It wasn’t such disturbance of leaf and stalk that might herald the man’s return, but more woodlandy – some creature curious about the blood…his blood.

Gauging the effort required, he summoned what energy remained and thrust.

His right arm collapsed, the incline rolling him onto his back.

The unobstructed air was invigorating. He’d never appreciated that before. He coughed half way through a breath, spluttering blood.

He managed to avoid choking. He might just survive–

Now he could see the man hadn’t left at all.

The English side with the Native Americans and the Americans with the cowboys. The English build a wall. Using jeeps, tanks, and planes they fight for six years. The cowboys break the wall, but lose the war.

After the war a resistance forms and is sent to New York to disable the tanks controlling the security building which houses the president. Some get away, some are killed.

On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.

Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!

However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.

“Please sit,” says the woman in flamboyant blue and green gypsy clothes. “I assume you want a reading.”

“Yes, good and bad.”

The woman takes Marissa’s right hand and reads her palm. “I don’t see a future for you. There will be no success or love in your life. You will die tragically and without warning.”

Marissa jolts in her chair. “I’m not up to this. Here’s your money.”

“I can’t believe Amy is marrying that jerk! She said she loved me. That lying witch!”

Inebriated, he swerves in and out of lanes, his vision blurry. He presses on the accelerator just missing an approaching car. The driver honks his horn profusely at Johnny. Laughing, Johnny takes his eyes off the road and crashes head on into a tree.

“Damn!”

He’d forgotten it was that time of the year.

There’s fat Marge dressed as a witch, and in walks Brad, the estate agent, now a skeleton.

Jack orders lemonade and watches the party grow louder. The pub band, three ghosts and a ghoul, rock them into a frenzy.

Unable to bear the drunken hysteria anymore, he walks out, sober, into the chill of the night.

He tiptoed to his office cubicle ignoring everyone. They ignored him. Except for Anne who monitored his quota. It must’ve been adequate for he continued to pass me at the reception desk.

One day, I didn’t notice the scent of his signature aftershave. Nor saw his forlorn face staring at the patterned floor as he entered.

A radio news feature announced him as a “person of interest.” Missing. His apartment trashed.

Leaning back in my seat, taking a deep breath, I close my eyes. A knock on the window startles me.

“Miss, are you okay?”

It’s a man dressed as Count Dracula, his fangs scarily realistic.

“My engine died.”

“Let me look at it for you.”

As soon as I exit my car, Count Dracula grabs my purse and drives off in his truck.

“Hi, Sweetie. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. Traffic was unbearable. I brought you your favorite, yellow roses, but they are ruined from the heat. I’m sorry, I can’t seem to get anything right these days.”

Jim placed the roses against the gravestone, knelt, and quietly prayed.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”