I slid the bag across the table. The hooded figure opposite me peered inside.

“Where the hell did you find this?!” he demanded roughly.

I stared back at him levelly. “Does it really matter? I got it, no questions asked.”

The man reached into the duffel and pulled out a tiny black kitten. “There haven’t been any felines on earth for decades,” he murmured as he tentatively stroked the kitten between its ears.

I smiled grimly. Not that he knew of, anyway.

“And a black one too,” he added. “The most powerful.” The kitten closed its eyes and began to purr. The man nearly dropped it and hissed a curse between his teeth.

I stood and held out my hand, palm up. “Just give me what you owe and it’s yours.”

He slapped a thick wad of bills in my hand. “Remember, any word about this and you’ll be a sorry man,” he growled.

I laughed bitterly. “I already am.” I turned on my heel and strode away. He could keep that monstrosity. Cute as it may be, the kitten possessed powers more evil than he had seen in a long while. If the reward hadn’t been so juicy, I would have been content to leave that wretched ball of fluff on the island where I’d found it.

My heart pumps weakly Starved of love; It shivers bleakly And longs for a hug.

For a touch of kindness From someone who cares; But around me is blindness Or nobody dares.

People walk past me Each desperate day They glance without seeing And guiltily look away.

“Why?” you may ask “Do people not see?” It’s too hard of a task To help someone in need.

I make them uncomfortable With my filth and my sores. While they may be able, It’s too much of a chore.

I huddle on the sidewalk With all that I own; Listening to people talk, And miserably alone.

Malnourished I am, There is no doubt. But it’s more that just food It’s love I’m without.

She was huddled in bed In a cave made of covers Her face streaked with tears And her tiny body trembled.

He came to her rescue Like good daddies do With strong, gentle hands He scooped up his daughter.

.....

She clutched the steering wheel For the very first time Sweat ran down her shoulder blades But she knew she would be okay.

For her dad was beside her With a calm, steady voice His big hand on her shoulder And his safe, stalwart presence.

.....

She stood in the church In a white dress and veil With cold, shaking hands And a heart swelled with joy.

Her dad gazed at her fondly With a bittersweet ache He took her hand in his And gave her away.

.....

She rushed to the hospital Blinded by tears Her mom said to hurry Or it might be too late.

Her dad lay in the bed Surrounded by tubes She clutched his frail hand And begged him to stay.

He smiled up at her With love in his eyes His thin, shaking hand Gradually became still.

He wandered through the camp, his boots kicking up fine, powdery dust that choked him. Ugly wooden barracks stood at attention on either side of him. His gaze locked on the strange creatures peeking out of the open entrances—pale, haunted faces; bony skeletons with sagging, papery skin; bulging joints and reedy limbs.

And the eyes...the eyes were the worst part. They stared at him: dull, hopeless, desperate, terrified, accusing.

He wanted to look away. He tried to turn his head, to escape the terrible gazes that pierced him with crushing guilt.

Guilt? Why guilt? He didn’t do anything to cause this; he didn’t even recognize this place.

He finally tore his gaze away and looked forward. A brick building stood directly before him, smoke pouring out in clouds of ashy finality. The distinct stench of burning corpses filled his nostrils, and he looked back at the living skeletons.

They were gone.

——

Adam jerked awake, terribly human screams echoing in his mind. He rubbed his face and rolled over, the scene from his recurring dream replaying in his mind. It was tattooed on his memory, taunting him with its lingering aroma of deja vu.

The familiar guilt stabbed at him, but he brushed it away and sat up. Like he had done every night for the past two years since the dream had started, he turned on his phone and started to browse the news until he was sleepy again.

He clicked on an article announcing that it was Holocaust Remembrance Day. A photo of a concentration camp popped up. Chills raced down his body as he stared at the scene in his dream, immortalized in the photo.

He clicked on the next photo and was suddenly staring into his own face in black and white. The caption read, “Rudolf Hoss, commandant of Auschwitz concentration and extermination camp.”

The phone fell from his numb fingers and the blood drained from his face.

The guilt returned, a boulder that dropped on his chest and crushed all the light from his soul.

His dream was actually a memory.

I leaned on the ancient stone wall of the lookout point and gazed over the sparkling water. The inlet, shaped like a teardrop, was surrounded by the craggy cliffs and gentle slopes of the Appalachian Mountains. Seagulls soared at eye level, their wings outstretched like hang gliders. Far below, tiny waves rippled on the water’s surface, glinting like crevices on a crystal. A sailboat the size of a stamp cruised along merrily.

Minuscule waves slapped against the base of the rich, ruddy cliffs. Mounds of mountain, furry with trees, were heaped around the jagged slabs like giant heads of broccoli. A thin strand of road meandered around the side like a string, and houses occasionally poked out of the slopes like curious prairie dogs.

The endless sky stretched above the pocket of water, marred only by the occasional cottony wisps of cloud drifting by. A slight breeze caressed my face with its feathery fingers. The sun warmed my face while the trees’ shadows cooled my back.

It was the definition of a perfect day.

tears of heaven fall gentle drops on the window wander down the glass

Time moves on Secretly Silently Unceasingly

With it, it takes Us Our lives Our very existence Funneling down to that crucial point Called Death

Time begets memories It erases memories

It leaves hints for the future And landmarks to the past

It marches on Never looking back Always gazing forward Towards the hazy future

We cannot turn it back We cannot retrace its steps It leads us in that everlasting dance Never releasing us To the bondage of stagnation.

To all who wish To return to the past I say: Rejoice! For God has given us the gift of time To prevent us from dwelling in the past And to teach us to always Move on

To all who wish To skip to the future I say: Rejoice! For God has given us the gift of time To know the joys and pain Of the present That we may prepare for the future’s Joys and pain

To all who wish To remain in the present I say: Rejoice! For God has given us the gift of time That we may not wallow in the now Yet keep one eye on lessons of the past And one eye on the hope of the future And press on

I crouched in the brush, my back against a large tree hiding me from the hiking trail. My pulse pounded in my ears, my chest heaved with gasps, and my body quivered with adrenaline and terror as the strains of the song “Happy” filtered faintly through the stillness of the forest.

A bead of sweat trickled maddeningly down my temple. I raised a shaky hand and smeared it into my hair as I tried to slow my breathing and melt into the rough bark behind me.

The music got closer. I could now hear humming, off-key and jolly like a Santa Claus. I shrunk into the leaves, my chest heaving despite my best efforts to stay quiet and still.

The music grew louder and I began to discern feet tramping through the underbrush. The music, humming, and crunching leaves mingled to create an orchestra of terrifying sounds.

A chilling breeze swept through the trees, warning me to run. Yet I huddled, frozen, waiting for my fate.

The music was cacophonous. The crunching leaves stopped. He was right behind my tree. He knew I was there.

An arm snaked around and gripped my elbow. A scream ripped from my open mouth as he dragged me around the tree and into his waiting arms.

—

The forest was silent. The trees were still. No shadow dared to stir.

A man sat on a log, hunched like an old woman. A mound of dirt rose before him the size of a casket. He leaned forward, touched the mound tenderly, then stood. He stooped and swung a large boom box to his shoulder. The cheerful melody of “Happy” filled the silence as the man turned and tromped away through the dusky stillness.

Darkness is a cloak that sweeps over our world. It hides both the scary and the comforting, the dangerous and the protecting, the hateful and the loving. Sometimes it is a warm, cozy blanket that shields us from terrors and swaths is in quiet serenity. Sometimes it is a stifling blindfold that makes us vulnerable to the threats that lurk behind its skirts.

Then light steps in and sweeps away the cloak. Often it is bright and glaring, blinding in a different way as it assaults our eyes with shards of glass. But most times light swoops in and reveals the dangers and terrors with victorious clarity. Its truth reveals the insignificance of our crippling fears as well as the vulnerability of our comfortable apathy.

The door is locked—you can’t get in No matter how hard you try Kicking at the door won’t do any good Nor will using a crowbar to pry.

“Well how,” you ask, “can I get in?” The answer is actually a mite strange You gain access by NOT trying or prying— I know, that makes me sound quite deranged.

But see, the key to unlocking my door Is to not use manipulation or force You have to gain my trust before I open to you You can’t ever push or coerce.

Sometimes it’s a long process, I know It can take quite a long while But I promise that once you gain access to my innermost self It will all become worth your while.