ShrtStry

The hour of midnight was cleaved open by the ringing of a telephone. It reverberated through the valley, thickening the fields of late summer wheat with the sound. There between the yawning fields and the hills that migrated ever skyward rested a farmhouse, which cast its shadow into the night and was known to the sparse inhabitants of the valley as kin to the river and the woods that huddled thickly on all sides.

The farmhouse, which was built with beams of those same forest’s bones and stones carried in from a quarry that served its time now as a lake beloved in high summer afternoons, had housed a family, as most houses have at one time or another. That family, referred to as sturdy farm folk by the kind, and less favorable words by others, kept to themselves, the animals, and their farm duties with the exceptions of holy days, when mass or other devotional inclinations might lead them to make a pilgrimage to church or someone’s front stoop.

Many families that traced their roots to the valley had dwindled into the dusk of the years, losing generations to the greedy hand of war, the booming call of industry, or the silver tongued allure of academia in far off universities. Still, the houses never fully emptied, the scents of evening meals and the glow of muted fires never fully abandoned the valley to that witching darkness.

The farmhouse loomed over the dead end of the village’s one winding road, better known to the hooves of cattle than any sparse automobile or even the booted feet of workers weary from work beneath the glaring sun. The front yard busied itself from dawn until dusk with roaming chickens, cats that stalked vermin from the attic to the furthest of fields, and children, blonde haired and bare footed, exchanging cries for laughter with the frequency of September storms. If you were to ask, in a friendly exchange with the grocer perhaps or the pastor after mass, in that offhanded way of country gossip, how many children the farmhouse and its keepers managed, or really much else about the family outside of the recipe for the mother’s rhubarb pie that she brought to the Easter picnic each year, you’d be left with little more than a shrug or a shared whisper of curiosity.

What was best known about the family was that there was never a lonely one among them for all the company they kept within those walls, they had always been there in the valley like wild garlic or the riverbed, and it seemed they always would be.

Now if you had asked anyone in the village or valley proper what they were up to now, no one could quite remember the last time the family had come by, to the one room chapel or the bakery on Main Street, but no one honestly put much thought into remembering. If they had, they may have also wondered about the last time they had heard the bellowing of a cow being herded into the barn out of the evening chill, or the last piercing squeal of a pig being led to the chopping block behind the barn for slaughter. No one noticed how tall and thick the wheat had grown over these blistering summer months, how they had waned from green to gold and still sent their collective whisper into the early mornings and timid dusks.

The phone rang, fracturing the night as windows in the distance awoke into curious gold. As the night stretched onwards over the spectral hour of deepest night, the farmhouse remained dark, silent in between those shrill rings, like the beating of a furious heart.

By Ariel Moniz

The family had lived there for some time now. The walls had trinkets and photos of all the different events and members that have come and gone throughout the years. The house looked lived-in and had the scars of children that were now adults. Certain rooms had hosted memories of heartbreak and broken promises, while other rooms were converted from baby rooms to music poster-filled walls.

The youngest child had finally left for college and as the car pulled away from the well-paved parking lot, the mother and father waved tenderly goodbye. The daughter looked at her rearview mirror staring at her parents until they were out of sight. A few drops of the winter rain started to come down on the pavement and the mom and dad rushed inside to avoid it. The door had a certain weight to it as it shut behind them. The mother rushed away and hid in the nearest bathroom. The father called out after her asking her if she wanted a drink but she barely grasped it.

She responded faintly and ran into their nearest bathroom, holding back her sobs as she braced the bathroom sink, peering at herself in the mirror. She needed to pull herself together. It wasn't her first child to leave for college, but she knew it would be her last and she felt the weight of time and the emptiness of all her children's laughter rush out from her home like a lifeless wind.

She took a deep breath, unbuttoned the top of her jeans to get more comfortable, and opened the bathroom door. She stood at the frame of the door for a minute just staring at the painting of trees that were hanging in front of her. They had bought it a long time ago and had moved from place to place with them as the kids grew. It was placed in a very unnoticeable part of the hallway due to having a plain color palette that didn't match the rest of the house.

She had always loved it though. It was a rather simple piece, just trees with beautiful green leaves on the edge of a forest-like assortment. She closed her eyes and remembered a time before the kids when she and her best friend would hike up mountain paths and would see things just like the painting in autumn when all the tree had lost their leaves. She smiled about that time, simpler and more innocent times. It made her laugh a bit as she regretted none of it and she felt fulfilled, the memory made her feel better and she move into the hallway. As she made her way towards the kitchen where she assumed her husband was getting his night of freedom ready, she peered quickly back at the painting. It struck her as odd but she hadn't ever noticed a black bush by the base of one of the trees. It looked out of place and new but she shrugged and moved forward toward the sound of her husband making whistling noises in the kitchen.

The months dragged on. Facetime calls turned into texts and just like all the other kids before the distance and typical life affairs got in the way of communication. The mom frowned at her phone, she knew they would all be apologetic during the holidays but she still wasn't used to the emptiness of the house. She made herself tea as she went to her bedroom to get ready for the day. It looked sunny out, so she put on shorts and a light top. She was going to meet her husband during his lunch break and try out a new local food truck. As she walked down the hallway she looked at the painting on the wall in confusion. Taking a step back into the bathroom and staring at the painting with bewilderment. Her husband must have changed the painting. It was eerily similar to the one they had before.

It occurred to her that the forest was laid out the same way the previous painting was. This one just looked like a dying forest. Trees were laid bare and leafless. Some looked to be cut down and were dying. The color scheme even looked different. It now merged well with the colors of the other frames and bookshelves around the house. Perhaps that's why she hadn't noticed till now. It just seemed to fit in so well with everything it was barely noticeable. She shook her head in frustration and ran out to meet her husband. Questions burning on the tip of her tongue.

He had no answers for her, unfortunately. He claimed the painting had always been that way since they had put it up. Even mentioning that she liked it cause it matched with the rest of the house. It confused her cause she was certain that it had been a different painting at one point, but she wasn't in a mood to argue and less about something as silly as a painting. She would probably bring it up to the kids when they got back home for the holidays and see if they remembered a different painting.

It was really bothering her though. Every day she would walk through the hallway and every day she would stare at the painting for a while. It never changed or moved. It certainly didn't feel familiar. She slowly forgot what the original painting looked like. What the leaves on the trees looked like and how the colors splashed vividly that it mocked her life as a mother. Matching the mess that was her children's childhood.

Then on the brink of the holiday season late in the evening, she noticed something odd about the corner of the painting. As if It was a shadow cast by the shading behind a tree trunk. What once was a bush was now a whole human-like figure. It sent chills down her spine, and she immediately took the painting off the wall and into the garage. She was done with it and feeling the insanity that it brought.

The next morning she had her husband take it to the dump and after much rationalizing, he finally agreed and sped away with it on top of their other rubbish. At least now she had peace and could come up with something to cover the empty space of the wall. She made a mental note to go to the store find something with her husband when he had time and pick something just for them.

Time is ever-consuming, however, and the holidays were busier than normal. As the kids and their significant others arrived, so did all the errands that had to be done to make their days home special. It was the youngest that reminded her first. Asking about the empty space on the wall outside of the bathroom. Her mother brushed it off as a matter of preference. It wasn't until they were all sitting talking at dinner that the old boy spoke. He asked about the painting that he had made all those years ago and why it wasn't on the wall anymore. The middle child made a joke about a lack of artistic talent and the youngest just sipped down her wine quicker.

Their mother sat there at the end of the question for a second, pondering why she had forgotten that her oldest had made it. How it was one of a few pieces that survived from his time at art school. How he was so happy to see it on their wall as the other siblings got older. She didn't know what to say. She just shrugged and allow her husband to come up with something. In the end, it was decided that it just was something that happened and that they were sorry if they offended their son in some way, that they completely forgot why it was there and just got rid of it to better match the house.

It was then that her husband exclaimed that he had stored it in the garage hidden behind his tools. That he hadn't thrown it but rather kept it for himself for some other space later. All the kids laughed and ran out to go see it. Their mother approached slowly from behind with worry and astonishment in her chest. She knew it was different than the way they had left it but more so that it was something she would have to get rid of herself later in private for her own faith suggested something darker under the pastels and acrylics.

There behind the tools, covered in what appeared to be very long paper was the painting and as their father withdrew it from its place by the wall the paper fell to reveal the painting's distorted glory. All the kid's voices quieted to a hush and then to complete silence. What was before their eye's sat a horrific image of insanity. The colors were uncomfortably distorted and what looked before like a shadow of a figure now proudly stood in the center of the painting blood running down its eyes. Words were written in an etched fashion on the trunks of the darkened dead trees. The brush looked to be aflame and soot was clearly smeared all over. With darkened glowing red lettering the tree trunks read:

“Where did all my happiness go?”

“I am all alone in here”

“Why do they not call me?”

“Will this emptiness ever not haunt me”

That's when the figure screamed from the painting. A woman's scream, a resounding scream. One that was matched by their mother as she screamed from behind them. For, the figure in the painting was her and the emptiness she hoped to hide away in her son's painting came bleeding out.

By Sebastian Blanchette

It doesn't seem to me that only flesh and blood hold a thing such as a life force. Whatever this energy that carries our meat bags around truly is, it must also inhabit things that are by our definition inanimate. Things that are both small and that have towered over us for ages.

I was small then, when I felt an attachment to insignificant things. Bits of shoelace and sheets that I wrapped around me like armor. It's was very lucky of us to be surround by small plastic toys and aging books. These things had true meaning in them. Not simply for the words the books held but for their placement as bricks in my ever growing tower of knowledge.

Where books had their dragons, the plastic toys had their true personas played out in derivatives of that learned fiction. Wars would be played out under the legs of my bed frame. Stories constructed deep in innocent imagination, magic running straight from my flesh to their fragile plastic figures.

These insignificant things somehow acted as both my creations and parts of my core self at the same time. The very dirt I ran on as a child, the aged single walled constructed house, and the pot hole littered easement are threaded into something that looks like my home, but feels like a memory.

Time has now passed and though the plastic toys are gone they still feel alive. It may just be an overwhelming imagination, but I still touch my car as if it was my living stead. I still have the toy armies in my head fighting for innocent truths.

In this perishable world where time consumes all things, are we not to be obliterated as well? Creatures of bleeding, aging, blasphemous power, will we not be consumed by time until nothing is left. As it is so, I hope to find all my things whatever or wherever is next. They are parts of me, and where ever they end up, I sense I will follow.

by Sebastian Blanchette

It's amazing how much we store in the places we call home. All of our secrets, memories, and achievement's locked into the vault of our safe space. We venture into the world relieving ourselves of our burdens as if they were anchors weighing us down.

It's understandable when it feels like we are taking on water. Drowning in the person(s) we became. For some of us it is easier and healthier to run. There is no weakness in that. To explore the world and discover your other selves. Uncovered treasures buried in the “what if's” of the world.

For other's there is no escape. Perhaps they feel trapped in their hometowns, and maybe that's has been the only world they have ever known. However, it is the same world isn't it? Every place we go. Where we find the strings that connect us back to home, wherever it may truly be. A coffee shop on the corner of the street, a memory of sitting outside watching the sun rise while you sipped on a latte with your siblings. Rushing from your car to a store with no umbrella as it rains, the laughter of running into the rain as a child.

There is no shame in the wonders of it all. Both those that are far and those that are home. There are only the eternal leaves. They will be there as you walk down the street at home with a satisfying crunch under your feet. They will fall and change in color in the land that bellows with magical snow. It's never been about where you are, but understanding that it's the same place you left.

Even in the places where the leaves are sparse or none can be found you find a sprout of something trying. Cause everything and everyone is. Trying, trying to find their place, but wouldn't it be wild if that place is where you are standing now? Isn't the sky the same wherever you are? Isn't the stars the same constellations that exploded in your youth.

Seasons or not, when the winds change, they change everywhere. Somewhere in that wind someone is laughing, dying, crying, but ultimately trying. Have you noticed the eternal leaves at all? Floating by you everyday. From the bottom of our toes to the tips of our hair. The kisses in autumn and the tears of lonely winters. They are the recollections of our home, dancing with us wherever we stand. Exactly where we belong.

– by Sebastian Blanchette

I've noticed lately that I take less photos than before. I wasn't sure if that was because I am trying to experience the moment, trying to enjoy it as much as I can, or if it was because some memories aren't meant to last forever, hidden in the endless scroll of our phones. We used to share less and mean more. Perhaps we use to feel more, see more, and live more, at least I think I did. Maybe it's all been a trick. Sometimes, it feels like we have been asleep this whole time.

I have no idea when I started running from the sound of time strumming it's strings. It's something indescribable, and have no recollection when the song even began. All I know is that I find myself running, to where? to who? It's unknown to me as of yet. It started maybe as a jog at first, with late night banters and dreams about endless love. I recall wearing armor to sleep, and pulling swords from stone in nightmares. Conquering the evil then and playfully enjoying the possibility of the endless. Yet the song still played. Now I plan my months hoping to glimpse the crumbs young me left behind.

All the lessons I found back then are just pieces of me now. An augmented being of memories, pain, love, and knowledge. Even with all that and as much as I try to muffle the sound out. The pluck of eternal strings still syncs with all of time. A sound of what I will be, what I was, and who I am. A lullaby played for those running out of time.

– by Sebastian Blanchette