The Osage said that the pool drew the contrite to itself. If I told you what I had done to bring myself here, you would probably hate me. If I told you why I had done it, you would likely want to hold my head beneath the water until I came to a dead float.

Betty prided herself in having no dark circles herself. Those were for the unfortunates. And as for her home? Well, she wouldn’t be caught dead with a single thing out of place. Children? In this economy? She almost choked at the idea.

My eyes returned to the neon clock on the wall––the only source of light I could clearly discern––where I saw the glowing hands stuck at twelve and three. I looked for their younger brother, the thin, green hand that told me how many seconds were left before another minute of my life had wasted away.

Marcus, still standing knee-deep in the river with his fishing net in his hand, had not yet gotten over the surprise of Theseus’s appearance, yet the choice of gifts so suddenly offered him was more surprising still. And so the fisherman did not look up the hill to inquire further into his benefactor’s identity; rather, he stared downward at the gifts.

The lights are on behind every shining window, but none of them are my home. I don’t want to admit that I’m beginning to grow a little afraid. Is this even the right way?

I stumbled over uneven ground. Out of the dark woods came vicious growls. Looking out, I saw a mountain lion, a coyote, and a brown bear hemming me in. I heard a voice and saw a figure stretching out a radiant hand.

The brightness somehow increased through the thin layer of his eyelids. He did not open his eyes, but heard a man respond to the woman. There was a melody to their interaction that harmonized with the choir and the birdsong floating through the garden.

I waved out the window as I rode past the hardware store. My mother was standing by the door taking stock of the plants they had for sale. The July sun had things warm, even in the shade.

Billy Blake sat lying on his stomach at the edge of his bed staring into the small portable TV on his desk. On the screen two boys were shooting each other with the brand-new Ultra-Soaker 6000.

Marty Hemming’s eyes opened at a strange sound. He saw a man peering into his tent. He quickly grabbed his gun from in front of him and aimed it at the man.

In the heat of a dry late August afternoon, a man digs. He’s been digging for hours in the hard soil, giving him only a foot or so of depth for his efforts.

He was almost done with the last batch of dried berries. He topped off each bag with extra dried blueberries. Those were finally starting to produce well, so he could be more generous with them.

The sun was setting behind the trees, and the air had a faint orange haze and a smell of smoke from some faraway summertime forest fire. Ezra was in the last house in the neighborhood, rifling through the effects of a long-dead old woman.

The pulsing drone of locusts smothered even the sound of their own breathing as they picked their way through the trees and underbrush, hugging the edge of the tobacco field.

They had no stomachs today. Just my luck. I woke up this morning feeling frail and weak; hell was in my belly. Or maybe my liver? Nevertheless, immeasurable core pangs were going on.

His hands began to shake as the blues guitarist on stage played the final chords to an original number that had the audience on their feet with applause. The waiting was always the worst part.

At the edge of a forest, under the shadow of the Appalachian mountains, there was a cabin. Only a year old, it would soon be used as a foundation for a proper home come spring.