See the children of anew Bracing play on a frame Of something forever holy.

Whence does the storm arrive To appeal a risker’s vision? North, east, south, west, from God?

From then, with sights set yonder Over forked winds Of great seas.

Where does the eye meet the sky, After the cattle lie to rest In the fields of foretelling?

Beyond the power Of one man And all men.

To be hindered By the curious fruit of the mind: Life’s great meaning.

The place where the sights do not reach May be the destination For which all search.

Through storms, none can be seen, So the desperate prayers send To be saved by the Ark.

Henceforth, a blind hunt For the ponder: Where does the eye meet the sky?

Making friends with the ghost in your attic brings you many benefits as well as faults.

Your translucent friend knocks over a box of heirlooms, then your mother rushes your cat, Pebbles, to the vet for ‘hysteria’. She returns home hours later, tearful, and informs you of a rare and deadly disease Pebbles had been diagnosed with. The cat lives, but everyone knows he wouldn’t have if his illness had been discovered much later. You thank the ghost.

Your father finds an old record player while cleaning the attic. When he tries to get it working it explodes, destroying an antique table and your grandmother’s favourite vase. You know the ghost had messed with it. Your father is furious and stays home from work the next day to fix the damage. The Sunday paper describes a major lockdown at the school your father works at. Many casualties, but your father didn’t go that day. You thank the ghost.

Your sister is angry all the time. She locks you in the attic because you stole her favourite hat. You know you didn’t take it, and you tell her such, but she doesn’t believe it. A box mysteriously falls from a precarious stack and a dusty pink fedora tumbles from it. You don’t know how the hat ended up in the attic. You return it to your sister. She is still angry. You thank the ghost anyway because miracles aren’t always possible.

Your brother climbs the house’s walls on a dare. Near the top he starts to slip, and his friends boo. He falls forward. The musty attic window flies open and he falls through it. Everyone thought the window was locked shut with age, but now your brother ends up with a few scrapes and bruises, instead of a few fractures and dislocations. You thank the ghost.

No one would believe you if you told them of the ghost. Sometimes you think yourself crazy. You remain friends with the ghost, regardless. It still has a tendency to play ghastly tricks on you, but life is better with it. You thank the ghost.

“Tell me,” the ring of a voice travels for miles, disturbing the leaves of the south and the water of the north. Unnatural, yes. “Tell me what resides in the depths of this lake. What shall I find beneath the surface? Let me down now, after my treacherous journey. Are there fish born from the stars of above? A lost city, a relic? Are these waters bottomless like a great pit? Or will you raise my spirits and tell me that I have found as I intended? Might you say that knowledge, the secrets of science, hide a mere ripple of waves beyond my place here on the shore?”

The lake is calculating and a force of something stronger than silence, but it’s heartbeat, far beyond the boundaries of discovery, slows for only a moment. It answers the pleas of very few, and when it does, terrible, unspeakable disasters settle on the horizon.

Fear consumes the invisible voice. “I come from a near land. Your wisdom is all I dream. Tell me without hostility. Let me down or raise my spirits. Use your strength and ability to assist me, I hope, or against me. I take these moonstones now and send them by way of your ethereal waters,” the voice produces two fingers, which pluck a glowing blossom from the ground.

The lake rises.

“Tell me, dear Lake Abilarity, for I must know. I shall not defy you, if only you tell me. Tell me, dear Lake Abilarity. Take my soul in the end, as your own if you wish, but I must know your secrets.”

The lake flows around the voice, floods the north and the south, shrouding all in eternal drowning darkness.

The voice, a mere whisper amongst the swirl of the lake, “Lady Lake Abilarity…”

Cats hissed satire at Sam and Karl as they passed the alley. There were hundreds of them hiding behind trash bins, hanging off power lines, snarling from within withered flowerbeds. The sneaky ones scaled the crumbling roofs of the low buildings to keep a close watch.

Sam sneezed once, twice, thrice. He was, unfortunately, very allergic to felines. Why he was sent to literal Cat-Central, he would likely never know. He hugged his beloved camera against his chest—perhaps the high-tech piece of equipment was scaring the wretched cats into violence.

“Can we leave now?” Sam asked fretfully. “I do not, not, NOT like this place. Your stupid parkour stunt cannot possibly be worth this treacherous journey.”

Karl breathed a breath with the kind of extravagance only he could master. “Relax, man. My parkour skills are totally epic. The Director has given us this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so we NEED to take it. I will have to thank him endlessly for this—remind me to fill his house with Canadian maple syrup later.”

“Ummm…why does the syrup have to be Canadian?”

“Dude…” Karl trailed off. “We’re here. Setup your camera. Be snappy!”

They stopped at the foot of the tallest building in the little town. It was white, or tried to be, because it couldn’t have been cleaned in less than two centuries. It was wide and cylindrical—not very useful for climbing.

Sam fumbled with his camera. He knew that precision would be key this time around. Karl didn’t understand the first thing about parkour, so Sam would need the best angle possible to make the recording count.

“I don’t get it,” Sam said. “Do you know what you’re doing. Have you prepared… at all?”

“This has been a lifelong dream of mine, Sam. I won’t screw this up because I never screw up. Plus, teamwork makes the dream work, amiright?”

“That didn’t answer my-…” Sam sighed, returning his attention to positioning his camera and desperately ignoring the hissing and spitting at his heels.

Karl clapped his hands together twice. “Alrighty, let’s get this show on the road. I will climb up there, then you start recording and I’ll pull some sick tricks. Sound good?”

NO. “Yes… that sounds just dandy.”

Watching Karl attempt the climb up the building’s slick walls was like revisiting the same nightmare every night. He scrambled up a few feet, tumbled down, hopped up, and repeated. Eventually, he managed to pull himself up the wall and roll onto the roof, undeniably more banged up than before.

Karl stood, wobbled, brushed himself off. “Oi, world! Am I a parkour master yet?!”

“You live here?”

“Yes.”

“And you think I can, what, bring it back? This thing hasn’t been in style for at LEAST fifty years.”

“You’d better believe it!”

I look at my client, then the wreckage of a bus he has brought me to… it checks out.

The bus my client…lives in…is so rundown I can hardly bare to look at it. The crusty white and vomit-coloured stripes that coat the outside might have been fashionable once upon a time and have probably witnessed every horror this forest has to serve. Every window on the thing is broken, only hazardous shards remain. The places where doors SHOULD be are, instead, maimed holes in the bus. The headlights appear to have been stolen, leaving mouldy bus-innards behind. The engine sticks out, starchy and dead, and definitely hit the retirement stage in 1938.

“Oh, dear. HGTV is really going to get its full out of this one. Roll the cameras! Dearest client of mine, do show me the inside of this potential model home!” I try excitement. I don’t think it worked.

And, for Heaven’s sake, I don’t want to see the inside.

Tanya held herself with sophistication. She walked with it , she spoke with it, she relied on it, and, of course, she thought with it.

She had the sophistication the common folks of the little countryside town could never dream of. One needs dignity, something her lovely city had taught her. So, while the common folks tripped over each other, Tanya imagined skyscrapers all around.

Yes, Tanya held herself with sophistication, but how did she fail to notice the browned banana peel splayed out before her? So comical.

The final close of the warm wood door.

I carry memories of rooms filled with life, and some devoid. The day the hired cleaners came through, the place lost everything it had been, swept clean of recognition and safety. The sickly-fresh smell of cleansing chemicals were cold.

May that be all that I can recall? Or will I know more, finding the key to the lock of the cavern of knowledge?

My thoughts still rely on my sanctuary, my muscle-memory cannot forget the ways things once were.

The new place—this manor— feels nothing as it should. I knew and know that it can never be my home. Not like the cottage.

Seventy-fifth annual, Playwright’s manual. I have fought for the Order And sought after the immortal. Dagger’s ledge, World’s end. A crook’s grudge, Doors that won’t budge. Paris, Peru, Nepal. I have seen it all.

Man of green Glow of foreseen, Gas lamp gleaming On a surreal evening.

He sees you.

Man of cold You may freeze With but a breeze. Not to the fate of heart When you become his art.

He sees you.

Man of dew All that is left After a theft. Goodbye to the light, Bright to sight.

He sees you.

Man of old Eternal loss, Growing moss. Era of the untold, Those to be must be bold.

He sees you.

Man of green, man of cold. Man of dew, man of old.

I see you.