The Wonder of Classic Cars

Hayley walked Rascal. They had moved into the small town weeks before and were still getting acquainted with the close-knit community. Her neighbor had mentioned a trailhead to the state park a few blocks away. There, Rascal, her rambunctious puppy, could run, play and chase squirrels to his heart’s content. Though night was falling, and she figured the trailhead would be closed, Hayley sought it out for future reference and weekend walks.

A cool breeze played with her hair, and crickets chirped. Hayley and Rascal walked down the street, flanked on both sides by the warm, yellow porch-lights glowing in the starry night. They rounded a corner and came upon a dark street. The faint beams of the porch-lights glittered to her right. The left was a dark mess of jumbled shadows.

“I suppose we reached the woods.” 

She rubbed Rascal between the ears; he yipped in reply. They kept walking while Hayley scanned the dimness for the trailhead.

“C’mon, push!” 

A youthful voice sounded in the tranquil night.

Hayley noticed the dark silhouettes of two boys and a car in the moonlight.

“You guys all right?” She called when she reached them.

They were long-haired teenage boys, all knees and elbows, pushing a Volkswagen Beetle that seemed to have run out of gas, or battery. A third, the driver, was a giggling, murky tangle of jutting bones huddled over the steering wheel. 

“Should I call someone?” Hayley offered, taking out her phone.

The boys look puzzled.

In the moonlight, she noticed their bell-bottomed jeans and platform shoes, and supposed them on their way to a costume party, as Halloween was days away.

“Nah, thank you, ma’am,” one boy croaked, “we only need a few more pushes to get this jalopy started.”

Hayley wondered at the word ‘jalopy’. She thought most boys nowadays used the terms ‘clunker’ or ‘crap car’.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, you know these cars, just gotta push it in gear and it jump-starts the battery.”

Hayley had no clue about cars, whether old junkers or the latest models with all the bells and whistles. Though she recalled her parents talking about the wonder of the old VW bugs. They were suffocating in summer and freezing in winter, yet simple and reliable. 

“Well, good luck,” she nodded, “you know more about classic cars than me.”

The boys looked baffled for a fleeting instant, then shrugged and got ready to push.

Hayley waved at them, and urging Rascal, who had been quiet between her legs, walked away.

After finding the promised trailhead, Hayley and Rascal returned home via different streets. Entering the house, Hayley set her jingling keys and the bundle of mail on the kitchen counter. 

She was clearing up after a late dinner, when she caught sight of the community newspaper amid the pile of bills and flyers. The headline caught her attention. 

Our Boys Remembered

Today marks the 50th anniversary of the fatal hit-and-run that took the lives of three promising teenage boys as they pushed their 1967 Volkswagen Beetle alongside the state park road. The driver fled the scene and, even now, remains unidentified. Our community has never forgotten and is still seeking answers. 


Night Voices

Marlon gazed out the window as the teacher droned on and on and on about… Who knew?

He had stopped paying attention long ago. All morning his mind had wandered to the strange dream of the past night. He recalled nothing of the dream per se, but had woken up knowing someone had called out his name. He had lain still and alert. With eyes wide open, he tried to pierce the darkness and the jumble of shadows cast by the slits of moonlight that seeped in through the half-closed blinds. Only the typical sounds of the night filled the silent house; the creak of the walls and foundation, the ice-maker pushing clumps of ice into the refrigerator, the buzzing sound of the smart-home equipment his parents installed weeks ago.

He yawned.

“Marlon!” Mrs. glass snapped.

Marlon clamped his jaw shut, but she had noticed his wide mouth that seemed to eat the world.

“Yes, Miz?” He said.

“Repeat the last thing I said,” Mrs. Glass ordered.

“Um…” Marlon racked his brain for an answer.

“Right,” Mrs. Glass’s lips tightened into a thin line, “please stay behind after class.”

Marlon nodded and pretended to write something in his notebook.

That evening, Marlon sat in bed and gazed out the window. Mrs. Glass had given him extra homework, but at least she had not demanded to speak to his parents.

Marlon’s eyes drooped; he shifted his body into a comfortable position and fell asleep.


He tried to grasp the fleeting dream, but the shout of his name had ripped him out of it. With eyes wide open towards the window, he listened to the night air.

“Who keeps calling me?” He whispered, but only the ice-maker in the fridge responded with three muffled thumps.

Then he heard the two staccato notes of the electronic voice assistant in the living room.

“Hello?” Marlon chanced a louder murmur. “Who keeps calling me?”

“I do,” the electronic voice assistant answered.

“Who are you?” Marlon squeaked; trembling under the covers pulled up to his chin.

“Look out the window,” the electronic voice replied.

“I don’t want to…” Marlon was ready to cry.

“Please do,” the deadpan voice replied.

Marlon hesitated; reluctantly, he tiptoed to the window. He saw nothing outside but the tangled mess of branches of the wildlife preserve beyond his backyard. Moonlight shone on Mom’s herb garden. Marlon was used to the nighttime sounds of the creatures roaming free in the dense woods; yet nothing stirred. 

“There is a thicket beyond the herb garden,” the voice continued, “you know it well, you often play there.”

“Yes?” Marlon’s voice was steadier now as the fear subsided.

“Go there, I need your help.”

“To the thicket?”

“Yes, I am there, I need your help.”

This piqued Marlon’s curiosity, and without thinking twice, he put on his jacket and boots, crept through the house and out the back door.

He walked across the backyard and into the woods; dead leaves, mud, and mulch crunched under his feet.

Moonlight shone a path from the herb garden, into the forest and to the thicket overgrown with brambles.

Something whimpered in the bushes. He approached it, and turned on the flashlight Dad always kept by the back door, in case of emergencies.

He shone the light into the brambles.

Two eyes gleamed back at him. A fox lay among the tangled blackberries with its paw caught in a leg-hold trap. He edged toward the fox, who whimpered, pleading with its eyes. Marlon released him from the trap. The fox snapped its paw out of danger, gazed at Marlon for a moment, and then, limping, scampered into the gloom.

“You’re welcome,” Marlon said, and returned home.

The house was silent; no peep from the electronic voice assistant.

“Are you there?” Marlon whispered into the moonlit shadows, but received no answer.

Marlon shrugged and snuck upstairs. 

He was about to climb into bed when, “Wait… Who set the trap?”

GOLDEN TAROT: Six of Wands

Folktales by the Fire

“I think I saw a ghost once,” Carolina said, “but to this day, I’m uncertain I did.”

We sat around the fire-pit on a cool night. The brook babbled nearby, and we heard the occasional flapping of bat wings in the orchard; fruit bats making a banquet of the pear trees. The sound of their leather wings and the dancing fire gave the garden an eerie atmosphere. Billowing clouds veiled the moon in the crisp, humid air; it had rained all afternoon, and the wetness chilled the bones. 

We had trouble lighting the fire, but once we got it going nothing could drag us away. So, with tequila to warm the bones, and faces red from the licking flames that rose to the sky, the conversation drifted to spooky folklore. 

Everyone told a story; fire-lit anecdotes of nameless acquaintances. We wove a tapestry of words and flitting embers about witches and shape-shifting nahuales. The night listened to tales of haunted houses with buried gold, elves braiding horses’ manes, and people going up the mountain to meet the Devil. And La Llorona, the restless soul who, in life, had drowned her children. 

“So, Caro, tell us,” I shivered into my woolen sarape… from the cold? From the wet? Or just the creepy conversation?

An owl hooted.

Carolina began:

“I was driving on the highway, it was December and the processions had already begun, you know, to La Villa, to worship La Virgen de Guadalupe.

“Traffic was slow because a huge procession was ambling up ahead. I glimpsed the banners and flowers, even from so far behind. It was getting late, and I was losing patience, but what to do, right? You can’t just run over people. So I stopped at a gas station café nearby, hoping they would veer off somewhere and the jam would clear. 

“I don’t know how long I waited, but the sun was setting as I climbed back in the car. I drove for a little while. Twilight was falling, and it was that time of day when the half-light hurts the eyes. It’s too light and too dim at the same time. 

“Anyway, up ahead a man was walking alongside the road, and I wondered whether he had fallen behind the procession. As I neared, I noticed he wore huaraches, and a long jorongo. His head hung low on his shoulders, and I couldn’t tell if he was young or old. 

“I slowed down. He seemed to carry a bundle of something wrapped in the front of his jorongo. In the beam of my headlights I thought I saw a rose petals peeking out from the sides of the bundle.

“I would’ve pulled over, but at that moment a semi-trailer honked. I glanced in the rearview mirror; the semi was fast approaching. Its two big headlights bore down on me, blinding me for an instant. Then, when I glanced towards the man by the road, he wasn’t there.”

“Were you afraid?” I asked.

She paused.


We remained silent, reflecting on her story. I think we all pondered the same legend, but no one wanted to say it out loud. December, the processions, La Virgen de Guadalupe, the man with a bundle of roses…

The fire crackled, sparks danced and a low howl wove through the orchard, followed by the shriek of a barn owl — a lechuza — in the distance.

“It was just a guy catching up to the procession,” I broke the silence, “I bet he knew a footpath or a shortcut, and took it.”  

Everyone nodded, and the mood lightened; even the breeze seemed to heave a sigh of relief. 

“You know, La Llorona appears on rainy days, or near water,” Pedro said, his impish smile flickering in the firelight. “And the brook is only a few paces away…”


Motherpearl Island

Phyllis sat on her widow’s walk with a heavy woolen blanket draped over her legs. She placed a thermos filled with hot chocolate on the small bistro table before her. 

The soft crush and rumble of breaking waves drifted upward on the salty breeze. The cawing of seagulls filled the air and the hubbub of traffic below her was winding down as the street cleared of cars. Rush-hour was ebbing, and this was Phyllis’s favorite time of day.

The weather chilled days before and brought an abrupt end to summer with its frosty wind. Even the sea breeze, once musky with brine and heat, was now crisp with a stinging bite.

Phyllis watched the long shadows of the pavilion as they stretched over the sand towards the glimmering water in the waning sunlight. The sound of the breaking waves and the soft twilight glow cast a mystical spell over the beach.

Phyllis’s gaze turned to the island shimmering beyond the bay. From her vantage point, she saw the crumbling buildings of the old town.

Phyllis reminisced about her childhood trips to Motherpearl Island on her father’s boat. He claimed its anglers caught the best lobsters, and there were none so tasty in the universe. 

Motherpearl Island had once been a thriving community despite its isolation. Thunderous waves broke over jagged rocks all around it; the only means of communication was a long, man-made wooden pier which jutted out from the island’s single, tiny, and pebbled beach. The settlers had built their homes and businesses, a church with pealing bells, and a clock-tower on the grassy meadow that stretched beneath a towering forested hill. A lighthouse stood atop the hill’s barren peak. Beyond it, nothing but rocky cliffs and crushing waves. 

Phyllis recalled the strange iridescence of the rocks that gave the island its name. The entire island seemed to shimmer with a gossamer sheen of sparkling color, much like a dragonfly’s wings. Memories of Motherpearl Island evoked happiness and contentment; a simple and magical life. Her mind flooded with sun-filled days sitting on the jagged rocks, eating lobsters with Daddy, then hiking up to the lighthouse, and sailing home upon glimmering sunsets.

Then, the paradise crashed down during a wild, raging night. A storm wiped out the village on Motherpearl Island, scattering its inhabitants over the bay. Phyllis shuddered at the memory of bodies floating upon the water, day after day, for weeks. The storm also took Daddy’s boat and all the wonderful weekends at sea, the stinging breeze playing with her hair, and the waves lapping at the hull. Daddy never replaced the boat. 

Good years mingled with harsh years followed, and throughout, Phyllis watched the island from her widow’s walk and through Daddy’s old binoculars. A ghost town with decaying buildings; unreachable as the once sturdy pier now lay at the bottom of the sea.

Over the years, through the ancient lenses, Phyllis bore witness as the once-thriving town gave up the ghost and crumbled to the ground like sandcastles vanquished by a raging ocean. The clock in the old clock-tower had stopped with the storm, its hands suspended in time for years. Until one day, with a gasp, Phyllis had seen it crash to the ground. The church-tower ceiling tumbled inwards, buckling under the weight of the bells as they collapsed into the nave with deafening and discordant clangs. The lighthouse, severed in half, hunched on the hilltop; its light, fallen beside the stumpy foundation, pointed toward the sky. 

The sun had set, and the world was turning blue. Blue sky, blue sea, blue air, like the cyanotype Daddy once showed her of the beach she had lived by every day of her life, but had never known.

There had been an amusement park, Daddy said, and people flocked to it on the weekends for popcorn and lobster. But no lobster as delicious as those from Motherpearl Island.

The first stars twinkled in the sky and the blue darkened into black, as if black ink spilled on blue paper, oozing and blending over the world.

The seagulls quieted, and only the thunderous waves rumbled. All cars had gone home, and the cold settled over the widow’s walk. Phyllis stayed, draping another blanket over her shoulders, as crisp stars sparkled one by one to life over the dark inky waves.

Phyllis sipped her hot chocolate, and a smile dawned on her lips as her eyes fixed on the long-abandoned island. 

Bling! A light sparked on Motherpearl Island.  

Bling! Then another and another, until the abandoned island was aglow with tiny pinpricks of light, like a fairy village at night.

Phyllis grabbed her binoculars and lifted them to her eyes. 

Only during these hours and through these binoculars, Phyllis became a distant witness to the town’s severed heyday. Through the lenses she gazed at the clock, now back on its perch on the tower, and ticking away. The lighthouse, now tall atop the hill, shone its round, revolving beam over the breaking waves. On the soft breeze, Phyllis perceived the faraway peal of the church bells as they chimed in the shimmering reminiscence of glory days long gone.

Daddy was right, Phyllis never again ate lobsters as delicious as those on Motherpearl Island.


The Forgotten Castle

Naomi leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. She heaved an enormous yawn and glanced out her bedroom window. The ruined castle shimmered in the setting sun. Often she thought it a mirage, but she knew every nook and cranny of it. It was her favorite haunt, where she and her friends had played hide-and-seek among the ruined walls and crumbling ceilings. Her parents warned her of the dangers of playing among the ruins. Yet the warnings came with half-smiles; they too had played in the castle as children. As their own parents had done before them; a local tradition, a rite-of-passage, perhaps. 

After school, Naomi went to the castle by herself. She needed time alone; it had been a strange and trying day. She walked among the ruins and took a nap on the grass of its derelict courtyard. Leaving, she paused at the crumbling arch of the castle entrance to shake out a stone that had crept its way into her shoe. 

Now, she switched on the desk lamp and returned to her homework.

The sun cast its last rays over the glimmering land, and the castle faded into shadow, as its name had faded into oblivion; its decrepit turrets stood out against the indigo twilight. Naomi closed her schoolwork and switched off the desk lamp. The castle’s lonely silhouette blurred as dusky shadows fell. She stood up, crossed the bedroom and flopped down onto her bed; the ruinous gloomy mass still visible outside her window.

She loved to daydream about the castle’s heyday; the banquets, the tourneys, the dashing knights, and the fair princesses. She knew most of its legends, but loved one in particular. It drew her into the realm of imagination and defined the lonely ruins beyond the windowpane. 

The legend said:

A young knight rode into the hamlet on a horse so exhausted and grimy that its head bowed low to the ground as it trudged along the countryside. The knight’s head hung on his shoulders, heavy with fatigue.

The townspeople, wary of strangers, bolted their doors and shuttered their windows as he passed through the village square. Horse and knight—that ragged bundle of bones and sinew—traipsed towards the castle, unaware of the villagers’ icy reception. Field workers turned their heads away and crossed themselves, believing he was Death itself. No one approached, no one offered assistance. Upon reaching the castle gate, the guards denied the knight entry.

He claimed to be the nobleman’s son returning home, but no one believed him. All knew the son and only heir died in Holy Land; a monk had returned the family seal ring and confirmed the heir’s death. 

The young man pleaded his case.
“I have a crucifix. My mother gave it to me when I left. It bears my name.”

The nobleman asked to see it, but when the knight touched his neck to retrieve the crucifix hung up on it, he blanched. Had he dropped it? 

Unable to prove his identity, the nobleman turned the young knight away. 

He too vanished into oblivion; perhaps he took the castle’s name with him. 

Yet, people say the knight errant still wanders the land, always heading towards the castle.

Naomi’s room was now dark, and the moon beamed upon her outstretched body on the bed. She reached into her pocket and took out the trinket that had sparkled in the soil just beyond the castle grounds. She twirled it around and scratched the dirt off it with her nail; the crucifix dangled on its tarnished chain between her fingers. 

She gazed at the ruined castle.

Glowing in the moonlight, the spectral knight made his eternal and torturous journey home.



Marianne wandered away from the camp in search of firewood. She heard their voices nearby and resolved not to stray too far. She knew the danger of wandering alone in these woods so thick that faint sunlight only seeped in through the dense canopy of the ancient evergreens. This forest teemed with legends of shifting trees, vanishing paths, and whispered voices that led people astray. She gave them no credence—they were just ghost stories—but the forest was notorious for its incidence of missing hikers and strange accidents.

Marianne gathered a few more branches and twigs and tucked them in the crook of her arm. She turned to retrace her steps down the narrow forest path. But, to her surprise, it had disappeared. Marianne pivoted and scanned the forest for the opening in the trees, the jagged rock that jutted out so the path wound around it. She searched for the trail marker painted on the tall oak, but found no sign.

Marianne gulped. She listened for her friends’ laughter and hubbub, but perceived only the soft breeze blowing through the leaves.

“What the…?” She muttered. 

A strange sensation, as if a sinister blanket woven with eerie thread, descended upon her. Her heart raced, her knees buckled, and her arms trembled under the prickly weight of the firewood. Beads of sweat formed on her brow, and Marianne struggled to calm herself.

Did she get turned around somehow? Had she wandered too far away?

Marianne took several deep breaths until the pounding fear subsided. Closing her eyes, she listened, focusing on the soft trickle of the nearby stream. She gauged its direction, and still carrying the firewood, set off to find it. Then she would follow it upstream to the fallen tree; they had camped several yards from it, inward the woods.

Relief escaped from her lips when she found the babbling brook.

The sun’s last rays shot out and sparkled in the water. Marianne trudged along the riverbank upstream; the cloudless sky blazed with red and yellow flames. The oozing dusk began staining the world with its blue light.

Marianne paused for breath and glanced around her, hoping to distinguish a marker towards the campsite. But the woods were dark, engulfed in a haunting gloom. Phantom shadows meandered through the trees. She cast her eyes towards the stream; the water flowed with an unearthly, dark glimmer. 

Lightning flashed upon the riverbank and, startled, Marianne dropped the firewood she still carried. She spied four shimmering apparitions drifting downstream towards her. As they neared, Marianne leaned closer to discern them. Fallen branches? But their blinding, bluish-white glow mystified her. 

Marianne gasped. 

Four bodies floated, feet first, past the riverbank with ghastly faces, shut eyelids and blue lips, their hands crossed upon their chests, as if they lay inside shimmering, watery coffins.

She screamed. 

The first body was her own likeness! Next came the image of Monty, followed by Minnie, then Miranda—the four M’s. 

Marianne plunged her hand into the water, but the wraiths disappeared.

“A mirage!” she breathed with relief.

Wishing to leave, Marianne set off at a brisk trot, always keeping the river by her side. Her breath came in heaves and pants, and tears stung her eyes so that she tripped as they blurred her vision. The fallen tree loomed ahead, and Marianne hurried to reach it.

As she rounded the tree, she found the forest path in the waning sunlight trickling through the leaves, and her friends’ distant voices shattered the eerie gloom.

“Don’t set up,” Marianne panted as she burst into the campsite, “let’s get out of here.”

“Why?” Miranda asked, puzzled by Marianne’s ashen countenance.

“Please let’s go!” Marianne’s gaze darted from one friend to the next like a frightened cat, “This forest warned me to leave.”

Monty shrugged. He never admitted it, but he was superstitious, and he had grown up with the legends too.

Marianne’s frightened expression dried up Minnie’s protests. 

Thunder rumbled in the distance, though the weather forecast had predicted no storms. 

They reached the car parked at the trailhead when heavy raindrops fell. Thunder and lightning were now upon them, and the air was dense with moisture. 

As they drove away Marianne glimpsed the sign pinned up on the board at the trail entrance; “WARNING! FLASH FLOOD AREA!” it screamed.


Down a Country Lane

The car meandered down the country lane. Soft music sounded from the stereo. Heidi threw a quick glance at Claudia in the passenger seat. Her friend’s eyes were open, but she stared into space. Their chatter had ebbed minutes before as the length of the drive, the late hour, and the exciting evening took its toll on the two middle-aged ladies.

They had driven two hours to the city to attend a ballet performance of Giselle. Heidi figured the ballerinas in billowing tutus still danced before Claudia’s eyes. Heidi yawned and rubbed her eyelid. 

“Do you want me to drive?” Claudia asked.

“No, I’m fine, maybe a little tired,” Heidi answered.

Claudia nodded and turned up the volume. The turbulent opening notes of Mussorgsky’s A Night on Bald Mountain blared from the speakers. 

Now and again, a half-moon peeked between the boughs overhanging the lane. The narrow road wound through the forest; the October wind blew dead leaves across the crooked and snaky asphalt. Heidi shuddered. The long scraggly branches shone with spectral whiteness in the car’s high beams. The haunting Giselle still danced in her mind as A Night on Bald Mountain’s powerful and frenzied tune filled the car.

Then the car stalled. Its lights flashed and blinked as the engine sputtered. Heaving a desolate sigh, it coasted to a stop. Heidi flicked the ignition, but the engine was dead. Even the stereo was silent.

“What’s going on?” Claudia’s voice oscillated between confusion and apprehension.

“I don’t know, the car stopped, just like that.”

“Now what?” Claudia asked; her voice rising an octave, and her eyes brimming with alarm.

“Call AAA?” Heidi shrugged, refusing to show her growing anxiety.

Heidi reached into the backseat for her purse, and was fumbling in it for her cell phone when Claudia spoke.

“What an eerie night! It’s so still and silent… Have you ever known the forest to be this silent?”

Heidi paused with her hand still in her purse.

“No,” she conceded and glanced at her watch, “it’s not even midnight; the world quiets down around 3 AM.”

“I know, but listen, nothing is moving.”

“Sure there is.” 

Heidi opened the door, thinking how, if they had been in her old car, she could have rolled down the window. Her son had bought her this new car and had touted the electric windows as the eighth wonder of the world. 

Icy air cooled her arm, but did not blow through the car, as if it did not want to enter. Heidi listened. Claudia was right. No owl hooted, no cricket chirped, and no breeze blew, despite the swaying branches of moments ago.

Heidi shivered. She closed the door and rubbed her goosebumps.

“Gosh it’s cold out! The forecast claimed it would only be in the low 60s tonight. I’d say it’s more like the low 30s!”

Heidi tried the ignition again, to no avail. Claudia, meanwhile, had fumbled in her own purse and had taken out her cell phone. She put the phone to her ear. 

Frowning, Claudia said, “No signal, try yours?”

Heidi pulled out her phone.
“Nada, zilch, we’re on our own.”

The two friends stared at one another at a loss for what next, when the sound of giggling laughter seeped into the car. It was faint, yet crescendoing as female voices approached. 

Heidi and Claudia sighed with relief.

The trees beside the lane rustled, and the women discerned soft firelights floating between the wraithlike trunks. The lights bobbed and wove, fluttering between the branches. For a moment, Heidi thought it was Giselle and her spooky friends.

The sparkling lights burst through the trees and dozens of women carrying lanterns danced onto the lane.

“They’re stark naked!” Claudia exclaimed.

Not all were flitting about in their birthday suits in the nippy cold air; a few wore long, flowing nightgowns. Heidi tried to say so, but the words stuck in her throat.

Bug-eyed, they watched the twirling women. 

The car shook when the uncanny dancers surrounded it, and a biting cold chilled the friends to the bone. The frolicking sprites crossed the lane and vanished into the woods.

“They… They…” Claudia stammered. 

“They passed right through us; through the car, through the seats, and right through you and me!” Heidi wheezed. 

“My God!” Claudia shrieked. 

Just then, A Night on Bald Mountain resumed, and the car gasped to life.


By the Light of Twin Moons

Johnny Seaver and Alondra trudged up the jagged, barren mountainside of sand and rock. 

The two bright moons, round in their full splendor, lit up the sky so torches were unnecessary. Belenos had directed them to meet him at the top at midnight. Johnny and Alondra set out early in the evening. When they emerged from the residence, the hustle and bustle beyond Belenos’s door surprised Johnny.

Belenos’s people had hewn all dwellings into the mountain; Johnny wondered if they had stumbled upon ancient cave folk. Upon seeing Johnny and Alondra, Belenos’s neighbors scurried into their own homes; their eyes ever wary of the two strangers. Like Belenos, his neighbors were tall, and, in the sparkling sunset, their long shadows shimmered like meandering tendrils. Alondra wondered if perhaps these people might be shadows themselves…

“You know,” Alondra said, “they speak the language of the Ancients, perhaps these are the giants David defeated?”

Johnny whispered, “I always thought ancient humans were shorter.”

“I doubt they are humans,” Alondra murmured, as a shadow slunk past them.

“Then, what are they?” Johnny asked.

“The Ancients,” Alondra replied, “they who enter our dreams, live in our forests and rivers, and seas. The masters of air, water, fire and earth.”

“You mean mythical beings?”

Alondra shrugged.

They were on the outskirts of town, following the barren path Belenos had pointed out, and beginning their upward climb. Alondra and Johnny soon grew silent; the ascent up the steep mountainside too strenuous for talk.

Johnny wondered if they could rest; he was having trouble keeping up with Alondra. She seemed to never tire of walking.

Two things are obvious. I traveled back in time and met Alondra, and we are not on planet Earth.

“So then,” Johnny murmured, “where are we?”

“Pardon?” Alondra asked but Johnny ignored her; his pensive expression told Alondra he was not talking to her.

In Belenos’s home, Johnny had kept track of night and day, and he surmised they were about the same length as on Earth.

As far as he knew, no one had ever discovered other Earth-like planets. Dad always said the idea was all based on statistics and suppositions. 

“The moons only seem identical,” Alondra spoke up, “but they are not. The shadows on one moon mirror the shadows on the other. Also, one glows with a faint copper hue.”

Johnny huffed as he toiled up the rocks and paused for a moment to gaze at the moons. 

He gasped, “We’re in another dimension!” 

Alondra stopped ahead of him and fixed him with a puzzled expression.

“Yes,” Belenos said.

He sat atop a jagged rock; Johnny, startled out of his reverie, realized they had reached the top.

The moonlight shone on Belenos and gave his skin a magical glow.

A deep, lush valley stretched below them, with trees so thick and strong Johnny thought a squirrel never need touch the ground.

The peak where they stood was arid, but the curly canopy of trees adorned the skirts of the mountain, like frills on a dress.

Johnny glanced back towards the desert, scraggy path and realized where they had been. Belenos and his people lived inside a volcano!

“Now,” Belenos’s deep voice rang out through the night, “we must meet one who can answer your questions.”

Belenos smiled and rose.

“Come, he awaits us.” 


The Dinner

Jennifer’s teeth scraped against her fork and it bothered Gary. This was one of Jennifer’s many quirks and foibles that needled him to no end.

“So, Gary,” Mr. Darrowby spoke just before he swallowed his mouthful, “would you step into my office tomorrow before the meeting? I have some pointers to run by you.”

Gary nodded; Mr. Darrowby had taken another bite before finishing the sentence. Jennifer had inherited that irritating habit from Mr. Darrowby, her father. She was the boss’s daughter, and though Gary had at first ignored the phrase, “Don’t dip your pen in the company ink,” he now saw its wisdom. 

Jennifer had enchanted Gary when he had met her at the company picnic. But now, almost a year later, the spell had faded. Sure, Jennifer was still as beautiful as ever, but all the little gestures he had once found charming, now annoyed him.

“Oh, honey, please don’t forget the about the dinner party tomorrow. I think you should wear the blue tie I gave you,” Jennifer directed her gaze at him. 

Gary pursed his lips and smiled through gritted teeth. She nagged. She always nagged; and he hated it.

She was always telling him what to do, how to dress, who to be. Gary often wondered why she stayed with him at all; he was not the right person for her if she always found something to correct.

Mrs. Darrowby, Jennifer’s mother, never raised her eyes from the plate. Gary often thought she hated him, but Jennifer assured him she was just a silent person, taciturn even, whose only ambition in life was to read novels all day.

Gary sighed and shoveled food into his mouth. Yet again, he was dining with his girlfriend’s family in their big ornate house, with their expensive, ornate silverware and no conversation worth having. Mr. Darrowby only talked about work, Jennifer about his minor faults, and Mrs. Darrowby said nothing.

A clock ticked in the next room. The fact Gary heard it was a testament to the hollow dinner.

Empty, Gary thought, they have all these things, their house is full, they want for nothing and yet; they are empty.

He cast his gaze over the expensive dining table, the crystal chandeliers, the antique sideboard and all the fine art on the walls. His eyes settled on Mrs. Darrowby, and Gary’s heart skipped with apprehension when he caught her gazing at him.

He avoided her eyes and glanced at the floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows which opened to a spacious terrace overlooking the perfect, manicured grounds. No wild plants grew on the Darrowby estate; all, even nature, was under control here. 

As night fell, the tall cypresses beyond the terrace cast long shadows upon it. The full moon was high in the sky and shining its bright light on the stone floor. Jennifer prattled on about something or other. Gary, lost in his own world, imagined himself living in this big house with a bottomless fortune at his disposal. What would he do with it? What did the Darrowbys do with it? Jennifer flitted from party to party; a fundraiser here, a charity ball there. Mr. Darrowby lived only for work and golf. And Mrs. Darrowby… who knows what Mrs. Darrowby did?

Gary felt her eyes on him again and met her gaze; kind and… nostalgic? Melancholy? He could not describe it. Since he had known her, she had never gazed at him that way. Her eyes had always seemed distant.

The power went out. 

Gary shrugged; it happened in the best of houses too.

Jennifer whimpered as if the world was ending. Mr. Darrowby hollered for the butler to do something about it.

Where Gary came from, power outages were the daily bread. These elicited groans, curses and even giggles, but not cries of despair. In moments like these, the difference in their upbringing was palpable. Emotions had filled Gary’s home, ranging from love to anger, with laughter and tears and sweet nothings and cusses. Jennifer’s childhood had comprised servants and tutors and money, lots and lots of money.

“Maybe a fuse blew,” Gary said, though he doubted it because the entire house had gone quiet, which suggested a general power outage.

“Daddy, what do we do?” Jennifer’s high-pitched voice cracked with fear.

“Now, now sweetie, it’s all right.”

Gary rolled his eyes while Mr. Darrowby comforted Jennifer. 

Gary’s gaze wandered to the windows; he discerned Mrs. Darrowby’s figure silhouetted in the moonlight. She remained quiet and pensive in her seat. Chairs scraped as Mr. Darrowby and Jennifer left the table. Mr. Darrowby searched for the butler, and Jennifer tagged along to give the man a piece of her mind for not fixing the power. Their voices faded into the adjoining hallways.

“Leave her,” Mrs. Darrowby said into the darkness.

“I beg your pardon?” Gary replied, taken aback.

“Leave her,” Mrs. Darrowby said, “don’t worry about Jennifer, she’s callous and she’ll get over you. She’ll meet someone else, someone like her, who loves parties and dinners and money.”

“I, I…” Gary stammered in disbelief.

“She is my daughter and I love her,” Mrs. Darrowby continued, “but she takes after her father. They are both cold and calculating. I found out the hard way there is no happiness when you marry into a life of luxury, especially when you wed someone who sees wrong in everything you do. I know you wonder whether you are right for her, but, she is not worthy of you. She won’t change, ever; no dashing knight can rescue her from this life she loves to live. Go, your happiness and wellbeing are far more important.”

The power returned and Gary noticed for the first time the sadness in Mrs. Darrowby’s bland and pale face.

Mr. Darrowby and Jennifer shuffled into the dining room. Gary’s eyes followed Jennifer as she resumed her seat.

“Eat up, darling, so we can have dessert,” Jennifer ordered. 

Gary turned towards the windows. Reflected in the windowpanes, he saw his own face wearing Mrs. Darrowby’s miserable expression; an omen of a potential future.



Armistice turned on the porch light, its dim rays cast themselves over the steps. Soft raindrops trickled from the wooden beams onto the flowerpots beneath them. Damp earth and honeysuckle perfumed the warm, rainy evening, and the music of chirping crickets mingled with the hoarse croak of frogs in the nearby pond. 

Sipping his coffee, Armistice sat down on his rocking chair beside the door and gazed over the meadow. This had been his father’s cabin; the weekend getaway. Here he had grown up swimming in the pond, collecting berries in the neighboring bog and chasing the fireflies that had once glimmered in the meadow surrounding the cabin. In his old age, and despite his children’s protests, he now lived in it, as rooted to this home as the honeysuckle that crept up the porch columns. Armistice knew not how many evenings as perfect as this he had left to enjoy. 

Born on the very day World War I ended, Armistice was now one-hundred-and-two years old and fit as a fiddle. His bones creaked, and he had lost the youthful spring in his step, but his mind remained as clear and bright as a summer’s day. He spent his mornings playing with the cryptic crosswords and logic puzzles on the big large-print books he received in the mail. Much to the chagrin of his occasional visiting grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he mopped the floor with them at trivia. After lunch, he took a folding chair to the pond and read until his eyes hurt from strain; books littered his home, jammed into bookshelves and piled into tall pillars that leaned against the walls. When the day cooled, he worked in his vegetable garden, trimming here and nipping there, kneeling for hours while the soil burrowed deep into his fingernails.  

But to Armistice, the evenings on the porch were the cherry on top. This was the time of day he let his mind wander over the memories of his long life. He would sit and stare for hours, eyes gazing into a chasm of nothing, while his brain replayed with vivid clarity the events of past decades. His arm would lift the coffee cup to his lips and he would sip it like an automaton, though he savored only memories. 

The frogs ceased their croaking as a cloud burst open and rain fell in a thick dense shower, its steady shoosh reminiscent of the radio static of his youth. A soft foxtrot melody oozed into Armistice’s mind. It crackled and popped as the record spun around the jukebox. A smile bloomed on his lips and Armistice’s fingers tip-tapped on the wooden arm of the rocking chair. His legs beat to a long-forgotten rhythm.

Distant thunder rolled down from the mountains, yet Armistice heard only the sound of dancing feet and joyous hubbub. Lightning flashed and lit up the trees lining the meadow. Armistice’s eyes saw only Ann Thrope’s radiant smile as she danced under the string of lights that radiated outward from the gazebo and festooned the town green. To Armistice no one was lovelier, then or now. 

He watched her slim figure as she thread and wove with graceful movements around the dancing couples. She danced in Florian’s arms and Armistice’s gut knotted with jealousy and longing. For Armistice, there was no one but Ann Thrope; for Miss Ann Thrope there was no one but Florian. 

Armistice heaved a forlorn sigh laden with unrequited love and apprehension for the days to come. He had received a telegram; the United States government required Armistice’s service in the military. In a few days he would ship out to the other side of the world, places he’d only seen on the maps tacked to the walls at school. 

Oh, the irony of life, born at the end of one war, only to be among the first drafted into the next one. 

Even if tonight, by divine intervention, he caught Ann Thrope’s attention and wrested it away from Florian, what good would it do? He would leave for war and he knew too well its horrors, having lived through them in the letters from his perished uncle he had found among his father’s things. Florian was a formidable rival, handsome, intelligent and amiable, and Armistice knew his chances against him were slim to none. 

A clap of thunder brought Armistice out of his reverie, but his mind slipped right back into bygone days. This time, he roared above the clouds, dashing and swooping like an eagle hunting for enemy planes. Despite such a peace-bringing name, Armistice was born for war. He never enjoyed it, but he was skilled at it, and in the heavens of a continent in ruins, he had taken to war like a duck to water. Flight came to him as natural as it comes to a bird. 

As the storm intensified, so did the memories. Every thunderclap became the rat-tat-tat of bullets zipping through the air. Airplanes exploded in his mind with every lightning flash. The roaring wind gusted through his brain like the engine of his Warhawk as he soared through the skies, killing enemies left and right. 

Despite the death and destruction, Miss Ann Thrope had always remained an illusion as untouchable as manna, yet as welcome and homely as apple pie.  

A gust of wind blew raindrops onto the porch and splashed Armistice. The memories faded and his gaze focused on the porch, the flowerpots that lined its edge and the water dripping from its beams. He picked up the cup and took a sip; the coffee had gone cold and tasted bitter. He stood up, creaking as loud as his old rocking chair, and entered the house. 

He came back from the war in one piece, saddened by the loss of fallen brethren, but strong in body and sound of mind. In the years to come, he would watch many loved ones die, including Nancy, his loving wife who had planted the honeysuckle that scented his evenings on the porch.

Upon his return, Armistice had sought Ann Thrope. He had knocked on her door; she would not see him. 

“Florian died,” her mother had said, “it was a terrible accident, she won’t see anyone.” 

Armistice had taken one last look at the dream he had cherished all these years, folded it into a letter, placed it in an envelope, and never mailed it.

That last sip of coffee was still bitter in his mouth.

In the kitchen, he cut himself a slice of his daughter’s apple pie. The sweetness filled his palate. He smiled as Miss Ann Thrope danced through his mind; a flitting dream he only indulged in on perfect evenings.