Willie & To Whom It May Concern

Never once did he sleep in that dog house. I wondered why we even bought it. Probably it was for show, like lugging home a ten pound bag of food from Petco over the shoulder without a cart or anything. A cart would have been easier, but in all actuality it was just to be seen carrying home Eukanuba across the parking lot. But maybe we bought that plastic piece of shit because of he loved being outside. I know, mostly all dogs love being outside, but he wouldn’t even go inside at first. When we brought him home from Desoto that night, he just plopped himself down inside the 12 inch hole inside the gardening hose. He was an awfully cute puppy; soft auburn fur, little white strip down his nose, and those eyes. He had the prettiest amber eyes. The first few months, my parents had trouble putting the camera down to say the least. But he was more than puppy dog eyes, he was behaved too. The first car ride home he didn’t yelp or whine, didn’t piss all over the Jimmy, he just sat their quietly as if contemplating the universe not even moving an inch. This little car ride was made into a legend at family gatherings by my mom along with the “how Kelley and him chose each other” story. My mom and dad, always so proud of him. When I tell Willie “I’ll be back” he just lies down, they would say, and then he’ll jump all over me when I come home.
He did jump a lot. A petite five year old like me at the time was an easy target; I’d just fall like a domino against his lean body. Whenever he contracted those legs, I learned to stay out of the way. Deer! Springing up like a gazelle, his back legs looked like they were in a race against each other as he’d zoom from pavement to grass. Ears perked up and eyes consumed with raw excitement, he’d run into the woods, fearless.
I used to play with him on the deck when we were younger. I remember ripping the squirrel out of his mouth and throwing it over the green roof of the doghouse; he’d catch it and run away, asking me to chase after him. After a few years later, I got tired. The game had just gotten too immature for me, too childish. A couple runs around the couch, he’d be hiding behind the ottoman waiting for me again, wagging his little brown nub, the little squirrel’s rangy head peeping through his mouth. I would just look at him, smiling as if it made it all better, and walked downstairs. No “I quit” or anything, just a stupid smile. I stepped on the second stair and looked back; he was still waiting for me, stretching out onto his back legs, eyes eager. Yet, I took another step and another, and gradually he faded out of view.
Now, I regret it. Now, I wish I would have taken a step up instead of down. Now, I wish I would’ve grabbed that squirrel by the head and pulled it out of your mouth just to throw it one more time. One more run around the couch. One more wet sandpapery kiss that you gave out so richly. I promise I won’t take any of it for granite this time.
There were so many more things I wanted us to do. I wanted us to be closer. You and I on my bed all night with the windows open so we could listen to the wind and you would rest your head on my lap as I’d put my fingers through your hair. I would comfort you when there was a storm. But you didn’t like the basement, and I was too tired.
You’re so weak now. I’m afraid to even touch your fragile body, so boney and hollow. Your cancer took us by shock. The doctor said it could have sprung up over night, and all I kept thinking about was your back legs springing up like a gazelle just a month ago chasing the mouse that lives under the basketball hoop. Just six months ago, I didn’t think it could be your last Christmas or your last Easter in April. Even three weeks ago, I didn’t even think it could be your last weekend at the lake.
Before you leave, I just want you to know I have learned so much from you the past 11 years. I’m so envious of your excitement for each day, even if your only plan is a five hour nap at 1. And I can’t help but admire your strength, especially when you can’t even stand on those back legs anymore. I know it kills you. Most of all, I’m in awe of your compassion. Protecting me even when I turned my back on you. Just forgiving and loving me again.
Wherever you go, know that I’ll be back and I love you.

An Artist's Laundry

They asked her why she did it. She ran her fingers through her hair hiding her wrists and didn’t really know what to say except, let me show you.
See, she was an artist, a painter to be exact. She used every color in her $30 paint set, mixing all afternoon and painting all night on paper, canvas, whatever she could get her hands on. In general, she was good. Her style was dramatic and mysterious but always sincere. She burned a hot streak of red down the paper, and the rest of the painting came to her instantly. Quickly and precisely, she made purple, orange, and blue strokes down the easel. She hardly thought about it; every movement was fluid and necessary. They waited impatiently watching her seamless painting come to life.
Although she was clean on paper, her clothes were often grossly overlooked while she painted. She always sported paint specks and blotches. Even in her room, the stains blemished the carpet and walls. Sometimes the little spots would bother her so much, she would avoid the den where the paints always were just to liberate herself from the greens and reds and whites. But she would always stumble back into that den eventually, and like a medication, she would twist open the orange’s cap with anxiety and exhilaration. After a long night of dipping and swishing, she would put down her brush and take off her dirty clothes, stained with little drops of perspective. The bathroom horded piles of clothes. Often, she couldn’t even close the door properly because the dirty clothes. Clothes and paint, she hated them.
One day when they weren’t looking, the clothes and paint made her do it. She wasn’t the type who would, but there was too much paint and too many piles that day. Her hand hovered next to the paper as she thought about it. Her poor skin, it had no chance. It tore so easily, and the blood bubbled so quickly, it was hardly memorable. She just remembered sitting there on the dirty, paint soiled clothes crying sickening tears. Her eyes hurt so badly afterward, but she felt the relief immediately. All her toxins were temporarily gone, all that bad blood. Quickly, she rinsed off her arm thoroughly under the cold tap and went back to the den.
“Done,” she announced stepping to the side. They viewed her work with predisposed scrutiny and beady eyes. However, she was uninterested in their verdict. Although she wasn’t very good at laundry, she wasn’t an addict either. She would always be a painter with her paint set and dirty clothes.

Diary of a Dream Home

When Lindsay and Mark got married, they built a beautiful home on Waterbrook Drive, one of the more expensive neighborhoods in Elk Cove. Charming red-brown bricks and four strong standing columns guarded their house with a two level deck in the back. In the front yard, maple trees lined the driveway and elegant rose bushes were neatly trimmed by the front door. “Our house is by far the best one on the block,” commented Mark. Lindsay nodded. The couple couldn’t be happier.

Years passed and the young couple now had a child. The gorgeous baby girl’s name was Megan. She had blue eyes with a green silhouette and fluffy auburn hair. Shortly after her birth, Mark’s mom was a regular guest. They cooed over Megan for hours and forgot about House’s bath. House didn’t mind though, it preferred waiting another year for the living room window scrub, because usually Mark’s squeegees tickled House.” Lindsay and Mark are just too busy with Megan and work,” House reassured himself, “I kind of enjoy the activity anyway”. After all, the busy family was still happy.

More years went by and the family still appeared happy. Megan, Lindsay, and Mark were all in good health, including their cat Luke. House remained in beautiful condition. However, their perfectly wrapped family was coming undone. Inside their room, the lovely couple fought about everything sometimes even House. While outside the door, little Megan cried grasping her doll. Every night when tensions would rise, House stand tall as it was instructed and would not speak. When the family set out with smiles each morning, House still felt the ugly shadows left behind and still said nothing. Eventually, House lost his voice. Now the family could only be seen happy on the wall by the stairwell.

Even more time slipped by and the house was still considered a dream home to envious neighbors. It was immaculately clean; a cleaning crew came once a year to wash the house’s windows. They never used the ticklish ones. The deck glowed with a weather resistant coating and the lawn care service always did a good job keeping up with the grass. Nevertheless, the beautiful house was alone. Mark “took a job in the city” last year, Lindsay was always at work or something, and Megan ran a lot after school. All the pictures by the stairwell were taken down after Mark moved out and all traces of their happy family were missing. On the outside the house was still great, but the inside was hollow and drafty.

The Witch on Main Street

“There’s where the witch lives,” said Johnny pointing at the sun bleached wooden house down the street. He bounced his kickball against the garage door and smirked slyly at Billy. “C’mon,” he called dropping the ball in the lawn, “Let’s ring her door!”

“Are you crazy?!” Billy cried flapping his arms at his brave little friend. Johnny proceeded inattentively toward the end of Main Street. The two boys only made it past the first beige house with the blue door when Johnny’s dad spotted them coming home from work. “Where you boys going?” he asked wearily. His dad was a tired man, ever since Johnny could remember, never up for games or adventure.

“He’s making me go to the witch- ouch!” Billy yelped rubbing his pudgy foot, “Why did have you step on my foot?” He glared at his friend. “Nowhere,” responded Johnny. His dad lowered his sunglasses, and his vibrant green eyes squinted over the horizon. The sun was still caressing the hills with seemingly endless light even at supper time. “Be back before dark,” his dad said driving away. The summer heat made the sun stay out longer, which was good for the boys.

Finally after many beige houses with blue doors later, the two boys had made it to the witch’s house. Billy let out a yelp as Johnny’s foot crunched the dead grass on the lawn. Moving as quickly and lightly as possible, Johnny crept toward the doorbell. “Three more steps, two more steps,” he counted.

On the sidewalk, Billy’s eyes jolted back into his head and barely could gasp for air. Through a yellow stained window, a dark shadow hunched over, motionless. Only its long fingers brushed along the sill. “Johnny!” he screamed. Dong… dong. Suddenly, Johnny’s legs froze. He slowly turned his head to Billy who was pointing at the moving figure in the window. “Run!” Billy shouted, “she’s coming!” Johnny panicked. All he wanted to do was run away from the disturbingly hollow shack, but his legs were confined to the wooden step. The witch must have done it, he thought, she must have put some sort of curse on him. “Help! My legs are stuck!” he cried. But Billy’s stubby legs were already wobbling down the sidewalk in distress.

“They always run away,” a voice murmured. Johnny felt the breath crawling down his neck. He prepared for the worst as he turned around and in return, received exactly what he imagined. The witch was aged; her pale skin was dotted with discolored bumps and her wrinkles seemed more like cuts with closer inspection. Her eyes, however, were untouched by the years. The blue color looked as though it was painted on. A mix of ocean water and summer skies.

“I-I’m sorry,” he quivered. The words tingled off his lips so coarsely, they stung. The old woman sighed looking down the overgrown cobblestone pathway. A gust of wind blew the last leaves off the dead tree in the yard, and the empty house wept as the warm air struck. “Please come in,” she said offering the chair in the corner. Slightly intrigued, Johnny took a seat on the red velvet armchair placed next to a warm fireplace. The old lady carefully placed herself in a quaint rocker across from him. Johnny smiled thinking how wrong he was about the witch. Although she barely said a couple sentences, the house itself contained most of the charm. An antique chandelier hung above his left and fragrant flowers sat in the center of a round coffee table. However, the entire room looked like an old photograph, Johnny noted. He blinked a few times to make sure. But in fact, the house seemed yellowed. The rugs, the windows, the furniture all stained in shades of umber.

“What is your name?” she asked pouring a glass of water from the coffee table offering it to him. He kindly accepted.

“Johnny” he answered, “and yours?”

“It’s Emily.”

“Who’s that?” Johnny curiously pointed to the 10 inch photo centered on the fireplace. The man was handsome and oddly familiar; a genuine smile showed only a hint of his teeth and his chest was raised as though he was taking in a breath of refreshing air. The picture was faded, but the tint of the room made it less noticeable.

“Jack…” Emily’s blue eyes drifted off into the photo, “doesn’t he look happy?”

Johnny nodded.

“He and I were happy then. Yes, we spent all our time together. Soul mates, we were. Me and Jack…”

“Then what happened?”

“I’m not sure,” she said clearing her voice. Johnny took careful inspection of the photo and noticed his eyes were green. Quickly he set it back noticing the reflection of his face melt into the frame.

“You remind me of Jack,” Emily smiled.

Johnny’s throat tensed.

“Your curiosity I suppose.” Slightly relieved by this, he concluded it was just a coincidence.

“Well, you better run along home,” she said, “but I did enjoy your company”. Johnny looked out the window to see he had just enough time to get home before dark. He smiled at Emily and left quietly from the rotted front door.

Unfortunately, he forgot about the sunset colored windows. The night had already consumed the pale blue skies. It couldn’t have been more than an hour, he thought, I can’t believe I was there that long.

He shook off the house’s stale odor and breathed the night air. Even though Johnny knew his dad would be angry about missing the curfew, he couldn’t wait to tell the boys at school he went inside the witch’s house.