miss Renalds, it’s simple. I am Satan’s example to the world that he always wins. I thought I had tricked the devil. But he just laughed and now shows me off as a prize. That, or this is God’s way of saying I was a flower that cheated to bloom and not worth picking. So I get to wither here.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I think we’re out of time, Miss Renalds.”

“Yes, thank you. We are out of time.” With that the light flickered off and she stood quick. “I want to thank you for the story and your time, Mr. Day.”

“It’s fine, Miss Renalds.” Soon she was moving, toward the door, her ‘Bot following her out.

This interview was over. Later, Robert sat alone in his grey living room. “How much longer do I have to suffer?” he asked aloud, right before a familiar figure stepped out of the kitchen, dressed in an old flannel jacket, a black tee shirt and old tattered shoes, chains clanging against linoleum.

“That’s simple, James, until the End.”

Nathan Hall, 19, of Jackscreek, is a BSCTC student. He said his story “Faustian Bargain” was inspired by the music of his three favorite bands.

August 11, 1977

They’re tearing down the old house. It doesn’t look like much in the light of a quarter moon. Three stories of darkness and a storm is on the way. It’s probably for the best. The upper two floors have been unoccupied for years and the floor on the first level is beginning to give way. I hope I can get this cigarette re-lit before the clouds cover the moonlight again. Too bad I can’t relight it with a moon beam.

It was already over ninety years old when Grandpa bought it back in 1924. My mother’s people told me that every afternoon after he got off work, Grandpa would crank up the Model T and ride into the countryside looking for land that reminded him of his childhood in the foothills of the Tetra Mountains. When he found this piece of property, he bought it. People on the surrounding farms were none too happy, and the Klan was near its peak. They didn’t like Catholics or foreigners and Grandpa was both. He was in this house for less than a month when a hooded mob burned a cross in his front yard. Ignorance saved him. He mistook their action for a local welcoming custom and invited the Klansmen into his house. Grandma fed them pastries and Grandpa served them some of his homemade hard cider. They all got roaring drunk and left. They never bothered Grandpa again, and he even hired some of them later in the year to help harvest his crops.

Grandpa was a hard worker with his job at the mill and a two-hundred acre farm to run. He had a lot of mouths to feed and not much time to mess around. I guess he didn’t like to paint because he covered the house with shingles from top to bottom. He worked himself to death and Grandma buried him in a plot next to his first wife because the plot was paid for and she needed to save money. Some say she was none too sorry when he passed because she still had the farm and a peck of sons and daughters to help her work it. Too bad for Grandma that her kids didn’t want to be farmers. The boys went off to war and some of them never came back. The girls went to town to find work and husbands. They helped when they could, but Grandma did the planting and the milking herself and with whatever seasonal labor she could find.

Grandma had kind of an odd world view -- not odd for where she came from, but odd for here. There were some wild grapevines on the left side of the house and a swing with supports was constructed among them. She would sit on the swing and we would sit on a blanket in front of her and listen to her stories of the Old Country. The chores all had to be done first, so it was usually early evening when the grand kids would participate in this treat.

There was a common theme to Grandma’s stories – they usually had the devil in them. Now it’s not what you think. She was a God-fearing woman, a regular churchgoer. She was no Satan worshiper. The devil was no monstrous looking thing, and he wouldn’t show up unless you called him. Even then, you could send him away. Grandma’s stories had to do with choices and the consequences of making the wrong choices. We all make wrong choices from time to time. If we didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting out here smoking a cigarette and staring at an abandon house in the middle of the night.

Her stories would usually start with some young man or woman who was ambitious and restless. They would call on the devil and bargain with him to gain wealth or fame or a rich spouse, whatever it was that they wanted. But to gain what they wanted they would have to pay the devil’s price. They were never satisfied. If they asked for a million dollars and got it, they would then begin to desire a second million. If they gained success as an actress in Prague, they would want success on a larger stage in Vienna. Eventually they would bargain away their souls and even though they achieved things beyond their wildest dreams, they never found happiness and the devil never forgave a debt. If these stories sound like variations of the tale of Dr. Faust, it is because they probably were. Tales of Faust predate Goethe by two centuries and probably originated in the folk legends of central Europe where Germans and Jews, Magyars and Slavs mixed together and their tales became a single cloth made of several threads. But this was America, where ambitious is rewarded and the devil runs rough-shot over the weak and the lame.

Thomas D. Matijasic is a native of Youngstown, Ohio. He earned a B.A. from Youngstown State University, a M.A. from Kent State University, and a Ph.D. in History from Miami University. He has taught at Big Sandy Community & Technical College since January 1, 1983. Dr. Matijasic has received four BSCTC Great Teacher Awards, five NISOD awards for teaching excellence, and the 2006 Acorn Award. He served as President of the Kentucky Association of Teachers of History (1994) and served three terms on the Kentucky Heritage Council (1994-2006). Dr. Matijasic has published more than 20 articles and 30 book reviews, the most recent entitled, “It’s Personal: Nixon, Liberia and the Development of U.S. African Policy (1957-1974),” WHITE HOUSE STUDIES (2011).

I’d never given much thought to what would be prevalent in my personal history. Most people could say their grandma or an exciting basketball game, but none of that would fit into an account of my life. I have lived an average life in Eastern Kentucky with a similar story to most 19 year olds of this day and age. I was born and raised by a mom and dad. I have struggled with the awkward years that have only recently begun to fade.  I learned to drive an automatic in an emerald green, Chevy S-10. I learned to drive a cable-clutch standard in my dad’s candy-apple red, 1946 Jeep Willys. I graduated high school – Johnson Central High School, to be exact. I moved out of the nest and into an apartment, but only endured a year, and now I live in the nest anyway. I have no idea what or where I’m going to be in 20 years. I have a list of dreams – sure. I want to devote time to the Peace Corps. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail. I want someday to write an award-winning piece of fiction. Still, these average happenings and yet-to-happen dreams can’t be held accountable for the person I am today. If there is one thing that has remained persistent from my childhood until present though, it is that I have always saved a hefty space in my heart for animals.

My love for animals goes beyond an unhealthy obsession for dressing small dogs in cute outfits or only getting my hamster out of the cage when I was bored. My earliest memories as a child are of my neighbor and me walking a short distance from my house to the Staffordsville Flea Market – better known as the stock yard. Every Saturday, we would walk to the stock yard with five dollars and every Saturday we would pilfer through everything from video games that could only be used on game systems that we didn’t have to pirated VHS tapes – one dollar a piece. We would sift through junk for about an hour and then would make our way across Highway 172 and onto the “dog lot.” There was no pavement or gravel. There was only dirt, mud, animals, and guns. Every Saturday, I would walk laps around that lot until I found the animal that needed the most help. Every Saturday, I would come home with a new pet. I would take animals of all sorts under my wing – ducklings, chickens, kittens or dogs. In my eyes, I could provide a home for each one. Animals were orphans that I could legally tend to – so that is exactly what I did. Just because I brought them home, though, doesn’t mean they were life-long pets. Like the all-too-familiar childhood pet story, I had a beagle that ran away. I found more fitting homes for an entire litter of calico kittens. Once, a stray died of parvo within a week of residing on Blanton Drive. Nonetheless, a few animals have come into my life and not only played a significant role but also were truly my best friends.

There are always pictures of children during major events in their lives – first days of school, birthdays, that without pictures, you wouldn’t remember, sleepovers. I am no different, except that my childhood pictures may include an extra body – Dusty.  He was the baby of the house before I came along on July 19, 1990. Some would probably describe him as a beast – 150 pounds and three times the size of an average six year old.  I will always describe him as a gentle giant – a pit bull. Memories aren’t as abundant with Dusty as they are with later pets, but some are unforgettable.  Every time I let off fireworks for the Fourth of July, for example, I think of having sparklers as a kid and moving one through the air like a person might move her finger across the glass of a fish tank, and Dusty would watch. Things like dogs following my sparkler around made me laugh, and as a kid I was always looking for something to make me laugh. Dusty was my sidekick in cops and robbers. He may not have realized that he was part of the game, but he ran beside me anyway to be sure that the good guys would prevail. Being that I was an only child, it was vital that he functioned as a playmate and comrade. To this day, I am sure that no other could have provided me with more childhood affection.

It wasn’t all laughing the day away, though.  Dusty was my sleep partner if I had a bad dream. He guarded the foot of the bed and held down the fort under the covers. With a flashlight and a superb guard dog, I knew no monster could prevail. It would be defeated in only minutes and my bed would remain the symbol of safety, security, and shelter. I’ll flash the light three times if I hear something. I recall that line being common on stormy nights or creepy hours after the scary movie had gone off.  Simple things were important then, and that is what Dusty provided me – simple smiles and laughs all throughout the day and comfort when I needed it most. But, hey, isn’t that what best friends are for?

In 1998, my parents and I and Dusty lived in Point View Trailer Court while our new house was being built. In February 1999, Dusty became ill with old age and died a few weeks shy of seeing the new house with his family. If I was looking at this with a strict time-line in my mind, I would just say, “Next we found Mary.” Instead, I’m going to say that as Dusty passed, the option of taking Mary into our lives became a better and better choice. Mary is a full stock Boston terrier – hair lipped and no papers – but full stock. Like any other animal in my personal history, she was rescued. A Boston terrier breeder lived in the same trailer court as we did. At first, I knew Mary as the mean dog next door.  She would chase my friends and me.  She would snap at our ankles if we came too close to her.  She was the definition of an aggressive dog. I just didn’t understand that dogs could be bad, so I inched a little closer to her every day.  My observations of the tiny dog continued for days. I learned that the breeder kept her outside and alone. She had characteristics that made her undesirable for profit-breeding, so they treated her as if she did not matter. I swooped in. My mom and I waited until the night was quiet, took a package of Oscar Mayer bologna from the refrigerator and headed to Mary’s box on the dark end of the porch. That night we led her to our home with pieces of sandwich meat. Of course, we didn’t just leave the breeders in the dark about it. We sugar coated the truth and said that she had “wandered” onto our porch. They seemed to accept the story, but I believe indifference was the main factor. Without much thought, they gave us the dog that we had already stolen.

Although I had lived in that neighborhood my whole life (we built a house across the street from where the trailer used to set), it seemed as though all the adventures started over.  I was older now. I wanted to go out further on my own. I never had any brothers or sisters, and cousins and distant relatives never lived very close so I was thankful – and I’ll admit, amazed – that Mary could play hide-n-seek.  I could hide anywhere in the house and sing, Mary! Come find me! She would search the house, behind doors, under beds – she would even scratch at closet doors until she triumphed.  If I wanted to take a walk, I knew Mary would want to walk, too. When I decided to become a runner in high school, Mary ran right along beside me. She practiced with me every day until I ran well enough to place in the top five of the Cross Country Regionals my freshman year.  If I was going to have a slice of pre-wrapped cheese, well, I never did that alone either.

Instead of being a comforter, Mary was an adventurer – young and full of life – like me.  She’s old and gray now. I tell people that she thinks she’s human because she reminds you of a grandmother.  She has a favorite chair, a designated nap time and special, softer food (she’s missing most of her teeth now). Every time I look at her, though, I see her as that young pup. I see her as Mary, the crusader of the wilderness.  I see her as Mary, the swimmer of Paintsville Lake. I see her as Mary, the fetcher of anything you could think to throw.  It’s hard for me to see her as anything else.

When I was 18, I moved out of the nest – kissed Mom and Dad (and Mary) good-bye. I decided apartment living was the kind of living that I wanted.  I had roommates – at one point, I had five – but something still seemed to be missing. Then it hit me – I was missing a dog!  I didn’t want a dog in an apartment. I knew there wouldn’t be much space, but when a stranger told me, “If we don’t get rid of them, we’re going to set them off,” I didn’t have a choice.

I am a rescuer – always have been, always will be. And so came Doc. He had a couple of different names before I settled on that one, but Doc is definitely the most fitting. Short, uncomplicated and undemanding. As a pup, he was all paws and no brain – a clumsy Black Lab. I think of Doc as my liberation. He is my partner, my cohort, my travel buddy.  If you asked me five years ago if I ever thought I would drive a Toyota Matrix from Eastern Kentucky to Maine with nobody but an oversized dog named Doc, I would have laughed. However, that is exactly what I did.  I had five days off work from a local gas station. It was summer break from school. I didn’t have anything else to do except drive across nine states with my best friend.  Maybe it’s cliché, but I learn a lot about myself from Doc. With Doc, I never have a doubt that I can swim across any river, climb any mountain or walk any trail. Doc has brought me closer to nature than I ever conceived possible. Taking care of him has made me more confident as a provider.

Each of these animals has played a role in providing me with a companion all throughout my years. I am indebted and appreciative. With them, I learned to love and care for life at a young age. I learned that stereotypes aren’t true. I learned that beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. Finally, I learned that dogs can’t help you find interstates, so you better pay attention on your own.

Kayla Price, of Paintsville, is a second-year BSCTC student.

"The President is going to play ball with us! The President is going to play ball with us!"

The word went excitedly through the small group of US students. We were at a weekend picnic organized by our summer program at the University of San Carlos in Guatemala City.

I looked carefully at the President of Guatemala, General Ydigoras Fuentes. I didn't think he was very impressive. He walked slowly and rather hesitantly toward us. I expected a general and president of a country, no less, to be more commanding and sure of himself. He wore a dark brown army uniform, even including the hat, which made him look hot, uncomfortable and out of place at a picnic on the tropical sea coast. He was a little larger than the other soldiers, who remained spread out behind him facing us. Even though he was large, he had thin limbs, making him look like a square block with arms, legs, and head.

It wasn't clear what kind of ball game we were going to play. The way people were standing made it look as if we would be playing volley ball. But the ball was not a volley ball. It was more like a soft ball. In contrast to the earlier enthusiasm of the announcement of this event, everybody appeared notably lethargic now. Not one person seemed to be alert and ready to engage in competitive physical activity.

The President held the ball tentatively in his hand. He languidly threw it toward one of the students. The student caught it and threw it back in a similarly dull manner. The President slowly threw it again to another student. The student held it as if wondering where to throw it next. Finally, he threw it back to the President who held it gingerly and looked around vaguely. He threw it again and turned away before it could be returned. Nobody seemed interested in the game. The students dispersed.

I saw the President again sometime later. The scene was much more interesting but one I still don't understand.

I had wandered away from the picnic and was taking a little walk through the woods. The trees were not set very closely together and it was pleasant to walk among them. Suddenly I came upon them.

A luxurious, polished, black car was parked in a little clearing. The President of Guatemala in his brown uniform was in the right rear seat. The driver was not at his place behind the wheel, but some soldiers could be seen here and there in the woods, clearly on watch. The interesting thing was the woman. She was small and dark. She wore the Indian women's costume of skirt and blouse made of colorful, heavy, hand-woven cotton. The skirt was a long, wide, wrap-around, reaching to her ankles. The dominant pattern was stripes but a small design was woven into some of the stripes. The color scheme of the skirt was blue but of the blouse was red. Her glossy black hair was pulled back in a bun.

The Indian woman was leaning against the car right where the President sat. They were only inches apart. Her entire left side was plastered against the car while her right hand rested on the sill of the open car window. Her face was turned away from the President, and she was looking down, past her right hand to the ground. This hand had held a paper tightly folded into a small square perhaps two inches by three inches. The paper looked a little worn, as if she had been carrying it for some time. She was slowly, gently, persistently, and quietly tapping the paper against the car's windowsill. She was also talking. She talked continually in a very low, soft voice. No one would be able to hear what she was saying only a few feet away.

The President was inches from the woman as he sat leaning toward her against the inside wall of the car. He did not look at her. He said nothing. He looked ahead and slightly down. He appeared to be completely relaxed, not even thinking about important government matters. It was if she were not there.

Was the woman asking him for a favor? Did she want something for her village? A school or clinic perhaps. Maybe her son had gotten involved in political activity. He might be in jail and in serious trouble. At any rate, evidently she was not considered a threat or the soldiers would never have allowed her so near their leader. The soldiers didn't pay attention to me either as I came and then left.

I never saw either of them again. It was 1962, and the general was out of office the following year. Was there perhaps a connection? No. I don't think so. But you never know.

Phyllis Puffer received her B.A. and M.A. from the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor and her Ph.D. from Michigan State University, all in sociology. She has traveled in over 40 countries, mostly in the Third World.

The Women’s Army Corps basic training unit was marching to class at Ft. McClellan in Alabama. We had been in training for a few weeks already so our own fellow students, instead of “real” army personnel, were leading the march, and a student was calling the commands. As a person of medium height, I was in the middle of the formation, with increasingly taller uniformed bodies ahead of me, similar sized uniforms around me and smaller uniformed women behind me.

We were pretty good marchers at this point. We were all in step and kept our lines pretty straight. We marched along the paved road in the rhythm of centuries.

The leader called, “Column left, march!” Obediently, row by row, we marched forward, came to the designated spot, pivoted left and continued marching.

I was a relatively oblivious recruit and back then much better at following directions than I am now. On top of it, I couldn’t see anything at the moment but other recruits. I followed the others in the pattern set by those ahead of me without a second thought. Then without paying too much attention to what was going on, I was vaguely aware that we had left the pavement and were going through grass and down a slope. Then immediately we were going upward rather steeply, and then forward on flat land. Our leader eventually called, “Company, halt!” We halted and were allowed to relax and look around.

Our two, “real” platoon leaders were jumping up and down, smiling, laughing, and shouting. It turned out that unknowingly we had performed magnificently as soldiers. We had blindly followed orders even though they were stupid. Thankfully in this case there was no harm.
The road we marched along several times a day was separated from the classroom building by a ditch. Getting from the road to the building required going over a bridge. It turned out that our student leader had called the turn command too soon. We had completely missed the bridge.

Our company of recruits, following the orders given to us, had marched straight down into the ditch separating the road from the classroom. Then we had marched straight up out of it without turning a hair. At the time, no water lay in that ditch, but if there had been, we would have gone right through it.

Now, whenever somebody says, “Trust me,” I think of the time I was marched into a ditch.

Phyllis Puffer received her B.A. and M.A. from the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor and her Ph.D. from Michigan State University, all in sociology. She has traveled in over 40 countries, mostly in the Third World.

I believe in that old familiar coffee can, with its wonderful glory, sitting upon a dusty shelf, begging to be used. Sometimes it’s full or maybe half-full, begging, pleading, wanting to be noticed. I await the day, the last moment, the final second when all the wonders of the coffee can are displayed before me. What will those glorious wonders be? What will be bestowed unto me?

Yes, oh yes, I believe in the coffee can. But no, not what you’re thinking, not the coffee that was contained inside its metallic walls: Not the hot, bitter taste that the contents provided. That short, tubular container, no top or lid …well, maybe a plastic lid, that vessel that once held two pounds of a brown, roughly ground powder, that old metallic repository is what I seek. I believe the life of a coffee can extends beyond the coffee. I believe that life exists further past a point of flavor, possibly to a point of rust and decay. I believe in all the treasures I may find when I am peering into an old beaten coffee can, way up, high, higher yet, unseen for years, atop that old shelf. Yes, here in this priceless receptacle is history, a time lost – items sorted and stored for later use.

Recounting all the years as a child, exploring my grandfather’s workshop, my grandmother’s storage room, or even the shelves in my dad’s garage brings back to my mind all the items found but forgotten in all those coffee cans: Buttons, nuts and bolts, canning lids, fencing parts, spark plugs, hair ribbons and bows, corn seed, bean seed, sunflower seed, wire, phone cord, lamp parts, sewing machine bobbins, or any other item that needed storage.

I recall many times in my life when a coffee can came to my rescue. Once I couldn’t find a gas can, so I grabbed an empty coffee can to do the job. I even kept lawnmower gas in a coffee can for a while. Hoping to give aid in starting a bonfire, I stored old, used oil in a coffee can. Recently I discovered an old red coffee can sitting on a shelf in the home I now live in. As I reached to grasp the can, raising it from its perch, I discovered, surprisingly, the bottom had rusted away. I was showered with a large assortment of nuts and bolts. I set the topless, bottomless sleeve aside, in a place to be seen as a reminder of what was and can no longer be… for, you see, the metal coffee can has been replaced by plastic in a plastic world. I believe in the coffee can, and for all the coffee cans that remain: May they hold history; May they hold hope; May they be there when needed.

Born on the day before Thanksgiving in 1957, Marvin Rowland was raised in a suburb of Dayton, Ohio, in a community called Beavercreek. While growing up he spent a lot of time in Johnson County, at his grandparents' farm, learning the way of life in eastern Kentucky. He has three children and three grandchildren, all of whom he adores.

My Dearest Sara,
I just arrived to the mountain after a 26-day trek across the land. I find I miss you more and more with each passing day, and were it possible, miss Jacob even more than that. You can be relieved, my love, in knowing that I am in good health. The same cannot be said for my guides to this mountain. One passed away on the journey; the other two succumbed to illness as soon as we reached the small outpost below the mountain. I feel for them and their families but will admit to being grateful that I did not go in their place.

The trip was well worth it. This mountain is a spectacular place. An abundance of trees, streams, snow, animals, and everything else culminate in a peaceful utopia that no human has touched. Mr. Edwards will truly be thrilled to construct a mansion in this area. I hope that I have found a good enough locale for him to increase my payment for this journey. The hundred dollars he has promised would be more than enough to fulfill our dreams, but a little extra has never hurt. We will be able to build our dream at the least, Sara, and live out the rest of our days in it.

Tonight will be my first night in this area. I have been granted stay in a cabin built many years ago by a former resident of the town. I will admit that some of the townspeople seemed quite frightened with talk of the area. I am not sure why, and when I inquired, they would not give a straightforward answer. Perhaps it was overreacting to a long and somewhat traumatic journey. I do not think anything could possibly go wrong in this place, so like the Garden of Eden must have been.

I will mail this letter on the 28th of December. Please, my Sara, include the date in your letter so I may see how long our correspondences take in travel. I will write many letters in that passing time and will yearn for that first response from you.

Until then, send Jacob my love. I would say the same for you, but you know you will always have it.

Yours, Isaac

My Sara,
It has been six days now since I have written you a letter. In this time I have been exploring the mountain and trying to find a flaw to report. So far I have found none.

The mountain extends far into the heavens and is picturesque as far as the eye can see. I have climbed high enough on its terrain to feel myself struggling to breathe, and even then, it was one of the most beautiful sights to witness. The snow stays crisp, regardless of temperature. I must confess that even with its frigid appearance, I have yet to feel frostbitten or even cold. It is an enduring mystery. As I said before, it is indeed a special place.

I had a strange experience yesterday, however. While chopping down a tree to use as firewood (for light, since as I said, the temperature seems comfortable throughout even the night), I saw a fox appear, just thirteen or so feet away from me. It was a stunningly beautiful creature and seemed oddly confused by me. I began to study it, and quite suddenly it locked eyes with me. Or, at least, it seemed so at first. I was puzzled. I had never seen a wild animal behave so calmly and human in my time back home or during any of my other travels. It occurred to me after several minutes of this staring, however, that the fox was peering over my shoulder.

I surveyed the area but could not find a hint of anything else around. By the time I turned back to the fox (perhaps a matter of seven seconds), it had gone. I could not spot it anywhere. I stayed in the area for some time, trying to surmise what the fox may have seen or where it had gone. I was shocked to discover that it had left no paw prints. None. Though he was a light animal and the snow is somewhat firm, I expected to find some trace of this quick visit from it. I did not.

I hope he visits me again soon, my Sara, though not as much as I long to be in your embrace again. I find I miss you and Jacob more every minute, nay, every second. I have been considering a plan, but I will not mention the details yet. I must mull it over and come to a decision.

My candle is quick running out. I shall have to retrieve another while visiting the country store. For now, it is time to rest and dream of our life to come.

Love,
Isaac

My love,
It has been another six days since I have written. My longing to see your reply grows. I know that it will be at least 30-40 days before I do, however, accounting for my 26-day trek here. I assume the post shall run slightly quicker than our journey, not being burdened with expedition supplies.

I found a perfect stream for fresh water just by my cabin. I have been here nearly two weeks, yet I somehow missed it in my initial searches. The strangest happening, since it was only yesterday I had been pondering searching for a new water source. The last one was amongst a tangle of weeds and overgrowth (though even those remained a pleasure to view) and was becoming tiresome to trek to every other day. I daresay with a stream this close, I could run piping into the cabin.

I had mentioned before a plan I had been pondering. Sadly, it will not work out. I had meant to find from the local courthouse the price of this cabin, with an idea of moving you and Jacob to it. I received the same odd behavior when I inquired about this with the local officials. They seemed unwilling to speak of it. When I mentioned purchasing the land, they seemed almost panicked by this notion. I asked them who I must speak to in order to complete the purchase of the deed, and they seemed to drift into a fit of chaos. The desk man simply started repeating that there was no one to speak to, that the property belonged to no one. When I asked to buy the property from their county, they assured me the county did not own it either.

I then proceeded to ask where I may submit the paperwork to take claim for land (an odd procedure, since I was unaware that there was land left unclaimed this side of the Mississippi) and the officials refused even that. They said the land must remain without owner. Suffice to say, I left the courthouse in a bit of a rage.

It matters not, though, for with this bad news, I also send good news. I wired a message to Mr. Edwards about what I had found. He assured me that if this place is as good as described, he will up my pay to three hundred dollars! Three hundred dollars, my love! We could retire to a country side, farming and living out our lives together. I hope he is as impressed as I with this land. I truly do not see how he couldn’t be.

I love you dearly,
Isaac

My love,
It has been another six days since I last wrote. I have explored the mountain five miles in all directions now and can say I have never beheld such an amazing location.
I have also built a piping system into the cabin, allowing for drinking water at any time using the stream’s own pressure. I must say, I am impressed with my creation. It runs efficiently and has allowed me more leisure time throughout the days. If only I could make the fire wood chop itself as well!

I came about my fox friend again, or, at the least, one who appeared the same as he. It was in the area where I gathered wood before. The fox trudged towards me, to the same distance as before, stopped, and gave that same peering look over my shoulder. I was unsure of what to think, to see a wild animal behaving in such a pattern. I watched the creature intently this time and saw as it grew more and more frightful. It was to the point of shaking when, I admit, fear overcame me, and I turned to find nothing once again. The fox had again disappeared when I turned around. Once again, no sign it had ever appeared.

This time, I decided to inspect closer the area into which it had been staring. I made a quick pass and began expanding outwards. I did this for nearly two hours when, in the very direction that the fox had been staring, I discovered a rectangular stone in the ground. It was perhaps two feet by one, far too smoothly molded to have been done by weather. I can only assume it to be a land marker or perhaps a grave marker. I have pondered this and considered the idea that perhaps this fox was a spirit. A spirit who simply wished to let me know it was here among me and to wish me well. While that would be a wonderful happening, I do not believe it to be true.

Perhaps the time on the mountain alone has made me believe in coincidences being more than what they are.

I hope you and Jacob are doing well, and I will continue to look forward to our reunion.

Farewell, my love,
Isaac

My Sara,
It has been only two days since I mailed out my last letter, but I felt it urgent to write to you and free my mind of a terrible dream. The images were truly haunting and have been my only bad experience in this Garden.

The dream seemed at the time to be as real as my every waking moment. I was staring out from the cabin across the grounds, taking in some of the fresh water I had pumped into my home. It was then that I noticed a shadow, nay, a blur of a figure out among the tree line. I was not sure what to make of it at first, so I stared more intently.

I was overcome by a feeling of dread at this point and an extreme need to look away. Though it took several minutes (in real time or dream time, I am not sure), I finally managed to take my gaze from the object at the tree line.

It was then that I awoke, covered in sweat and quivering in fear. I have no idea what caused such a dream to occur to me, but it shook me to my core. I immediately reminded myself of your warm embrace and of Jacob’s playful smile to fill myself with happiness and comfort once again. I pray to Him that I never have such a dream again, my love.

I think today I shall explore the tree line and try to surmise what could have made me have such a vision. I pray that it was simply all in my imagination.

Love, Isaac

My love,
It has been four days now since my last correspondence, and I have had yet another terrible dream. I worry that my isolation has been playing tricks on my mind. I pray that I have not gotten ill, or worse, lost my grasp on reality.

After surveying the area of my dream, I noticed that the snow was mustered up in that area, dusky being the best word to describe its appearance. This could have been caused by a number of things. I was careful not to connect the two, though found it an odd coincidence.

Then last night the dream reappeared in my mind. This time, however, it was not a shadowy figure or outline. It was a man, standing at the edge of the tree line. He did not seem concerned with me, yet I was filled with fear and dread. He was not looking towards me, nay, he was staring at the snowy ground. He was perhaps six and a half feet in height. He wore a black overcoat, black pants, and a blue button-up shirt. His face was obscured by a hat, much like the Amish in our area wear, but he had no beard. His hair was shoulder length and scraggly. His arms hung at his sides, with his shoulders slightly slouched. He was truly the most frightening figure I have ever witnessed.

I once again forced myself to look away and awoke. I was covered in sweat again, and took considerably more time to calm myself. I did not go and check the window, for I feared that he would be there, my love, there waiting for me, to do with me as he pleased.

When I checked the next day, I found footprints in the general area but could not be sure if they were mine or not. I have trekked the area so much these past weeks that it is impossible to tell at this point. I can only pray that my mind clears of these terrible thoughts soon.

Love to you both,
Isaac

My Sara,
He returned to my dreams again last night. I am so fearful now that I am losing a grip on reality. I have visited a local doctor and he says I am physically fine. I told him of the recurring dreams and he told me not to worry. When he asked where he could reach me later, I told him of my residence on the mountain. I saw a panic pass over him, and he exited the room without another word. I think I saw that. At this point I am not entirely sure if I can even trust my own thoughts.

Mr. Edwards assured me he will be here in the coming weeks to survey the place himself. He sent word by wire that he was leaving just two days ago. I must admit this former place of beauty has me worried for my safety. I will look forward to leaving it behind.

The dream was similar to the rest, only this time he had moved in from the tree line to the area similar to a yard. I still could not see his face, but I know it is horrible. I can feel it.
Please, pray for me.

Yours, Isaac

Love,
I found the fox dead outside the cabin. I am not sure what killed it, but I did not see any signs of physical trauma whatsoever. It filled me with loss and regret and sadness to find the poor animal in that state. I only wish I knew what happened to him. Perhaps I will take it to a doctor and find out the answer, if I can find the time.

Thankfully the dreams have ceased the past week. I pray they are gone forever and the shadowy figure does not come back for me.

Yours forever,
Isaac

My Sara,
He returned to me last night, in the most horrifying way I have witnessed yet. He was closer now, closer to my window. I could feel his menace from that distance . . . and to my horror, he began moving. Moving towards me with slow, painstaking steps; each one filled my heart with more anxiety. He was right at my window, not three feet from me, when I witnessed the worst sight of my life. He raised his face to me, Sara, raised it and looked at me. I would call him human, but I do not think humans can possess such qualities. He stared at me with cold, black eyes. He was emotionless, but projected every sense of wanting to harm me. I do not know why he is doing this to me. We were locked in gaze for minutes, and much to my fright, he turned and headed toward my door.

As soon as he left my view, I awoke. The fear was overwhelming, and I was sure that my heart was reaching its final beat. At this point, I pray that I am losing my mind, my love, for if something like that is real, I do not wish to continued living.

Edwards says he shall be here very soon, perhaps in the next few days. I will hold out until then and come to you with the money he has promised, hopefully making this all worthwhile. For now I just pray my mind will stay together long enough for that to happen.

Love,
Isaac

TRESPASSING!
. . . over soon

My Sara,
I do fear my grip has been lost. The postman came about me yesterday in town while on a supply run and asked me why I had sent two letters in the same day. I assured him that I had only sent the one and that he must be mistaken. He said a second letter had been dropped off to the building and he had just seen it on his way out. He put it in his outgoing bag for the postman to retrieve. I wonder if he has been reading my letters, my love, and is now trying to play on my sense of reality. The townsfolk have not seemed warm to my presence since I arrived. Even during the conversation the man kept peering over my shoulder, as if waiting for something to be there.

Mr. Edwards met with delay and will now be six days before arriving. The dreams have not came back to me as of yet. I pray they have passed. Soon we will be reunited, and I will hug and kiss you and play with our son. That day keeps me warm at night in a place that has suddenly become very cold.

I love you,
Isaac

My Sara,
I am packing up and leaving the day after this letter will be mailed. Whether I have my mind or not, I do not know. What I do know is that this place is not fit for man to be in. I have sent wire to Edwards telling him to turn around and not come to this area. No one should be here, no man or creature. Something is very wrong about this mountain. At first, I believed it special. Now I believe it evil.

He was outside my door last night, my love. He was. Whether it was a dream or real, I do not know, but it was a sign that I should be gone. I am writing this to you in case I do not survive the trip back, so you will know to warn others of what this place is. God help me, Sara. I will need Him.

I should have left sooner, my love, but I will be leaving soon.

I love you,
Isaac

Sara,
In my time on this mountain, I have experienced many things: feelings of happiness, of hope, of despair, of fright, and of madness. One thing throughout has remained constant: this is a special place. I knew it the first day that I laid eyes upon it. I knew it the day I drank its water. I knew it the day I used its lumber for warmth. I knew it the first day I felt its ground and its embrace. I have always known it, and I will continue to know it.

No one must inhabit this place, except me, Sara. I know that as if it were a part of my being. I leave this letter in hopes that it will be found by a search party. I am leaving it on this desk, where all the letters before it were written. I am also leaving your address with it, Sara, with instructions for it to be mailed to you after being read.

No one else must come here, Sara. This letter is a warning to everyone in this world that “He” created. No one must come here.

Your husband was correct.

He should have left sooner.

Joshua Logan Slone, of Wayland, is a BSCTC student.

I’m gonna be honest: I don’t actively believe in many things, really. My mind meanders too often; I don’t subscribe to too many ideologies for too long. I’ve always held onto a pretty simple, timeless philosophy, though: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The “Golden Rule.” The ethic of reciprocity, they call it. Everyone knows it but few bother with it.

A little kindness can get you a long way in this world. Life is both a blessing and a burden–it’s an ongoing struggle for everyone who takes part. Sometimes a little common decency is all a person needs to feel better about his entire situation. I believe in being nice to people because I remember so many incidents when people were, shall we say, less-than-angelic, to me. I remember how those times made me feel, and I’ve never been keen to make someone else go through that. It seems so pointless. In fact, I believe in doing just the opposite. I like to make people feel good about life. No matter who they are–with the likely exception of, say, someone who would just punch me for trying–I like to make things better for people, if I can. Here’s an example: I was searching for a school friend on MySpace a few years ago. I found someone else–same first name, same town, and a bizarrely similar face –and, thinking she was the kid I knew, I went to her profile. It wasn’t who I thought but that stopped mattering to me the moment I noticed how sad she came across in her profile updates. Even though she didn’t know me, I added her–again, I like being nice to people!–and began talking to her about her problems. We ultimately became great friends. A few months later, I found that that simple gesture of mine, extending a hand of friendship to somebody who seemed a bit down on her luck, had really helped her out. She’d been so depressed that she was seriously considering suicide but having someone to listen–such a little thing that most of us take for granted in our lives – had not only stopped her from doing it but also kept her from wanting to altogether. Like I said: a little kindness goes a long way. You never know what impact your words or actions may have on those around you. After I realized that and began to embrace it as a personal philosophy, I’ve been more content with life. I believe in treating people with as much respect as you would like to receive in turn because nobody deserves anything less than that.

Tommy Slone is a first-year BSCTC student.

I’ve always been a “dog person,” not a “cat person.” It’s a genetic thing. For three generations, there have been no cats in my family. My father raised Labrador retrievers when I was a child; my mother had two very spoiled terrier mixes; my grandparents had various kid-friendly mutt-dogs. I bought with me three Spaniels and a Border collie mix when my two young daughters and I moved into our new house in the “hollers” of eastern Kentucky.

The house had stood vacant for almost two years before I bought it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite empty. Not long after we moved in, I discovered that we had “uninvited house guests” of the four-legged, rodent variety.

I had never dealt with mice. I tend to be soft-hearted (some might say soft-headed) when it comes to critters. I couldn’t face the thoughts of buying a snap-trap and waking up some morning to mouse guts splattered across the walls. So I decided to do the “humane” thing and buy a sticky-trap. That way, when I caught the mouse, I could just roll it up, freeze it, dispose of it in the trash, and all would be well.

I laid out the stick-traps that evening. Next morning, I discovered I had caught mouse fur. No mouse, just its fur. My daughters were fascinated. “Look! Mouse fur!” they marveled. I decided sticky-traps were useless as pest-control devices and made a mental note to throw them away. Of course, this was during the moving-in chaos, so I promptly forgot.

The next morning, I was sound asleep. Giselle, my eight-year-old daughter, woke up early and did a bee-line to the kitchen to check the sticky-trap I forgot to throw away. I awoke to excited shouts of “A Mouse! A Mouse!” I bolted out of bed, ran to the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a small brown mouse stuck to the sticky-trap.

“What are you going to do with it?” my daughter asked.

“Well,” I explained in my most patient mom-voice, “I’m going to free it, so it will die relatively painlessly, and then I’m going to throw it away.”

“NOOOO!! You can’t kill our mouse!” she wailed. Our mouse? It’s not a pet; it’s a rodent. They carry diseases. I’m going to free it, throw it away, and go on with my day. I gingerly picked up the mouse-cum-sticky-pad and deposited it in a metal bowl to put in the freezer. Giselle went berserk, grabbed the bowl, and took off running with the mouse. I wearily decided that if I am going to battle my daughter to the death-of-a-mouse, I’d better be properly dressed.

By the time I got my clothes on and my eyes opened, my daughter decided to name her new pet “Fluffy” and has recruited her five-year-old sister, Arabella, to the cause. I attempt to do the “Mom” thing, and calmly explained to them that I will kill the cute, fuzzy mouse with the big, button eyes. This tactic is a total failure. I decided I am on a losing streak and grabbed the phone to call my husband, Victor, for back-up.

Victor is six-foot-two, a truck driver, and, unlike me, is not afraid of mice. I explained the situation to him. He started laughing so hard he actually had to pull over to the side of the highway because he couldn’t see to drive. Once he caught his breath, he told me to put on my big-girl panties and deal with the situation.

“Take something, whack the mouse over the head, end of problem,” he advised.

What does one use to whack a mouse? I rummaged through the moving boxes stacked in the kitchen and decided on a metal spatula. At this point, Giselle (still dressed in her nightgown) bolted out the front door with the mouse (still in its bowl) and took off running down the hill toward our creek. I bolted after her, with the spatula in one hand and the phone in the other. Halfway down the hill, her long hair caught on the sticky-trap along with the mouse. She dropped the bowl in panic and began running in circles around the back field, hair flying, the sticky-trap firmly attached to her hair, and the mouse dangling by one leg from the sticky-trap. As she ran, she yelled at the top of her lungs, “Don’t kill Fluffy! Don’t kill Fluffy!” Arabella had joined us in the yard by this time and had turned on the tears, sobbing, “Mommy is going to kill Fluffy!” I vainly tried to catch Giselle, all the while waving a spatula in one hand and the phone in the other hand. Victor was no help; he was still on the phone, but he was laughing so hard listening to us, he couldn’t speak.

Right about then, my next-door neighbor stepped out on his back porch to smoke his morning cigarette.

The one thing I was so anxious to do was to make a good impression on the neighbors. My new house was his original family house, hand-built by his father in the 1930’s. I didn’t want him to think, “There goes the neighborhood,” when we moved in. Yet, here we were, tearing around the back field at daybreak, yelling, crying, brandishing kitchen utensils, with mouse waving in the morning breeze.

I redoubled my efforts to catch Giselle. I dropped the spatula and the phone and grabbed her as she tore past me. I removed the sticky-tray (and mouse) from her hair, retrieved the metal bowl from the lawn, returned the mouse to the bowl and tried to coax the girls back into the house. They wouldn’t budge.

It took almost five minutes of tense negotiations, in the yard, with the neighbor listening bemusedly the whole time, to get my daughters to agree to let me dispose of the mouse. We finally agreed upon the following terms:

The first term was that Fluffy-the-mouse got a state funeral down by the creek. The second was that I was to get rid of all the mouse traps. But the last agreed-upon term was one that made me swallow the hardest and grit my teeth: They demanded that I buy each one of them a kitten.

Arabella named her kitten “Fluffy.”

Catherine Smith, of Paintsville, is a BSCTC student.

Do you remember the fairy tale you heard as a child about the peasant girl in the tower?  To briefly sum up the story, there was a beautiful peasant girl who was held captive in a tower by an enraged queen. The queen held her captive because her husband, the king, coveted the young maiden and spoke of her daily. This caused the queen to become angry and exile the young girl to a lonely castle tower where she was forced to reside alone for the rest of her days.

The only view of the outside world came from a tiny window within the small tower chamber. The young peasant could only imagine what the outside world was like. It seemed unrealistic to consider any of her dreams of the outside world a reality, considering she was confined and controlled by her surroundings. This is the point in which I wish to make the story a bit more imaginative. What if the young maiden actually possessed a key in the pocket of her dress that would unlock the tower door? She never would have known this because her mind was consumed with dreaming about the world outside. She was also faced with the impossibilities of a different life due to the confinement the queen had created. The reality, in fact, is that the key was there the entire time – the young girl just never searched her pockets.

Many individuals find themselves locked away like the beautiful peasant girl. They are confined to a safe, mundane reality. The lustful king acts as an enticing, but temporary fix to the search for substance, while the jealous queen exemplifies local surroundings that seem to be inescapable. The queen also echoes the familiar expression that suggests that “this is all there is to life.”

“You need to finish law school!”

“Why aren’t you more like your brother?” and the ever so popular… “What will the neighbors think?”

These demands and questions all serve the purpose of forcing the free, thinking individual into a position of conformity. The dreadful reality is that most humans die in this state of being, never knowing that they possessed the key the entire time! So what does the key unlock? This is the million dollar question. The key unlocks different doors for all of us. We walk through doors of adventure, doors of empowerment, doors of danger, and doors of regret. Love can be found behind some doors… peace of mind behind others.  Some doors lead to Colorado while others lead to central China.  Some doors lead to flat tires in the desert … One door leads to incomprehensible laughter.

So you’re reaching in your pocket and you cannot find the key. You become convinced it isn’t there. Don’t be discouraged because the key you’re looking for is the mind… and like with the peasant girl, the key has been there the entire time, and you just didn’t know it. Sure, you use your brain to solve day-to-day problems, converse with friends and family, and make decisions about what to have for dinner. But the mind is something of a higher priority and when you learn to utilize its many facets it will work as a universal key that opens every door. Then you will be able to say with confidence “to hell with what the neighbors think.”

Do not remain in the tower any longer. Do not live with unresolved questions about the direction your life could have taken. If you want to be something, do not let anyone tell you it is impossible.  If you want to go somewhere, figure out how to do it and go. If you love someone tell him or her.  If you need to say you’re sorry, make sure you say it.  Find the key and use it.  Discover your potential.  Leave comfort behind. Rise to the occasion. Laugh and experience the insanity of yourself before you die.

The tower is cold. The tower is sometimes lonely. Looking out the tower window raises a lot of questions about “what could be out there.” But in the tower, you are fed… you have a place to sleep… you’re aware of what the following day will hold. The comfort and security of the tower is enough for most…

Matthew Smith received his B.S. and M.A. from East Tennessee State University.  He teaches Sociology and serves as Coordinator of the Honors Program at BSCTC.

Another school year was already flying by when my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Staples, announced our class would be taking a field trip to Samsford Park the following day. I was immediately looking forward to chatting with my friends and playing sports at the park for a change instead of doing spelling words and math problems in a classroom.

I arrived early the next morning, eager to get a good seat on the bus. Unfortunately, my best friend, Jack, had made alternative plans. The moment he found me in the hall, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the bathroom. That alone was pretty weird – usually one guy doesn’t pull another guy into the potty – but it got even weirder when he slammed a black lunchbox onto the sink.

“Kind of a weird place for lunch, ain’t it?” I said with a laugh.

Jack shook his head and pulled a tall thermos out of the box.

“Sorry, I didn’t bring any food,” he replied. “But I’ve got something here that will really spice up the afternoon. See what you think about this!”

He untwisted the cap and I was immediately overwhelmed by the powerful odor of gasoline. The scent burned my nostrils with every breath I took.

“What’d you need this for?” I said, trying hard not to choke on the fumes as he held the container under my nose. “Afraid the bus will run out on the way or something?”

Jack’s smile turned serious. He replaced the lid on the thermos. “C’mon, Evan. You’re not that dumb, are you?”

Before I could say anything in return, three of our classmates rushed into the bathroom. I expected Jack would try to hide the evidence of his plans, but instead he held up the container as if he were hoisting a trophy into the air.  Instead of being surprised, the others cheered and high-fived one another. Apparently I was the last one to know of this plan.

“So Evan,” John said. He playfully gave me a nudge. “You in or what?”

“In…what?”

“You didn’t tell him yet?” Andy screamed and shoved Jack. “Do I gotta do everything myself around here?”

Andy was the biggest of us all.  In fact, you could say he towered above us. Typically, although Jack was the brains for the group, Andy usually was the one who gave the orders. And everybody listened.

“Alright, look Evan,” he said with a slight smirk, “we’re gonna sneak this here lunchbox onto the bus and when the teachers aren’t looking, we’re gonna get wasted!”

I felt my eyebrows shoot up my forehead like they were trying to escape to the other side of my hairline. Their plan sounded ridiculous to me. Anytime my parents filled up the car, the smell of gasoline through the windows made me sick. Now these guys wanted me to breathe it in on purpose?  How did that make sense? 

All eyes were on me. The gang waited to hear my approval of the plan.

“Well?” Andy leaned forward.

I searched the deepest recesses of my brain for an exit strategy. I had always considered myself quite resourceful, but now I found my sharp mind failing me when I needed it the most.

I began to stammer. “I, uh…well…”

“All aboard who’s going aboard!” Mr. Staples’ voice boomed in the hallway. “We’re leaving in five minutes!”

Jack panicked and began trying to zip up the lunchbox, afraid Mr. Staples would enter the bathroom at any moment in an effort to round up his class.  I turned and followed Andy quickly into the hallway, thankful to have temporarily avoided making any stupid decisions.

As a privilege, the fifth graders were given the right to sit in the very back section of the bus. A cooler was snugly positioned between the last two seats, allowing seven people to ride next to each other. Jack and I found ourselves smack dab in the middle of the cooler seat with Andy and Roger sitting on either side of us.

The trip had just begun when Jack opened the thermos. I watched as he placed his nose and mouth inside of the container and began to take deep, slow breaths.  His eyes widened and glazed over.  He pulled his head back and passed the tube across my lap to Andy.

“That was wicked,” Jack said, leaning his head back against the window. He motioned for Roger to turn up the volume on the boom box.

“Come on, Evan!” Jack said in a daze. The container was passed back to him. “You haven’t had a turn yet.”

The group nodded its agreement. I had no intention of “huffing” gas, but I didn’t want to seem like a loser either.

“No thanks, man,” I said. “I don’t wanna walk around smelling like gas all day.  It’ll scare off the ladies!”

“Come on ya big sissy!” Andy teased. “Why don’t you show us your dress while you’re at it?”

I felt the cold stares of my chemically altered friends fix upon my face. To make matters worse, the small group of four had now transformed into a much larger audience. For whatever reason, the other fifth graders viewed these guys as “cool” and anyone who dared tread against them was most likely shunned.  In a small school where the same classmates were always together, reputation was everything.  Before long, more kids were turning around in their seats asking if they could take a hit.

“Take it, Evan,” Jack said, nudging me with the thermos. “Go on before it’s all used up.” As my hands reached out to grasp the fuel container, a thought shot through my mind. Was I really going to do this?  My fingers began to tighten around the thermos as I caught the attention of what felt like the entire fifth grade class. They were actually encouraging me! My hand took control of the canister and Jack slowly began to unscrew the cap. It was all I could do just to give off the appearance of remaining calm.

In what felt like a flash, the lid was open and the fumes hit my nostrils. I’m not quite sure if it was the fumes that made me dizzy or the fear that gripped me, but it wasn’t long before my head was pounding and my stomach began to twist into knots. I had to think of something fast. 

I could either take my chances with the gasoline or with the mob of my peers watching anxiously to see if I was cool enough to hang out with them. It was then that I made a decision. I could just pretend to breathe in while really holding my breath. That would have to work!  I began slowly lowering my head towards the dreaded fumes.

“We’re here!” Mr. Staples interrupted. The bus pulled to a stop. Jack jerked the thermos from my hand, sealing it and tucking it away in his lunchbox. In that moment, I made it a point to thank God for small miracles. At least, for now I was off the hook.

The four companions stumbled off the bus and ran towards the picnic area, screaming hysterically. That’s when I realized that no real miracle had occurred. Sure, I had escaped the crowd’s gaze for now. But meanwhile, all I had to do was look at my classmates to feel something terrible was happening.

Their feeble attempt at playing baseball was particularly disheartening. One person would stand on the mound and throw the ball towards the outfield, while the batter swung at the air and claimed he had just hit a homerun. For a moment it felt as though I were watching some strange Indian tribal ritual unfold before my very eyes. The difference being instead of inhaling a peace pipe’s smoke, they were actually breathing in the same harmful fumes that fueled my father’s car. The sight of their actions was enough to convince me that I wanted no part in their “fun.”

I didn’t know a lot about the effects gasoline fumes could have on the human body, but then again I didn’t need to in order to realize something was wrong with my classmates. Thus another struggle began in my mind. Should I remain loyal to my friends, or betray them for their own safety?

I knew well what I should do. I should find Mr. Staples and have him stop them before it was too late.  But, sadly, I knew this was impossible. My friends would never let me forget that I had destroyed their trust. I decided, instead, to wait the trip out.

I must have really been lost in my dilemma because in what felt like an instant, our field trip was over. I had barely moved from my hiding spot behind the picnic tables all afternoon.  Hoping the worst of it was over, I hurried back to the bus.

“Where have you been, man?” Jack stumbled into the seat beside me clutching his lunchbox.

“You know me,” I said. “Carrie Thompson asked me to hang out with her behind the picnic tables so I couldn’t refuse.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Jack tried pathetically to high-five me. But every time he tried to make contact with my hand, he somehow managed to miss. He and the others had obviously continued their huffing party throughout the day.

I continued to hold out hope that perhaps the gasoline had been used up already. Or maybe, just maybe, they would be too high to remember I had yet to take a huff.  Unfortunately, my luck never quite held out that way. Within ten minutes of being back on the road, Andy began to nudge me with the gas container.

“No thanks, man,” I tried.

“Would you just take it already?” Andy said while handing me the thermos, more forcefully this time. I felt all eyes from the group on me.

“Look guys, I don’t really wanna--”

“Wanna what?” Andy cut me off. “You wanna wuss out?  Alright, have it your way then, you big baby.”

He jerked the opened thermos from my hands so suddenly that my arm jerked forward along with it. The result was that the thermos dropped out into the aisle, coating the floor with the remaining contents.  Before anyone could even process what had just happened, the scent of gasoline reached the bus driver’s nose.

“Does someone have gas on this bus?” the driver screamed. He slammed on his brakes. Jack quickly picked up the thermos, shoved it into his lunch-box, and then tossed it all out the open window.

“Must be a gas leak!” Jack said.

Suddenly, our driver pulled opened the doors. “This bus runs on diesel. I know the smell.” He sprang to his feet and ran into the street behind us. When he returned, he carried in his hands the black box bearing Jack’s name.

It was at that very moment that I realized something: my clothes were soiled with the smell of gasoline! Jack and Andy had passed the thermos back and forth across my lap several times during the trip. The gas must have slowly dripped onto my clothes.

Mr. Staples immediately snatched the bottle from the driver’s hands and approached the five of us sitting in the back row.  He observed each student as he passed, looking for signs that he, too, had partaken in the huff fest. My eyes began to widen as he came closer and closer to us. 

Never in a million years would he believe that I was innocent. And why would he?  My clothes smelled of gas, and I was surrounded by the very ones who had carried the container onto the bus in the first place. When finally he hovered over me, the look on his face told me I was done for.

Waiting in the principal’s office that evening was particularly disheartening.  My parents had never been called to the school before, and I knew they wouldn’t take the call too pleasantly. 

My mother slammed through the doors (my father was still at work, thank God), her face seeming to disappear behind fully open eyes. I had seen this look only once before in my life – the time I dropped Dad’s hammer on my toe and accidentally muttered a curse word. This time, however, the look was even worse.

“Evan Nathaniel!” she said. “What in God’s name has gotten into you!” If her face hadn’t already tipped me off, the fact that she used both my first and middle name clued me into the full extent of her anger. She pulled me aside from the group and then seemed composed, at least, for the moment.

“I didn’t do anything, Mom!”  I said. “I swear!”

She took a long, hard look at me before tilting her head sideways. Wrapping her hands around both of my shoulder blades, she pulled me close to her and began sniffing my clothes. From the moment I sensed her take the first whiff, I knew my testimony was worthless. She tightened her grip on my shoulders and pushed me to a clear glaring distance.

“What is all over your clothes?” she said. “You’re covered in the stench!”

“They spilt it on me!  When they were passing it back and forth!”

She leaned in and tried to smell for fumes on my breath. After a moment, she pulled away from me and stood up. “You wait right here, young man,” she said. “I’ve got to go speak with your principal.” Terrific. Those had to be the worst eight words a kid could ever hear – right behind

“You’re grounded” or “We ran out of candy.”

After what felt like an eternity, my mother emerged from the office with the principal at her side. I immediately felt a bit of relief because I recognized that look on her face. While it still displayed disappointment, it most certainly was not the “I’m going to kill you” look from earlier.

Thankfully, Jack had told the truth:  that I had nothing to do with the huffing. While the principal had decided not to suspend me along with the others, he did say that my actions of not reporting their behavior could have jeopardized the lives of everyone on board the bus. One simple spark could have set in motion a fiery disaster. So I wasn’t too terribly upset when he sentenced me to a month of after school detention and a 20-page paper on the dangers of drugs.

I learned two things that day: 1) that my friends were morons – I already suspected this from years of hanging out with them, but this trip certainly confirmed it – and, 2) that I should always trust my instincts.  I knew something bad could have happened, but I ignored it so that my friends would think I was cool. But ultimately, who cares what they think?  They’re morons!

Derek Whisman, of Big Stone Gap, Virginia, is a former Instructor of English at BSCTC who currently teaches at Mountain Empire Community College.