Mckenna Wakes

  My Summer Job, as Bait. I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Henry. I had just finished school in the spring and headed tome to northern Maine. The plan was to stay at home through the winter and head west in the springtime. Mom and Dad were over the moon at the idea of me staying. My old room, the familiar smell of breakfast in the morning was comforting. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed home. Over breakfast, I asked my dad if he knew of any potential leads for a summer job, something to “keep me busy.” He chuckled. “Actually, I do. My friend owns a house up in the mountains. Told me he’s been struggling to find a housekeeper. Watching over some big place in the hills sounds right up your alley.” I really liked the sound of that. With my dad’s friend’s number written down, I finished breakfast and prepared my pitch — though I wouldn’t need it after all. The guy’s name was Derek, and he was surprisingly easygoing. He practically offered me the job before I even...

  Broken Broken legs, sat atop broken feet. Shattered pot, hull of broken meat. A crooked stick, a narrow string. Sounds above, panic sleep. Dirt cascading, ringing ears. New sensation, age old fears. Over, and over again bodies lie longways in rows along courtyards. Families made one, or two. Lost in the dust which hangs near and about war trodden dirt. The hills remember, and weep. As the sons and the daughters of all those around the world. Brighter lights may shine, but they shine in the eyes of those accused. The cascading plenty leaves narrow streaks of misery draped across our world. Every grape has been grown with the blood of the strong willed, and when the ground dries up the wine with it. Speak not, least ye be heard.

  Living Ghost when I was seven years old, just on the cusp of memory and soft imagination, my mother, sister and I moved into a very strange place. I remember a lot of pieces of my childhood, like flashes out of the corner of my eye, I can so nearly make out the moments that defined my younger years. Many memories of the trailer my family moved too are hazy. Some more memorable, like birthday parties, or particularly big storms. And other memories are more faint, like the sound my sisters door curtain made when you walked through it. She has this curtain made of strings of purple plastic beads that hung in her doorway, this was a trend in the 90’s and although faint, its a sound that haunted my dreams. Mu Grandparents lived across the street, and down a long driveway in a two story farm house, aged by the solid whitewashed brickwork that made up the walls. Sturdy and filled with large wooden framed windows.. .The home sat beside a large barn where my grandfather sto...