Death of a Court[ing] Jester--Caris

 

"Irreverent, libertine, self-indulgent, witty, clever, roguish, he is the fool as court jester, the fool as companion, the fool as goad to the wise and challenge to the virtuous, the fool as critic of the world." – François Rabelais

Day 1: Coreopsis Arkansa

In the Grand Hall, the Royal Court dined with outward conventionality. Conversation, punctuated sporadically with the chimes of silverware on fine china, blanketed the hall in a manner which would have an imperceptive onlooker turn away from the scene without a second thought. However, unbeknownst to the oblivious, but certainly not to the courtiers themselves, for they could feel every subtle spirit in the atmosphere of the palace—they had been trained to in the machinations of high society—there was an unusual tension haunting the hall.

While etiquette traditionally demanded the exchange of banal pleasantries over supper, this night an urgent political affair had seized the head of the table. The King and the Lord Chancellor were deep in dire discussion and their grave mood as an invasion on their repast was quite appropriate, seeing as an invasion was the very reason for the mood.

Anxious eyes flitted to and from the head of the table, like flies hanging around the skull of a fresh corpse. But, of course, decorum mattered more than curiosity; the courtiers knew this as much as the King knew order mattered most (a foreign war would be fought and won with loyalty while a civil one would be lost at the hands of distrust). So, signaling to the Lord Chancellor that the matter would be dealt with at a later time, he subsequently motioned to everyone else that the meal had ended.

The King as a benevolent sovereign knew how to divert the pests around the corpse back to propriety, and was only too eager to unveil his newly appointed jester as the balm for unrest. As he ushered in the entertainment, all eyes converged on the fool as he stepped into the spotlight. The jester cast a mischievous glance around the expectant assembly, his own eyes darting quickly before alighting upon the Queen. She sat beside the King in all of the dignified elegance afforded to her position. [And yet for a moment, an imperceptible change crossed her stony countenance as her eyes met the fool’s.]

The jester began his spectacle. With theatrical flair, he feigned a dramatic swoon, elicited a gasp of horror, directed a comedically quivering finger in the direction of a confounded lord sitting next to the Queen. Then, he made a hasty exit back through the doors of the hall. The curious flies now flew back to the head of the table, utterly confused at this behavior, but the King merely smiled, trusting his fool to deliver on the diversion.

The jester returned immediately and was greeted by the bewilderment, which finally melted into uproarious laughter as he brandished a modest yellow blossom. This he satirically presented to the lord whom his accusing finger found once more. The punchline was revealed; the jester's theatrics were caused by the courtier’s unsightly features, which were ironically accentuated by the futile attempt to mask them with the small beauty.

As the echoes of laughter gradually subsided, the court smiled in silent approval of the fool, and anticipation grew once more as they awaited his next display of wit. [The jester deposited the flower on the table next to the derided nobleman. A subtle exchange of glances transpired.]

The act carried through the night, and when the jester eventually took his final bow, the assembly was already awaiting his next performance.

[The yellow flower had disappeared from its inconspicuous place in front of the Queen.] The laughter shadowed the jester as he left the hall.

Day 2: Yellow Acacia

The King was profoundly grateful for the Court's embrace of the new jester, as he relied more heavily on diversion amidst the mounting concerns that besieged him but which he wished to keep from his court for as long as possible. But as the northern invasion loomed ever closer, and discussions of conflict became imminent, the shadow of his stress hung over the court and proved insurmountable even for the jester's whimsical distractions, especially as the voracious appetite for gossip never died as a court convention.

Nonetheless, the jester proved more than willing to continue his work. [And to continue incorporating flora into his acts, most of which ended up in the Queen’s purview. No one said anything, including her.] The King’s gratitude manifested in an especially warm smile and raucous laughter, even when the fool dared to compare the complexion of the monarch himself to that of a yellow flower.

As critic of the world, dismissed for his disposition, the jester again departed amidst the echoes of laughter.

Day 3: Jonquil

The horizon was officially marked with billows of smoke and an eternal dusk of blood-red portent. The imminent threat of invasion cast darkness not just upon the borders, but also upon the minds of the defenders, creating a secondary, psychological crisis that the King again resolved to confront with the jester as his sword and shield. The talent of the fool was now utilized to its full capacity and in one act, the dejection in his eyes seemed so genuine, as if to testify to his ability, when he humorously imitated the plight of a vanquished adversary clutching a white blossom in abject surrender. The court's laughter carried a sinister undertone, betraying their desire for the performance to become actuality when the dreaded war arrived. The King duly noticed and noted the steely mood. Now inspired by the jester’s politically charged satire, he looked after the fool’s heavy footsteps with new resolve.

[The Queen herself seemed disquieted at the sight of the blossom, or one could assume this from the fact her expression showed a trace of something shadowed, a sign of great affliction given her impassive visage usually remained unchanged.] 

Day 4: Cistus Gum

The King's deliberation over the declaration of war lengthened into exhaustive convocations with his innermost circle of advisors and commanders. The jester was given a seat in the conference. Not only a seat, but a special assignment, bestowed directly from the monarch himself. The jester’s eyes widened and he did not say anything other than his acquiescence.

At his next performance, the jester walked into the room holding a small white flower with papery petals. The Queen held court alone that day, as the King was fully engrossed in the exigencies of war preparations.

The Queen’s lips parted in sudden comprehension and her eyes widened.

In a sudden flurry of motion that prevented any timely reactions, the Queen commanded her guards to apprehend the jester and escort him to the dungeon. The fool offered no resistance, yet his pointed gaze bore an enigmatic intensity, hinting at something substantial yet unknown to those around him. [Except her.]

This was the first time he was not followed by laughter as he left the room.

Day 5: Forget Me Not

Upon hearing the Queen had wrongfully and rather foolishly accused his jester of stealing one of her favorite pendants and wearing it audaciously in court, and sending him to the dungeon as a result, the King immediately went to free the fool after chastising his wife and constraining her to her bedchambers, leaving her ladies-in-waiting with instructions to look after her as her mind was clearly addled from stress.

The King needed the jester to deliver a royal decree of war to the invading enemies. A high honor, as it would be a great service to his kingdom and a pivotal moment in history.

[When the King’s guards unlocked the cell, the fool looked up at him with the greatest expression of misery that the King mistook as a reaction for his being imprisoned.]

“You are free,” he said, but then handed him the fateful message.
And that night, the jester was sent to the enemy’s encampment. [Before he left, the jester entrusted

the guard with a small, blue flower. The messenger had a final message of his own.] 

                                                                                             ♦♦♦ 

The soldiers of the north were hardened by the climate of their country and the battle to expand it. Their rampage was hindered by no one, and the fires they used to consume wood and earth were as red as the trail they left in their wake.

A messenger arrived one night. The enemy commander smiled. He ordered his soldiers to seize the messenger who had delivered a declaration and demand for surrender, which was so amusing to him that he began to laugh.

The last thing the jester heard as he was dragged away was laughter. 

                                                                                           ♦♦♦

The King was notified the next morning that their demands for surrender were forcibly rebuffed. Forcibly, because the messenger’s severed head was delivered back over their borders by catapult.

The King sighed. Then he finished his tea and breakfast and prepared himself to address the War Council.

Day 6: Asphodel

The Queen had not left her bedchambers since the incident at court until the night of the jester’s return. She knew the truth, that only his head had found sanctuary beneath the earth.

A ghostly figure visited the graveyard that night.
And the next morning, the sun smiled at the lonely flower adorning the fool’s final resting place. 

[Not every language is spoken with words.]

https://www.gardeningchannel.com/flower-meanings-dictionary-from-a-to-z-the-secret-victorian-era-language-of-flowers/ 

I thought we were saved--Patricia

 

The following piece is written as a diary entry.

Entry One: May 1880
Posters about this land reigned through the fronts of each worn-down convenience store, each holding promises of a land with wonderful opportunities all to bring a fortune. I had a wife and three children by the time I boarded that ship. This very ship cost two generations' worth of savings from my grandfather’s side of the family. Like the many young men who filled that vessel one day, we all dreamt of saving our families from the rising living expenses and our unstable source of income coming from our suddenly barren fields hometown China. This journal is all I have left of my family, at least until I see them after striking fortune.

Entry 2: June 1880
After three long weeks at sea on the advertised “Pacific Ocean Journey”, we step foot onto a world filled of lush redwood trees with long lavish ferns that surround the path South. We move once the sun rises.

Entry 3: January 1882
It has been a while since I last wrote. Looking back, I cannot believe how optimistic I was. As we ventured south that day, we were stopped by some Americans. Their pale skin turned bright red the second they saw our group. Our captain pleaded with them in their native tongue and claimed we were traveling merchants doing our job. They scoffed, almost letting us pass until they saw our Chinese Flag on a man’s handbag. That marked my first of many one-sided fights. To this day, my chest is covered with scars, all with stories related to how unwelcome “my kind” is. Somehow, I landed a job as a merchant in the town surrounded by many other young Chinese men with backstories similar to mine. I’ve managed to find shelter in a worn apartment in the bay of town.

Entry 4: June 1882
Some “land of dreams”. My neighbors have been talking about this new act as they had heard some Americans screaming joy about it. Just the other day, one of the hotels, which held the homes of at least a hundred men, was set on fire by some Americans. This continued periodically throughout the week; the streets reigned with ashes and hanged bodies of men “my kind”. I am less of a human over here than back home.

Entry 6: June 1899
When I was out selling products to the people of this town, I overheard some shop vendors talking. On the ship that transported goods from China to this bay, they personally saw two bodies cast away at sea. Oh, if only I had enough money to send more letters to you my dear! I sure hope you are all well.

Entry 5; April 1900
Today, I celebrate my 45th birthday. Letters cost too much to spend back home now, so, I will dedicate this journal to my wife when I finally return. It has been 20 years since I boarded that ship. From all the Mandarin newspapers, the “Chinese Exclusion Act” is the very reason why all the hotels are cramped with other Chinese people. I share my small space with three other roommates; the rusted pipes often leak sewage water on adjacent corners of the room, rats often run through the tile cracks that line the second-story floor, and our sole wooden mattress was shared in turns with each roommate. No matter what, I must stay clear of those Americans. Those very same group lynched my neighbor just last week. At this rate, I can barely find change to save myself from starvation.

Entry 7: May 1990
As I was heading to my supplier in the heart of this filthy town this evening, I eavesdropped on drunken gamblers talking about a dead body in their building. They vented about the body’s appearance as if it were covered in blackened dots like on the backs of ladybugs. As they shouted over their game of poker, they mentioned something about a coffin shop and a hidden cellar. I’m not too sure. Before they could have said anything else, the boxes of supplies were already in my hands and it was time to go.

Entry 8: March 1901
I don’t know why this is happening. White Americans reign on our beloved town, demanding a “12-block quarantine”. This term was translated by Chinese scholars who learned their language simply to beg for peace. The translator explained that the Whites heard cries of nearby men, with screams that gradually grew louder than the squirming rats; each was found with sudden blackened pustules leeching off their armpits, ears, or thighs. First, there was just one case on the upper floors of the building across the block; this turned into two, which later turned into four. What has this land done to us? Why are other Chinese people getting sick all of a sudden? Sickness drives away customers.

Entry 9: April 1901
There was a meeting today. Downtown. Vendors, shopkeepers, and even grown children joined in to hear the announcements. Normally, we would all run at the sight of them but this time, at the center, the white man screamed in disgust at our living habits. Who was he? He was the reason why we had to live like this... isolated in dirt from “their kind”. They spread papers filled with Mandarin characters. It read that if the Americans in white gowns find so much so any filth, they will not hesitate to burn away the town. Mutters spread like scurrying rats as children returned to their families holding the flyers. I don’t know if I can last here any longer, love. This land was a trap.

Entry 11: June 1902
Last evening, it was my turn on the bed after yet another failed business day. These rats have been living here for free! To think that this, now, may be the least of my problems. In the midst of nightfall, I woke up with a sudden fever; the next hour came uncontrollable vomit. My roommates woke, slowly tending to me. We’ve been trapped in this cubed room for nearly a decade now; they’re my second family. My head continues to pounce. Arrangements to visit the doctor will wait until morning.

Entry 12: June 1902

I’ve never had a fever like this. I’m writing this in the hidden basement of the hotel as the cloaked men savage our homes for filth and sickness. Just the other day next door, they found a child who was burnt to the touch. Yet despite the mother’s desperate cries, these heartless beings strip away her child. The search for the taken child adds to the countless others missing. Why us? All we did was work... and hope. We hoped for salvation. Was that too greedy?

It’s the same day. The Whites are gone but they left a message displayed on the walls surrounding the front desk. My roommate read the printed Mandarin characters. “Come to our hospital if you feel any of the following symptoms: sudden headaches, fevers, vomiting, or formation of sudden black pustules. Location at Jackson and Stone. We can save you”. As if they expect us to trust them! After killing not only the lives of other Chinesemen but also the dreams his family must have wished? After making our families in China believe that we suddenly abandon them after our “supposed” fortune here? Suddenly, they wish to save us instead of burning us away.

It’s evening now. The Chinese herbs have calmed down my fever. I hope that this common sickness passes quickly.

Entry 13: January 1902

Why is this happening to me? What happened to the promises this land preached? In China, when one gets sick, it’s a simple burning sensation in the foreheads; this usually clears after 2 nights of rest. Why, in this land, does sickness imply black dots on my thighs? The Chinese doctor has not heard of this sickness and simply prescribed the natural herbal medicines. My roommates failed to report my sudden black pustules to the Americans in white gowns this evening. They are protecting me.

Entry 14: Next Day
How did this happen? Was it because of the stinky tofu I had for dinner a couple of days ago? What choice did I have other than to starve? My roommates appeared to be normal. In their sleep, they’ve been inching away from my muffled vomits. Honey, if somehow you get this journal, I want to tell you that I would have never abandoned my family. I’m sorry.

Entry 15: Nightfall

I’m trapped, rotting in this cellar. My roommates turned on me, explaining how they would be bound to be infected with the same black, inflamed dots as me. Why can my body fight it? No matter how much I scream, there’s no one here besides the bodies of the sick, fleas, and scrimping rats. This is my last entry. I’m sorry that I’ve failed you. 

The Almost Dog Days--Nessa

 

    June. Everything in flux, our futures gaping wide and fathomless, rushing toward us like a river gorged on snowmelt. Two months after the letters came in (the house party crowded with balloons in blue and red, cake with “UPENN” scrawled over it in spidery frosting letters, his whole family and me squashed into his backyard while ribs smoked on the grill)—a month after graduation (every face we’d ever known packed twenty to a row in the pea green expanse of the football stadium, tears flowing, speeches suered, caps thrown, the whole four-year nightmare forgotten as the two of us bustled to a late-night diner to make ourselves sick on pancakes)—on a drowsily hot Saturday, I called him.

    “You busy?” He, I knew, was freshly home from an internship: a three-hour flight away he had donned a white coat, poured cells from one dish to another, ran simulations that sketched multi-colored lines across a darkened screen. He’d sent me pictures.

    “Umhh,” he said. “I’ve got essays. But I can finish ‘em tomorrow. What’s up?”

    I didn’t know how to ask. “Do you—” I hesitated, forged on: “Do you remember the creek? Down where we used to live?”

    “Course, why?”

    “I was thinkin’, I mean, with everything, it would be nice to go down there again. Just walk around like how we used to.”

    “Oh,” he said. “Uh...” A confused pause, a little painful. I could almost see him on the other end: that slow, owlish blink he’d had since when we were kids, the one he did when he couldn’t figure me out.

    “I know it’s weird”—it was all coming out in a rush—“I mean, no pressure, obviously. But my dad said I could take the pickup, so I can drive us. If you want. I just thought—we only have a couple weeks. Before we...” I did not finish. I could not voice the thought, terrible in its unfamiliarity: we had to go. Him to Pennsylvania, me to community college a city over. Miles and miles between us. It was unbearable.

    “Yeah, no,” he said. He was reluctant to leave his work, but also to refuse me. “Course. If you want to... Yeah. Before we go.”

                                                                                    ☼

    I had not been in this part of town for years and years. It looked nearly the same, but somehow deader: the pale shutters bleached to the color of bone, rows of old clapboards sitting quiet as the grave. We parked at the curb across from my old house. It was identical to the others but for the magnolia in the yard, spitting pale blooms onto the straw-colored lawn. Someone had taken down the tire swing. I didn’t like the sight of it, the tree’s dark arms naked and cheerless, so I looked down at my arms as I slathered them with cream, sunscreen first and then mosquito repellent. All the while the sun beat down on us like a pair of scorching fists.

    We looped around the houses and headed downhill. We kept up a steady chatter: a girl I’d been texting, my lifeguard gig, his dream cars. We’d come down this way ten thousand times before, when we were kids; to do it now was somehow surreal, like walking through a dream. By the time we reached the forest proper we’d fallen silent, under some kind of spell, no sound but crunching grass and our breathing. Gradually the woods thickened; the air cooled. The smell of exhaust gave to the rising scent of moist earth. Twenty minutes in we started to hear the rushing hiss of moving water. I sped up, excited. He called after me; I did not slow.

    The trees opened; the sound crescendoed. I stopped and drank in the sight. Before us ran the bright, broad ribbon of the creek, the sun dappling white over green, the water crystal clear so that we could see the rocks in grays and browns pebbling the bottom. I felt the mist of it against my face, thrown by the breeze, and grinned. I was a boy again, in awe of the world, everything alive and timeless.

    “Oh man,” I laughed, and looked at him, sure that he could not help but share in the exuberance of a secret place—ours, where nothing could touch us. He was smiling too, a sight that warmed me, like whiskey, with intolerable relief.

    I rolled up my jeans to just below the knees; he followed suit. I shucked my shoes, but he gave me a look and kept his sneakers on. We walked.

                                                                                  ☼

    “I’m not sayin’ I don’t like Meteora,” he was saying, “There’s good songs on there. It’s just wild that you think it’s their best. Hybrid Theory is better, no contest.”

    “You’re just biased ‘cause that’s the first one you heard. You weren’t gonna like nothin’ better after that.”

    By the time we sighted our flag, my collar was sticking to my neck with sweat. We approached, and I marveled that it was still there: a pole stuck in the ground in the shade of an oak, three feet tall with a scrap of Theo’s shirt knotted around the end. His mother, he’d said, had given him hell when he showed up with a big strip missing o his tee. It marked HQ, when we were spies; our mountain hideout, when we were cowboys. Now it was respite. We sat.

    “God in heaven, it’s hot,” I breathed. “Better down here than back at home, but still.”

    “Yes, sir. Dog days are almost here.”

    Almost dog days—almost July. We were meant to start packing then, is what my momma said; packing and, come August, moving out.

    As if he’d read my mind, he said: “Not too long until we’re out of here, huh?” There was anticipation in his voice, in the way he looked o past me as if seeing some glorious future in the shrubbery behind me. For some reason this annoyed me unspeakably. 

    “Gonna miss this place,” I said, trying to steer him, anchor him here.

    He plowed on, not hearing me. “I gotta buy sheet covers and things for my dorm. And mountains of blankets. In Philadelphia they get blizzards some years, can you imagine? Did I tell you, my roommate said—”

    “Can you shut up about UPenn?” The ugliness in my voice startled us both, but I couldn’t stop. “It’s the only damn thing you talk about these days.”

    He looked at me, not a little hurt. “Man, I’m excited about it. Aren’t you excited for college and all?”

    This question struck me as horrendously stupid. “I’m not goin’ to an Ivy in Pennsyl-fuckin’-vania, Theo, I’m headin’ a few miles down to Canuta State. Hell, I’m just goin’ ‘cause I didn’t know what else to do.”

    “You don’t have to make that my problem,” he said, brow furrowed. “I get that you don’t have stu figured out, but you don’t have to take it out on me.”

    This stung. I felt my rage, a rising tide, spilling out from some implacable reservoir. “Like you got everything figured out for yourself? You’re flyin’ blind same as me, so don’t try to act like you’re better than me.”

    Silence roiled between us, ugly and hot. I stared at the dirt between my feet, stewing, too indignant to regret, just yet, what I had said. I was angry that he didn’t understand me; I was angry because this was not even what I wanted to argue about.

    Finally, he said, “I don’t know why you can’t just be happy for me.” His anger was terrible in its restraint.

    “Theo,” I said, quiet, and then louder: “What is even so great about that ancient ass school?”

    “It’s one of the best in the nation,” he said stiy, “and ‘sides, it’s beautiful.” He was so sure. Of where he was going, why he was going there: away from everything he knew, away from me. “And I met some great people there, some of the smartest, most impressive people I ever—”

    I burst out, “Aren’t you going to miss this place at all, Theo?” What I meant, and what I wanted him to hear was, aren’t you going to miss me?

    “This town? This random ass creek in the woods? I’ve been here all my life, man.” I closed my eyes against him, something inside of me twisting irreparably. “I’m gettin’ pretty tired of white houses and the same five hundred people. I’m sorry I want somethin’ more from the world and you just want to be stuck here.”

    More than me. All at once the energy was out of me; I was not angry but crushingly sad. I rose; I put on my shoes; I walked and didn’t care if he followed. We got in the truck and didn’t say a word to each other the whole ride home. 

The Truth--Melanie

 

• TRIGGER WARNING : RELIGIOUS THEMES AND SUGGESTED SA

  A young girl, about 11 years old, named Mary Kate Sierra attended St. Gabriel Catholic School. After her husband had died, her mother took it upon herself to provide the best she could for her daughter by working two jobs nearly every day. Since most weekdays her mother isn’t off until 5 pm, Mary decided to join as many afterschool activities as she could to pass the time; Decathlon on Mondays, soccer on Tuesdays and Thursdays, church choir on Friday evenings. This particular Wednesday, Mary’s track meet would be canceled.

  “Today, Pastor John is going to share a theology practice to strengthen our connection with God,” announced Mrs. Chapmen. “I will be in the classroom across the hall to speak with Mr. Smith about arranging times for everyone who hasn’t already, to go to confession sometime this week. Please be on your best behavior when you’re with him as he will be listening to your confessions and pardoning your sins.”
  She exits the room and is replaced with Pastor John’s presence. His build is thin but his shoulders are just wide enough to fill the door frame. His blonde hair is thinning and beginning to turn grey. He towers over the little students in their desks as he adjusts the collar of his vestment. Despite Pastor John’s excellent reputation as a priest, I always found him to be spiritually intimidating as he would never hesitate to push someone in the right direction of God’s will. Near the end of last year, he gave a stern one-on-one talk to Will, one of the kids who used to always act out. After that, he never behaved badly again, but I’ve always found it strange because he ended up transferring before the next school year started.

  He clears his throat with a nasally cough and presents himself, “Good afternoon children. We are going do a spiritual exercise,” he proceeds to walk over towards the switch and turn the lights off, “First, you are all going to close your eyes and imagine a closed door that leads to your safe place. A place where you can talk to Jesus.”

  I think of the door to my old apartment building where my mother and I used to live when my father was still alive. I remember before we moved away I used to draw family portraits on the porch with chalk. I like to keep remembering it like that.

  “Now,” he continued, “Imagine a light peeking out of from the other side. All your hopes, dreams, and prayers await you. However, your sins shackle you to unfulfillment.”

  Pastor John started to walk around; the sound of his footsteps accompanied by the sound of quiet breathing echo throughout the room. I can feel his voice getting closer.

  "And there’s only one person who can forgive them.”

His footsteps stop.

“Jesus is waiting for you as the door opens completely.”

His voice feels as if it’s ringing in my head.

“He extends his hand to you.”

A chill shivers down my spine as I feel icy fingers touch the back of my neck.

“Only you can choose to reach out to him.”

The rough, dry hand slowly trails down my back.

“And accept his mercy.”
Suddenly, his hand retracts and I can hear his footsteps retreating. The lights are back on. My vision is distorted as a result of having my eyes closed for too long. My heart is pounding like a drum and my face is feverish from the adrenaline. Did that really happen? I watch Pastor John and Mrs. Chapmen exchange a few words in the doorway as they both look back at me. I sink into my seat and avoid eye contact.

“Mary, I need to speak to you,” she calls me into the hallway. I get up and realize my legs are shaking from the thought that I have to face him. To my relief, Pastor John is no longer in sight but I have no idea what to do once I speak with her.

“I’ve spoken with Pastor John and he said he has a slot available after school today for you to go to confession.” I feel blood rushing to my brain. “I know you and your mother have difficult schedules but I heard from Mrs. Monterey that today’s track meet has been rescheduled. I agreed with him that this is the perfect time for you since your mother won’t be picking you up until later. He’ll be waiting for you in the confession booth around 4:30.” I can’t seem to find enough strength in my vocal chords than to mutter a cloudy response and head back to my desk. I’m praying, begging to God for a way to have my mom magically appear before my eyes and take me back home.

He can’t hear me.

Family--Isaac

 

I didn’t kill them, it wasn't me who did it. People call me a mentally ill patient, but I know the truth—I'm not one of them. I'm not like the others who shuffle along these sterile corridors, their minds trapped in a haze of medication and delusion. No, I am different. I see things they cannot, hear whispers they dare not acknowledge. And now, as I sit in this cold, dimly lit room, in which I do not deserve to be in.

It began when I first arrived at a type of hospital, a crumbling institution nestled on the outskirts of town. The moment I stepped through its doors, I felt a chill run down my spine—a sensation that told me I had stumbled into something far darker than I could have ever done to be in this place.

The nurses tried to soothe my nerves, their voices laced with false promises of safety and healing. But I saw through their facade, sensed the fear that lurked behind their forced smiles. They knew the truth of this place, knew the horrors that lay hidden within its walls, and they thought or knew it was me who killed him and his family.

As the days turned into weeks, I found myself drawn to the other patients—the lost souls who wandered the halls like ghosts, their eyes vacant and their minds fractured. Among them, I discovered whispers—whispers of a presence that stalked the corridors at night, its malevolent presence sending shivers down the spines of even the most hardened patients.

I tried to dismiss their stories of the hospital as the ravings of troubled minds, but the whispers grew louder, more insistent, until I could no longer ignore them. Was this the punishment for my sins? To make me go insane? They spoke of a shadowy figure that prowled the halls, its eyes gleaming with madness and its laughter echoing through the empty corridors.

Driven by a morbid curiosity, I began to investigate, sneaking out of my room under the cover of darkness to search for the source of the whispers. And what I found I thought I had gone insane.

In the bowels of the hospital, hidden away from prying eyes, I made out the depiction of who it exactly was. It was my brother, but it wasn’t him, it only had a figure of him... I was here in a forgotten wing where the most deranged patients were housed, their screams muffled by thick walls and heavy doors. It was there that I encountered the shadowy figure—a twisted soul consumed by madness and driven to torment those who committed these crimes and had a chosen fate. I could not understand why he was here with me, here to punish me for what I supposedly did...

I tried to flee, to escape the horrors of the mentally ill place, but the shadowy figure of my own blood pursued me relentlessly, I could hear his laughter as if he was taunting me, as if he was trying to get revenge. I begged him to let me go, this was not of my deserving, I didn’t kill anybody... As I thought I reached an exit something would keep pulling onto me, my brother would not let me leave this place. Was this the feeling of guilt? Should I have hid the bodies better? If only I did I wouldn’t be getting tortured by a figment of my imagination of a brother I once loved. These regrets would mean nothing as it is something I could not change. I thought I planned everything better, a way to escape from this horrid family. Even after taking the lives of my family, I still could not be satisfied with this outcome of guilt and regret.

For even now, as I sit in this cold, dimly lit room, I can hear the whispers—the whispers of the shadowy figure of guilt that lurks just beyond the walls, waiting to claim me as its own. And as I stare into the darkness, I know that my fate is sealed—that I am destined to wander the halls of this place for all eternity, trapped in a nightmare from which there is no escape. Maybe I did deserve this.

Missing--Gabriel

 

The date was the twentieth of July 1975, the summer after our senior year. School was

out, college awaited us, the rest of our lives ahead of us. A group of friends including myself

decided it was about time we started to explore this amazing world we live in. My best friend at

the time, Steve, was reluctant to go, saying he wanted to stay home and relax before he left for

Virginia in a few weeks for college. Nevertheless, my friends and I were able to peer pressure

him onto this trip. Jeremey, the more adventures of our friends recommend a forest his father

used to take him to as a kid. This forest was in the middle of Arizona by the Navajo Nation.

Jeremey raved about this spot and how he and his father would camp for a few days up there and

fish while they were there, then hike about five to six miles back to the car and go home. Eager

to explore, our small group of five agreed and set off the following weekend.

The date was the twenty-fourth of July 1975. That Thursday we set out on our nearly

five-hour drive from Phoenix up north. Everyone was excited, this was our big trip of the

summer before we’d eventually go our own ways and start our own lives. The car ride felt so

long yet so short when thinking back on it. It was within a blink, and we were there, five straight

hours of driving and we had finally made it. It was around noon when the car came to a complete

stop on this dirt road. We all stared at Jeremy profusely, “are we here?” Melissa asked while

yawning, “This seems to be the spot I remember” said Jeremy. As we all climbed out of the car

eager to finally stretch our legs, we took in the amazing smell of nature of what seemed to be the

poop of some kind of animal also. We grabbed our bags out of the trunk of the car, collected our

belongings and set out for a long five-mile hike as Jeremey claimed, which would take about 2

and a half hours. As our hike began, mile one was a breeze, and we were staying on the trail just

like we had all assumed we would since there was a well-traveled trail we had been following for

the last mile. Though for the middle of summer the sky was covered in clouds and only a little bit

of heat was slipping through. As we continued to walk, the birds sang a beautiful song as the

bushes and trees danced along in the wind. I thought nature couldn’t be anymore beautiful at that

moment in time. As mile two came to the end Jeremy said confidently, “Alright, here is where

the real adventure starts”. He pointed at a fork in the trail, the path forward was overgrown, and

the path below was nothing more than a thin strip of dirt no more than two feet wide covered in

vegetation and debris from leaves blowing off trees. “Do we really have to go through that?”

questioned Margot. “Yes” Jeremy shouted, “It’s the only way to get to the spot”. Reluctantly, we

all agreed to continue forward down this path, following behind Jeremy. As we kept walking into

our last mile as projected by Jeremey, Steve had started to talk to me about his future plans, and

so I did the same, we went on and on about how we wanted to start families and live the good old

American dream. That was one of the most memorable times I had with Steve on that trip. It's a

conversation I'll never forget between the two of us. On what we had thought to be the last mile

of our trip turned out otherwise when Jeremey said, “Hmm…this doesn’t seem right”. I asked

him, “What do you mean this doesn’t seem right”. Jeremey gave an assuring response that he

wasn’t lost, though we hadn’t yet reached the right campground. Though we had been hiking all

day and the majority of our group decided we were done hiking for the day. We set up camp for

our first night next to a small creek under the shade of trees. As the sun began to set, we finished

setting up our tents which would sleep three in one and two in the other. As we sat around the

campfire, talking and eating our dinner, it seemed like the first day was coming to a good end. I

woke up that night at around two o’clock in the morning needing to use the bathroom. I got up as

quietly as I could to not wake anyone. I stumbled to the nearest bush and relieved myself. As I

was staring into the cold morning sky, I heard rustling in the bushes about ten to fifteen feet out.

I was startled, seeing that it was so early in the morning and I could barely see a couple of feet in

front of me. I kept looking in the direction of the bush as I walked backward towards my tent. As

I was walking I heard the sound shift to a bush now right behind our tents. I quickly unzipped the

zipper and jumped inside as if my life depended on it. I sat there in silence for what seemed like

an eternity until I eventually fell asleep once again.

The date was the twenty-fifth of July 1975. We woke up that morning and continued on

the rest of our journey. Day two wasn’t as eventful as day one, though as we packed up our tents

and kicked out what was left of our fire, Steve called out, “Hey come look at this”. We all

hurried over. “Is that blood?” said Melissa with a grossed out voice. “Yea, that’s what it looks

like” replied Jeremy. This bush was in the same direction I heard the rustling just last night,

though I didn’t give much thought into it. We continued forward with our hike until about one

o’clock, when we had finally reached the spot Jeremey remembered with his father about three

miles on top of the five we hiked the previous day. We set up camp once again, then set out for

the small lake that was right next to camp to fish for a potential dinner. Though after hours of

fishing we had only gotten a few bites, though nothing was able to be caught. When heading

back to camp, a fog started to roll in. None of us expected this as it was the middle of summer in

Arizona. Though we ignored it and went back to camp and all hung out around the fire and

enjoyed a couple of drinks. At around midnight, Steve and I were the last to stumble into the tent

to finally fall asleep. Around three twenty-five in the morning, I woke up, and I had the feeling

something was watching me. I woke up Steve sleeping to my left, though he ignored me and

went back to sleep. Being the naive person I was, I got out of the tent with a flashlight and

decided to check out what it was. As I stepped out of the tent I couldn’t see even three feet in

front of me. The fog was so heavy I was stumbling around still a little drunk from what I had

drank only a few hours ago. I once again heard the rustling in the bush, though this time it

sounded bigger and closer. I instantly ran back into the tent and woke Steve and Jeremy. Once

they had both fully woken up, they too heard the sound. As we were about to get up and out of

the tent to investigate the sound and scare the animal, the rustling stopped. It was eerily quiet like

something was bound to go wrong. Then, within an instant, the sounds of children laughing all

around our tent and banging on all sides. Our screaming woke up both Melissa and Margot in the

other tent. They came out and opened the tent and looked at us like we were crazy. “ What are

you all screaming about?!” exclaimed Melissa “There is something here with us, and it’s not any

animals I’ve ever heard”, I replied. Jeremy, in shock, didn’t know what to say but that we needed

to leave. We attempted to pack up all that we could into our backpacks as fast as we could.

“Okay, who made the ring of rocks?” said Steve. Out of thin air, a ring of rock all in a perfect

circle surrounded our camp. A loud blood-curdling scream came from behind our camp which

sent us all running. Towards the trail we walked here on. As I was running in pitch black, Steve

was alongside me. We ran until we had run out of breath. When resting against a tree looking in

the direction we ran from, we could hear nothing but screams from our friends coming from the

direction of the camp. Steve and I continued forward towards the car hoping that we’d eventually

run into someone. I grabbed a flashlight out of my bag and while doing this I learned that Steve

grabbed the keys for the car just before we were about to get out of the tent. We continued back

on this thin trail, walking as fast as we could and running at points when we recovered any

amount of breath. About an hour into our hike back, we came across the original fork where we

first turned onto the overgrown path. We both seemed like we knew the way, so we continued

walking. Though after some time of walking, we stopped as we had hit that same fork in the

road. “We were just here Steve”, I said, “WHAT IS GOING ON”, Steve replied. As we tried to

make sense of the situation, what sounded like the voice of Jeremey calling out for help was

coming from about a couple of hundred feet behind us. Steve handed me the keys and ran toward

the voice. I told him not to go, though it was too late. Steve disappeared into the darkness. I

waited for what felt like forever when I eventually made the decision to continue forward.

The date was the twenty-sixth of July 1975. It was about seven thirty in the morning

when I had finally reached the car. I was alone, no one was there with me. I opened the car door

and sat inside, remembering what we had all talked about in the car before leaving for the trip.

They all had such bright futures ahead of them and, just like that, it’s all gone. At that moment I

remembered what Steve said to me when we had just gotten on the trial, “You know Gabe, I’m

glad you all forced me to go on this trip. I’m going to miss you the most, I think, when I go off to

Virginia, but when I’m on break you’ll be the first person I want to come to visit and tell you all

about Virginia”.