Canvas Shifts

I

Past and present blur, haunting Doris.

A blue towel sends Doris into a fugue. She expects Will to walk around the corner, and for Lila to...No. Not Lila, Calla, whose small hands reach for the blue towel...Uses the ultra adsorbing cloth to wipe up water and paint.

Yes, Will hung a blue towel across the same easel bar, the same way, and Doris watched the bright blue become the faded, paint stained rag she recalled better than its newness. The gray-blue of the towel matches Will's eyes. Will favors the color blue, due to its mutability.

Calla, though, prefers red and black.

“Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men! It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!” It has been years since Doris heard this song. Now, here is Calla, singing all the parts as she used to.

Decades merge. Doris places a blue rag into a coffin. Calla is just ten and she mourns her death, Eponine's alto her favorite... Lila's father strangled the perfect pitch out of her... but then, the ear for it remained, and reminded her as she shivered painfully while hearing discordance.

Calla doesn't share her parents musical aptitude. Her father plays every musical instrument well, as her mother had once sung each note perfectly. Calla sings despite her voice's mediocrity, and does not play any instrument.

“Red, the color of the dawn! Black, the night that is to end!”

Will's blue is subtle, awash in ambiguity, just as Will is. Only Art matters, and the forms... and that is what he pours himself into.

“Red, the color of desire! Black, the color of despair!”

Calla is bold, she is frank, she is open and warm. She is “more than”. More than alive. More real. More beautiful, more intelligent, more...strange and special than her mother Lila, or Will, even. The girl's even brushstrokes, her back to Doris, makes Doris retreat into her home.

II

Doris cannot sleep. Will keeps talking about the gallery- gone for decades- and Doris turns to find herself in a helicopter, piloted by wife-beater Ed... Calla sings of Cosette's clouds and white mothers in a grave voice.

A baby's shrill cry awakes Doris, but, there are no infants around.

“Calla's Gallery, Doris.” Will tells her in a soft voice behind the baby's pitiful, dying cries.

“What could I do?” Doris sobs. “He locked me in the room! Doped me up! Beat me, tied me to the bed!” And the baby stopped crying forever, then the hateful looks from her stepdaughter, who blamed Doris for not coming out of the room... for her father's transgressions. After all, had Doris kept Ed satisfied he wouldn't need to... And Doris's fugues made her as cruel and as dangerous as Ed. Pregnancy. A girl, then another... Ed liked the girl babies...

Despite managing to survive and escape with the children in a women-hating world, he now tormented her nights. Will came, and Jr, and Ed, as if Calla's first brushstroke broke a seal, summoning Doris's past...and judgments.

“...music of the people who will not be slaves again! When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums...”

“Yes, it echoes.” Her heart beat painfully through her. “Was this how it was Will, the days weeks months before... This disorientation?”

III

Calla works on her first watercolor series. She calls it a collection. Black sheep Calla. Calla the outsider, the unwelcome stranger. Calla is distant. Something about her makes Doris feel funny. She breaks the rules, listening to her own council.

Calla's brushstrokes change her, of course. But does she see the small girl in a pinafore standing near Calla's easel? The child tugs at Calla's shorts, then plays hopscotch a moment before tugging on Calla's shorts again.

“Not now, I'm working.” Calla responds automatically.

The girl in the pinafore plays peek-a-boo with Adele, Calla's baby. The girl then scares Seb, Calla's son, by turning her form into a rotting zombie. Seb blames this spirit girl for all manner of troubles, some of which she is guilty of.

Doris keeps her hallucinations quiet.

IV

Spirits come for Doris from the glass and the paintings. They step through and accuse her... She fears Lila will learn of these hallucinations and have her committed. It was something Lila and Vivian would do swiftly and with smug satisfaction.

But, Mars comes before stained glass studies, before assailants step out of pretend windows-

“And I love the reflection!” Doris exclaims, but really, the way it follows her is frightening.

But, the red planet's heat wave and Adele's birthday and Calla paints moon and Mars, over and again. Ten days of Mars and the sky at dusk, midnight, dawn. Watch Mars creep across Calla's canvasses.

Do the dogs bark more while Mars hangs next to the moon? Nervous birds chatter, deafening highway noise. Everything pains Doris's skin and head and eyes... She doubts the spectacle of so many shooting stars, yet Calla paints streaks of white gold, relieving Doris's sleep deprived mind.

V

Calla doesn't notice the absence of her collection. Oddly, the temporary burglary is Bearnard's doing instead of Doris's. Even though Will whispers the idea to Doris, Ed's torments and the baby's dying cries supersede Will, and when did Will ever do anything altruistic? His voice was a self-absorbed artist's... and he'd left her drowning in debt.

Did the nightmares worsen with Mar's advent? Doris feels weaker each day, and less aware. Even nap time dreams hurt. Mars fades and family vultures gather, unbeknownst to Doris. She calls the doctor another name, and does not remember his numerous visits. She calls her nurse Vivian, Lila, or Will. In her mind she is alone, the nurse is a phantom, another specter accusing her, another tormenter forcing her down.

“Rest, Miss, rest.”

Calla paints the stained glass Doris and Will designed onto canvasses. Out of the glass step images from the past, each one bearing secret horrors... Uncle Mikey ... Ed ... Jr. ... Pastor Jakeson...

“Lila!”

Doris falls; thud onto brick, into Calla's easel, which topples. Calla, turning at Doris's cry, sees Lila, her unknown mother. Lila's harsh laugh pierces Calla, who manages to shift her shocked gaze to Doris's inert form. Lila forever vanishes while Calla attends to her dead grandmother.

The End

Three-way

“We need your help, Mrs. Burma.” FBI Agent Clark said to the petite, dark haired woman. He fingered a small zip-lock baggie containing a nugget of marijuana, before replacing the bag and a glass pipe back into a wooden box. He closed the lid, regarding Mrs. Burma’s small son, who played next to his redheaded partner’s leg.

“Grace is fine.” Mrs. Burma said. Her serious eyes matched her son’s golden brown gaze.

Agent Clark, a tall and solid man, continued covertly searching through Grace’s closets, drawers, and boxes. Other than pot and a dismantled rifle, properly registered, the home was as Grace’s appearance and manner presented. She did not seem to have deep, dark secrets.

Grace saw Agent Clark open the box containing her paraphernalia, just as she noticed the exotically attractive female agent’s diversionary tactics. Grace offered no explanation about the box’s contents, and felt relief that neither agent mentioned it. She watched the pair watching her, answered their questions, and even made a few jokes. Calm and polite, she served coffee in green glazed Mikasa mugs after Agent Clark observed a fresh pot.

The agents briefly told Grace that her ex-husband had acquired the FBI’s attention by hacking into government web sites. This information provoked a strange expression from Grace, who raised an eyebrow and slightly frowned. She seemed ready to say something, but stayed silent. They finished poking around the neat home, asking again for Mrs. Burma’s assistance.

“I’ve told you what I know of him. It’s been a few months since we spoke. He hasn’t returned my phone calls. His family living in Highland should know more. Last I heard he lived with them.” Grace shrugged. “You said they sent you to me. So, I don’t see how I can help further.” she looked straight into Agent Clark’s eyes.

His partner, Agent Steely, moved away from the baby, who climbed into his mother’s arms. Grace’s olive skin contrasted with the child’s golden hue. Agent Steely stared at the one-year old while speaking.

“If he does call, or drop by, we’d appreciate you telling us. Here’s our card.” Agent Steely said.

The baby grabbed the card Agent Steely held out, putting it directly into his mouth. Frowning, Agent Steely handed Grace another card.

“O.K.” Grace said, placing the card on an end table. “He might call, it’s been a long time…but usually I call him. I doubt he’ll come here. He doesn’t know where I live, for one. It’s been five years, and I have a better life he doesn’t like rubbed in his face.”

“Can you call him now?” Agent Clark asked. His cold eyes glanced at Grace’s stash box.

“This puts me in a slight moral dilemma, but, yes, I will call him after I make a bottle for my little primitive.” she sighed after this agreement.

Both agents nodded, and watched Grace prepare a bottle with one hand. She talked through the event, describing each step to her son, preventing the agents from asking more questions.

Grace settled her son in a small reclining chair, where he drank his meal before falling asleep. The three adults moved into another room to use the phone, unwilling to disturb the welcome naptime.

“Usually, I don’t just plop him in his chair, but sometimes it makes life easier.” Grace told the impassive team.

Grace punched the speakerphone button on her white telephone, and dialed a number retrieved from her Nokia cell phone. She took a cigarette from an embossed silver cigarette case, holding it without lighting it.

“I only smoke outside.” she commented, before a man picked up the line on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi…” Grace frowned at the phone. “I’m calling for Tyler…”

“Yeah, Grace, it’s Daniel.”

“Oh. O.K. Is Tyler around?” her frown deepened as her fingers fiddled with the unlit cigarette.

“Yeah, but, maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe that’s why I answered the phone.”

“Oh, really?” Grace responded. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“Maybe that’s changed.” Daniel’s voice drew out in a little laugh.

“O.K. You’re stoned and fucking with me.”

The partners exchanged glances, intrigued by the conversation. An affirmation of Daniel’s location was a bonus, due to his partnership with Tyler. Steely noted Grace’s disdain for Daniel, and watched her intently.

“Ever get stoned, now, with that baby? Huh, Grace? Or does the kid cramp your style?”

“Aren’t you the one who said creating life was the greatest art form? Anyway, my style has changed, for the better. So, can I talk to Tyler now?” Grace evaded answering Daniel’s first question.

“Maybe…Do you know the password?”

“O.K. So, you’re his gatekeeper now. Never saw you as a guard dog…” she laughed, hoping to disgruntle him.

“Password.”

“The password is ass, as in you are one.”

“Hello?” a deeper voice came onto the line.

“You have me on speaker phone.” Grace stated.

“You have us on it!” Daniel chortled.

“Only because I need four hands with my son, and I have two…Tyler. How are you doing? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah. Had to get a new truck, totaled the last one. Phone was out until I had more money.” Tyler answered.

“Are you breastfeeding now? Is that why you need your hands free?” Daniel laughed in the background.

“Yeah, and I’m naked. But, I’ve gained a hundred pounds, so it’s not an exiting image.”

The agents stifled amusement.

“So, Tyler, I was about to call your mom, brave the daggers and all that…”

“Yeah? Glad you didn’t, she’s pissed at me right now. I try not to give her too much info, you know.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty invasive. Still living with her?” Grace paused, knowing from the agents that he did not.

“Nope. Couldn’t stand it. Daniel and I got a place together.”

“Oh. That’s cool. No wonder he’s back there, gloating.” Grace said, dryly.

“What’s that mean?” Daniel asked quickly, while Tyler laughed in a tight, funny way.

“So, How long have you been out of your mom’s?” asked Grace, ignoring Daniel.

“Oh… a couple of months…”

“Still in Riverside?”

“Yeah, can’t seem to get away…”

“Ah... so, my baby is almost walking. He’s all over the place.” Grace watched Agent Steely scribble on a notepad while she chatted. Grace nodded after reading the questions handed to her, adroitly changing the almost awkward conversation to gain the answers. Three bits of information took her five minutes to obtain without arousing Tyler’s suspicion. A moment later, she hung up the phone.

“I hope that helped.” she stated.

“Yes, a lot. Thank-you, Grace.” Agent Clark said, flipping his notebook shut.

“Seems to be some underlying tension between you three.” Agent Steely commented.

Grace nodded.

“Love triangle?” Steely mused.

“Used to be. Now it’s just between them.” Grace shrugged at two sets of lifted eyebrows. “But, I think it was about them all along. I was just a red herring, a diversion.”

“Anything happen?” asked Steely.

Grace smiled, her lovely visage subtly changing.

“I opted out.” she said, her warm voice conveying ambivalent emotions.

“I doubt you were just a diversion.” Agent Steely said. “Tyler’s fallen apart since you left.” her eyes bored into Grace, impolitely. “Do you ever regret marrying him, or leaving him?”

Grace regarded her sleeping cherub. She thought Steely’s query odd, yet answered.

“No.”

Troy's Fall

I

Wondering why he felt compelled to stop at the old two-story house, Troy stood before it, entranced. He knew the abandoned Victorian reminded him of a home he lived in as a child, but why was he seduced by the sight of it? Why had he stood here for hours, every night this week, since he had first driven by it?

Hands clenched inside deep trench coat pockets, he stayed on the sidewalk, inexplicably unable to step onto the property. He stared at a glossy magnolia leaf, which had fallen by his left foot. Light from a lamppost reflected its shine, hurting his eyes.

The air changed, became chilly. Falling leaves shimmered in the lamp light. He stared at the gleaming, twirling leaves, which looked like stars floating around him. The world became an impressionist haze of dark blacks and greens, blending with sharp glints of whites and yellows. He stretched out his arm to touch an indistinct light, feeling rather than hearing a snail crunch underneath his foot as he stepped forward to grab the ‘star’.

Shuddering violently, he pulled his foot off the crushed snail. His wide, frightened eyes found hundreds of snails sliming the sidewalk around him, and twice as many leaving twisted trails on the pathway leading to the empty house. He shook again, fixated on the garden snails creeping across the ground. He hated snails; could not stand the sight of them.

“S-car-got, we’re eating fancy, tonight!” a crackly, hated voice said behind him.

Spinning around, Troy confronted nothing. No one stood between him and his car. Across the street, a thin woman briskly walked beside a Siberian husky. Obviously, the voice did not belong to her. He stared up and down the mundane suburban street. No one hid behind his car. Shaky, he slid behind

the wheel.

Thoughts of his office job served to distract his mind from the surrealistic moments he had experienced. A transient by the security gates of his community asked for a handout as he stopped his sliver sedan while waiting for the automatic gate to open. Troy had seen the guy before, near the Vons he frequented. Rolling down his window a bit, he yelled.

“Hey! Stop panhandling on this property, or I’m-“He meant to say, ‘going to call security’, but, just for a moment, the bum’s face turned into Troy’s father’s.

The gate opened and Troy accelerated too fast, his teeth rattling with the car as it lurched over a speed bump. At home, he fed and played with his dog, Max, and drank beer in front of the television. After six Budweiser’s failed to numb bad memories, he turned to Jack D, who always helped him forget. He fell asleep with his arm around his golden retriever on his tan Ikea futon, to loud I Love Lucy reruns.

II

Static from the T.V. coupled with heavy rain awoke Troy from dreams of his father, dirty and drunk, force-feeding Troy snails. Troy found himself drenched in reeking, toxic sweat, gagging on nightmare slime. He showered to wash off his stench, while gargling mouthfuls of Listerine to nullify the gut clenching feel of thick snail gunk.

Troy saw his father in the steamy mirror. The father he loved, before the monster transformation. Troy blinked and his face became his own; a square shaped, blued eyed average face, which looked older than twenty-one. Troy felt older than the unremarkable man in mirror, as if he was fifty, trapped in a younger man’s body.

III

Despite dismal rain, he stood before the house, drawn to it. Faint remembrances of a perfect life, a perfect childhood changed abruptly into misery. His beautiful, sweet smelling mother loving him became a harsh, homeless life with his father. Warm security and safety replaced by turbulence with a killer, who ran from consequences and himself.

The brown station wagon they lived in disappeared less than a year into their hiding. Troy was not sure if his father had sold it for booze, or if it had been towed away. Life grew worse, more desperate, more humiliating. At ten years old, Troy starved. He ate from trashcans while his father drank away panhandled money. Each day brought torment from his father and their homeless society. Soon after his father began eating bugs, and snails, Troy drifted away, more easily than he had imagined.

Troy’s last image of his murdering father refused repression. Half unconscious with booze, the filthy old man cooked snails over a smoky newspaper fire, laughing at the shells cracking and popping. Only relief filled Troy that the murderer did not notice his son slip into the night.

Troy shook himself from the memory. The rain that had not ceased in sixteen hours pounded onto his soaked head, the beat drowning logic. Rainwater dripped into his eyes, blurring the dark house, turning it into the happy home of early childhood. He wiped the water away, ignoring the wet, salty taste on his tongue.

Through the rain, he heard a muffled groan. His gut contracted, and he squinted, peering into distorted darkness, listening for another sound. Involuntarily, he walked toward the dark house, searching for some indefinable thing, tense with fear of the unknown.

The front door materialized in front of him, and he heard a distinct moan coming from within the vacant house. He noted a thin crack of light beyond the slightly open door, and looked back at the safety of the lamp lit sidewalk before quietly entering.

Troy could not remember when or why he had grabbed the Sig Sauer P220 from the Lexus’s glove compartment. He had no idea how the gun came to be in his wet grip. Numbness settled over him, and he welcomed the calm lack of feeling. He walked inside, cautiously, the gun held out, leading his way. His eyes adjusted to the shadows. Reassuringly, the lamppost shone a bit through windows bare of drapes. Downstairs, empty rooms greeted him. He headed towards the staircase, startled by a descending figure.

Troy stayed, silent, in the shadows. His heart halted while his mind formed panicked conclusions. Unsuccessfully, he tried to regain the numbness, to control his trembling hands. The shaking lasted for long moments, and he waited, paralyzed in doubt and shadow.

His father walked down the worn steps. Old and decrepit, the monster that had killed Troy’s mother slowly descended, turning towards Troy upon reaching the ground floor.

Desired numbness rescued Troy, and immediately he stepped forward to face his life long nemesis. Hand steady, he aimed the gun at his father’s chest. The bum’s face rippled, becoming Troy’s own. Nausea swept through Troy. Sweating palms made him clench the gun’s handle tightly.

“STOP FUCKING WITH ME!” Troy yelled at his father, his enemy. His hand resumed shaking, due to bursting adrenaline.

His adversary raised old, spotted hands defensively.

“I’m sorry, mister, I didn’t know this place was taken. Just trying to stay dry. Finding a place to stay dry…” The transient babbled at Troy, who found the words nonsensical.

“Please, don’t shoot, mister. I’ll go. I’m sorry. I’m going. Didn’t want to do nothing but stay dry. Been raining two days.” The man’s litany droned on and his face changed again, into the bum Troy saw at his apartments.

The gun wavered, transfixing Troy, who stared at it even as he turned it to his head. He did not blink, becoming cross-eyed as he placed the barrel on his forehead.

The transient ran outside, the motion startling Troy from his intention.

“WAIT!” Troy screamed. “YOUR’E GOING TO PAY-”

Standing in the doorway, Troy squeezed the trigger, the wild shot missing the bum’s retreating figure.

“GOING TO PAY FOR WHAT-”

On the small porch, a brown snail marked a small strip of dry wood. Troy’s voice faded as he gazed at the offending creature.

“Going to pay…,” he whispered, spotting another snail, and a third, a fourth.

Without thinking, he shot at the snail, creating a hole next to it. He fired over and again at the snails now covering the house. More appeared with each burst of gunfire. They crawled their slimy way towards him, making him retreat into the house, shooting at them until his gun emptied.

Wild and terrified, Troy screamed. He kept pulling the trigger, the empty gun clicking uselessly. He stomped on the snails, trying to crush as many as possible. His shrieking prevented Troy from hearing a siren wailing. Focusing upon eradicating the snails, he did not notice blue and yellow flashing lights.

A blue form rushed at Troy, knocking him down, into the sea of snails. Troy’s wails increased to a high-pitched keening that did not stop until two police officers forced him the back seat of a squad car.

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” the burly officer sitting in the passenger seat asked, once Troy quieted.

“Snails…snails…no more…got…to pay…”

“That’s O.K., buddy, we got someone for you to talk to.” The officer driving said, exchanging a glance with his younger partner. “I told you. Rain like this brings out the crazies.”

“Thought you said that about the full moon.”

“That, too. It’s got something to do with the tides.” The driver responded.

“Save it for your philosophy club, Tom. What matters is that this guy didn’t hurt anyone… ”

Troy twisted his head to watch the retreating house out of the back window. He shuddered. His mouth gruesomely pulled back with fear. A snail stuck on the glass worked its way upwards, leaving behind a thin, crooked trail of slime.

The End

Maine Coone

Anne was mildly drunk when she let herself in. It her a moment longer to operate the key and lock. The door stuck slightly, and she had to use her weight to open it. It took her a moment to adjust her eyes to the brown darkness as her right hand searched for the wall for the light switch. She gave it up after a moment, squinting into the entryway, focusing on whatever blocked the door.

Realizing that her grandmother's form blocked the door, she straightened and listened intently, possibilities running quickly through her mind. Easily, this time, she found the light switch, and that it was useless.

“Grammy?” she whispered.

She stepped over her grams form, whispering to her, again. Terror clouded her thoughts. Should she touch her gram, roll her over? Call 911? Even go into the condo? Perhaps her gram fell while fixing the broken light. Anne peered into the darkness, feeling watched. Paranoid. Her nostrils flared while a tick twitched in her upper left eye.

Out of the darkness a hurtling figure leaped onto her face. Screaming, she tried to stand, to pull the creature off her. She felt her cheek rip and warmth gush down her chin. In her hands, her gram's striped Maine Coone clawed and writhed. It's back claws tore into her stomach and its forepaws found their mark, sinking deep into her shocked eyes. She screamed, unaware of everything except disbelief. The huge cat sank his teeth into her jugular, his jaws clenching and sucking long after Anne died.

Jack

Grunting through his business, he did not notice the bathroom clock loudly tick-tocking. He did not notice the time at all. His gaze slid past the too- loud clock face in the bathroom, beyond the digital alarm clock beside his bed. He fell back onto damp sheets, curling into a fetal position. Had Jack checked the time, he may have realized that more than his intestines had gone wrong.

All Jack knew that final day was his bed and the toilet. He missed small oddities while half-sleeping through hazy fever and painful diarrhea. When he roused himself for water from the kitchen, his focus was cold water inside the fridge. He did not glance at the microwave clock reading 4:47, the same time every clock in his home displayed. Had he seen the numbers repeated around the home, maybe he would have tuned into the exceedingly loud ticking echoing hollowly throughout the house. He might have noticed the flickering lights. Might have wondered where his cat was, and why the beast had not begged for its breakfast

The sweating sickness kept him from thinking of anything besides himself, and what he’d eaten or contracted to feel so horribly. He did not connect his illness to his aunt. Did not even think of his aunt, dead and buried for months. He did not equate her wasting illness to what he was experiencing. Perhaps he would have been afraid then, paid more attention to the creaking footsteps, to a familiar cackling laugh heard in his delirium.

Death surprised Jack. He thought he’d sweat and shit out the sickness. Even the sight of his aunt’s haggard visage leaning over him did not prepare him. Until she spoke, he thought her a figment of his fever.

“How’s it feel to be poisoned, boy?” she cackled at him.

His gut tightened, and he tried to rise through her image to make it to the toilet. Fear began when he could not move, at his realization that she held him down. His bowels loosened, his stench filled his nose and mouth. Horror forced shame and revulsion away. The stench of the hag before him overrode his own.

“Thought you’d get away with it? Really thought you could kill me and live easy in my home, with my money? Thought killing an old invalid lady was nothing, huh?” She laughed, harsh and dry. “That’s right, boy! You didn’t fool me!

He opened his mouth to scream, choking on his voice and the vomit she spewed into his throat from hers. Repulsed and terrified, he struggled as she held him down, laughing the awful laugh he had despised for years.

A Girl's Evening Walk

She strode through the center of the promenade, the same path she took every night. She walked swiftly through the brightly lit trees and cheerful carolers as if none existed. Once in a while a child beaming at her- which they always did- caught her attention and she smiled back in a likewise manner. Her eyes saw everything, gave nothing away.

Every night, Andrew waited on his bench for his momentary vision of her. He had no idea who she was, only that he needed to see her, night after night. He dubbed her Scarlett, due to the long red pea coat she wore, which blended in with the carolers' costumes. Other than the coat, he never remembered her well after his thirty seconds of watching her stride past him, into the throng of shoppers and entertainers. Something about her - a thing he could not define- stayed with him, called to him.

A fortnight into December he saw that she carried a book tucked under her left arm. A soft, golden light emanated from the book. Each time she passed him during December's third week he focused more on the glowing book than on her.

The compulsion to watch her nightly walk distressed him, along with the growing obsession regarding her book. He sat on his bench another cold December night, disquieted, until curiosity overrode his innate shyness.

Scarlett appeared as usual; Andrew rose, quick and clumsy. He tried to smile at her, say hello, but she did not see his smile and his throat refused to cooperate. She was passing him by, his chance leaving, unnoticed. He stumbled in his attempt to join her. He jostled her arm, knocking the book from her grasp, his hand jerky; moving of its own violation.

She gasped, her face pale, shocked. She moaned and reached for the book, which slipped through her fingers, and fell onto the cobbled walkway. The world around them grew silent, Christmas carols and holiday chatter inexplicably muted.

“My dreams...” She whispered. Her amber eyes spilled tears.

He tore his eyes from her distressed visage to the multicolored mist rising from the open pages of her notebook. Images of unicorns, bloody battles, entwined bodies, and glowing cities enveloped Scarlett and the book. The strange mist cleared in seconds, taking the the girl and her book, leaving sound of caroler's grating on Andrew's ears.

Day Moth

    An orange and gold butterfly lands on ground made barren by fire ants. These industrious creatures ignore the winged insect, too intent upon stripping the earth above and below to stop for neutral creatures. A young woman studying the ants switches her gaze to the butterfly, finding its vivid colors pleasing.

    The butterfly does an odd thing, akin to a push-up with it forelegs. Up and down it moves, and it strikes the woman that the insect looks more like a moth than a butterfly. It's wings, although colorful, are smaller and lack the frilled delicacy of a butterfly's wings. The body is too thick, and stubby, and covered in thicker velvet coat.

    It repeats the push-up move, flutters upwards a moment, lands near an ant, facing her as before. It lowers and raises itself. The wings flap in slow rhythm. She doesn't notice that it matches her heart, that her breathing has slowed. Her thoughts turn slowly; are simple before slipping into nonsense.

    What an odd butterfly. Or moth. Day moth? Could be possible, where is it written that all moths are nocturnal? Don't step off the path, there could be a butterfly... or an ant...and miles to go before he slept. Sleep? And miles to go before?

    She is very still, staring at the insect which does a final push up before flying at her, landing on her eye, piercing the orb with a curved talon its wings and body hid. 

    Her arms stop before she can fully raise them to protect herself. She is frozen, paralyzed. The insect lifts gracefully up from her eye as she falls backwards. It crawls into her mouth, burrows itself in her stomach, laying at thousand eggs along the way.

    No one finds her. No one can.

    A day later, bodies crumple and disappear as larvae consume flesh. Teeth form, the fattening worms feed on muscle and cartilage, while arranging skeletons to house them in the cocoon stage. During the night they attach themselves to pitted bones, enveloped by gray mucus the sun hardens.