Nobody Can Say It's You

66

"Anna!" Hadley said. "How's the reading competition going?"

"Better than I could have hoped," Anna said. "I went to the schools and let the kids get involved with what they wanted the competition to look like. It's been amazing."

"I'm glad," said Hadley.

"Give me your email address, Hadley," Anna said. "I want to send this particular entry to you. It's by one of the upperclassmen. It's haunting, but it's been submitted anonymously. I have no idea who the author is. Read the entry and let me know what you think. Parts of it are quite good. Other parts are, well, scary."

Anna had peaked Hadley's curiosity. She couldn't wait to open the email.

***

Morning Mist and Evening's Dew

Shining moon.

Little Star.

Star and Sun in Heaven.

The morning mist lies heavy on the grass in the meadow. Each droplet is pure and as fresh as the new day's dawn. I walk among the trilliums, banked against a rocky outcrop. Their snowy petals open, unfold, and bend back to catch the first golden rays of the morning's sun.

They grow thick here, the trilliums. Pushing and crowding this end of the meadow, they blanket the soil like snowflakes on a sea of green. No one disturbs their quiet revelry as they sway in the breeze. We are alone, my trilliums and I. This is such a beautiful, peaceful moment.

A fawn peeks out from the woods, far down the hollow. Its white spots are as bright as the trilliums, still clinging to their dewy droplets like kids fresh from a dip in the icy creek. The little deer looks my way, then turns and bolts and disappears in the purple shadows of the forest. Wandering deeper into the woods, I stop by the brook. The water topples over the rocks, gurgling and playing their happy song.

Nearby, a huge tree clings to its banks. The roots are gnarled and pop up from the rocky bed like Granny's knuckles. Oconee bells dance nearby, a delicate skirt of green decorating the base of the old tree with small, bell-shaped blossoms. I blow a kiss to them and wave good-bye.

The pennyworts and creeping bluets greet me on my stroll. Touch-me-nots and umbrella leaves sway as I walk by. A big box turtle creeps across my path. I squat to mark his rolling gait. He munches on a bright red wild strawberry. I leave him to his breakfast.

The sun is getting stronger, and the mist melts away like frost in a spring thaw.

The old fox screams and runs blindly down the path.

His voice is high and thin. Eerie. Like the loon. There is blood on his muzzle. His teeth drip red from the kill. He is a savage, his mind crazed. But he is still wily, steeped in the old ways and only devours the weak or the slow to survive. He is a child of the wilderness.

The old ways are a withering vine.

The wisdom of the ages falls prey to modern life.

Shining moon.

Little Star.

There are other children who tromp about this paradise who do not care what they destroy. They play among the trilliums and laugh as they pull them up one by one and sprinkle the wilting blossoms like a carpet of bitter tears trailing behind as they make love by the babbling brook.

They are young, these two.

Adam and Eve in their playground designed by the gods.

They laugh.

They fight.

They talk of insignificant things.

They are alone in their little world.

I see her in my dreams.

Half of the whole.

Darkness and shadow.

Inside the crystal clear, I see.

You do not stop to hear the trill of songbirds near. You do not stay and watch the butterflies alight. There is no time for such. No thought for beauty or simple pleasure. No star shine of delight.

There is no time. No time. No time for purity.

Too busy in your devilment. Too lost in the moment of passion's sensual pleasure. Too young. Too in love.

You mock, in pure disdain, the olden ways too plain. He is not yours. You are alone, the one and one. Not two but merely one.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

The gods look down and cry. So beautiful you are. So tender. So heartless and so free.

Could you be the devil's seed?

You sow such misery. Child of gold, flower of youth in Garden's Eden play. The bounty of the earth is yours to do with as you may.

The moonflower blooms. The devil's weed. A perfect potion for his seed.

Exotic perfume. Beauty's baneful button, white and shimmering.

A tea party. Alice and the mad hatter come.

And Death, robed in black, his sickle dripping red.

Moonflower.

Delirious visions.

Fleeting madness.

Delusion. Illusion. Apparation. Mirage.

A moment's madness.

Bitter libation. Festering bloom.

Caught in a web of lies.

Run towards your tomb.

You have poisoned, poisoned, poisoned all that you have ever touched.

You have poisoned him, so filled with sin and woe.

Crazy howling in his head.

Hard to hear. For now, he's dead.

Asylum's child. Lost in the maze.

Nothing's clear. It's all a haze.

Doom is heavy on his brow.

Ready! Set! Go! The time is now. The time is now.

And he is lost. And he is lost to horrors unimaginable.