A bolt of lightning danced across the sky, setting it aglow with a purplish hue and illuminating the skyline. Of course, the skyline didn’t need much illuminating.

The small buildings stuck out like small shards of glass, swept under the rug and forgotten about until someone who’s trouble is worth something steps on it.

Near the outskirts, I could still see the dumpsters where the bussers would take the garbage out. It was a city of waste where anything not of use was disposed in the most instantly convenient way. A paste made from sand, grease, and grime coated the foundations of the pubs and slums.

Small lights of penthouses shined out across the rooftops illuminating the paths less travelled by that would become oh so useful in a pinch.

It was a dark hole where everything smelled like liquor and trash. It was also the only place the poor jackals had.

Thunder rolled.

At the center of it all stood the desert gem. The Glass Locust Hotel and Casino. Spotlights bounced light up the thin pillar and shot off into the sky. A beacon of greed. And opportunity.

On the edge of the dust bowl valley in which the city sat was a highway that somehow appeared out of nowhere when the buildings ended, stretching out past me and into infinity across the desert.

The buildings had caused the wind to deposit sand dunes surrounding the city, forming artificial walls that could be effortlessly infiltrated along the road that was the only common way in or out.

Alternatively, you could climb 70 feet up a sand dune, and then slide down the other side. Of course, you’d have to do it in the dark and avoid the spotlights or have your blood spilled on the sand by a bullet ripping through your shoulder.

Yet here I was, just past midnight, sitting atop the dune wall.

Outside the dune walls, the landscape was mostly flat, with the gentle waves of sand blowing across and leaving a thin blanket over that photogenic highway.

The only major exception was the old motel. It was only two floors and had been abandoned years ago. That’s where Jack and I stayed, and the Doc’s been with us travelling back and forth between our hideout and his lab in the space hidden above a pub in the slums.

It looked like a cardboard box that needed to be broken down. The roof in the lobby had caved in, making the reception desk an excellent place to stargaze on a clearer night.

We made a supply room out of the second floor lobby in the Northwestern Wing, and my bedroom was just around the corner in room 218. Jack Rabbit’s was 222, and the Doc’s temporary space was 112, across from the steps down to his workshop in the boiler room.

Out beyond the motel was nothing but sand dunes and real jackals. Desert dogs that would tear you apart for fun. There were small amounts of vegetation but nothing substantial enough for anyone to make it out of this hell hole without a vehicle.

Rumor has it there are jack rabbits out there that would lure you in by copying your friends voice, crying for help from a ravine or a cave, only to shred you with a swarming frenzy of pirranha teeth. They bore the antlers of a stag and could only be caught by setting a trap with a glass of bourbon as bait.

No one from the Glass Locust or the valley had dared to travel too far to find out.

The lightning streaked across the sky again and the clouds blew across the deserts vast expanse.

I exhaled. Alone.

Haerolt took up his staff and pulled himself from the lowering boulder in the ground. He was not far from the path thankfully. Not that it was a very clear trail nor that it it was easy to follow, but it would at least prove to lead him somewhere. Yet were it not for Queen Malaena he would never have had the final chance to seek something greater in his life. Of all things that knew, it were his bones that groan and creaked at every minute maneuver.

However, he would not let the aches and pains discourage him from the quest. There were new places to discover and just through the forest was likely to be the white waters of the Earstmoch. Thus he marched on. Through lurching branches, dangling thorn-vines, and the pads of ivy atop the trail. Setting foot off the trail would be a worse matter as he would truly have no chance to move about with the yet denser foliage about.

As the sun waned in the day, Haerolt grew more weary and the ache of his bones screamed that he stop. But there was a voice in the forest, which had infused in him long ago, urging him to march forth. He was not one to disregard the Forest Father’s wishes, even though his own body did so against him.

Haerolt hiked on through the sharp stabs and pricks thoughout his entire body. The sun had but dropped another two hours. Yet the Forest Father’s yearning grew ever stronger.

He broke through the Dense Wood with his staff, coming out of the tree line, and into an open pad of tall grasses. It bothered him a tinge that no one had tried to scyth the area, but then he gulped at the fact that there must have been no one around to do so. In fact, what stood before him, no more that thirty strides ahead, was a great wall that had been reduced to rubble which was interlaced with the thickest thorn vines he had ever laid an eye upon.

Haerolt approached the tall walls. At their lowest point they were but as tall as two men, yet at their highest would peek above the surrounding trees. Not that there were any men there to adorn the few ramparts that still stood. All the while, he had not delved too close as the thorns themselves where ginormous. They were the lengths of swords and daggers, and sharper than any well shaven need of bone. The staves of vine they protruded from were as fat as the trunks of young pines.

The old man stumbled about the tall rubble until he came across what used to stand a great gate. Instead, vines wrapped and weaved into one another to form their own thorny barrier. Haerolt then lifted his staff and spake unto the Forest Father, sapping what little energy he had left to move the thicket. In but a moment the vines creaked and squeaked, splitting the barbed gate in twain.

It was not cracked open wide, but there would be enough space for him to walk past without being speared. That was if his aching bones would allow him to move. All the spent energy in summoning the Forest Father’s might always pained his knees, stiffening them into stones. Yet in his growing age the might came to affect his every joint.

Nonetheless, Haerolt creaked onward. The sharp, grinding of his joints was not enough to keep him from this great discovery.

Through the ancient gateway held together by the constricting vines were slithering roads of flat river rocks embedded in dark soil. Stout houses of hewn red stones wrapped along each of the streets. Ivy and moss spackled many of the walls and covered every black tile of the slate roofs. All the while numerous trees sprouted in the courtyards of and in between the alleys of each house.

The air around was thick and fresh, a faint, moist scent of herbs and flowers crept down the back of his throat. Orange rays of the waning sun cut through the canopies that shaded him from above. Although not a soul was abound here, he felt a radiance of life.

Haerolt took his fist steps along the stoned path, and what seems to be rough and uneven was far more cushioned and fair than a well trodden dirt trail. To which the pains in his bones eased to a meager discomfort.

Marching on he passed along what proved to be the smaller houses, for as he strover further into the town the old homes grew larger and with two or more courtyards. At a rather open spot where all the twisiting and turning paths seemed to converge, was a wide, gnarled oak tree. As Haerolt stepped closer a swell of verdant mist in his chest spoke to him as the Forest Father urging him forth.

What seemed as a thick trunk that swayed in stange ways and branches that swirled around in wild directions, proved more ascendant upon greater discernment. Beneath the rough, mossy bark was the figure of a woman. Roots spread from her splayed feet and toes. Knots were placed at her knees and arms that were tangled in with one another. Branches spread out from her fingers and her mouth was a small, gaping hole as though she were summoning a great force of might. The swirling force of the branches ended at glinting leaves with silver bellies and vibrantly green tops. Her countenance was bright, face plump and eyes shut tight in a pure bliss.

However, a deep, dark sense of foreboding resonated through his once again aching bones. The Forest Father wished to clarify truths. So Haerolt stepped ever closer to the tree. Yet as he did so his knees buckled at a shattering pain that forced a scream from him. It would take much might to reach such understanding.

Even though the pains throbbed through leg and gut, even up to his chest, there was not much time until he was to pass into the earth anyway. Haerolt dragged himself forward, carving a path of desperately clawing hands and trail of a burdened, old body. Now lacerating pains and thundering aches surged through every measure of his flesh and bone. Yet if this be the end it would be worth knowing some truth of these lost people before sinking back to dust.

At the foot of the tree, he set his hand upon the rooted feet of the ancient woman. Bright silvery flashes burned through his skin and shot into his heart. A visage of the woman came to view as she stood among many others. They were not the same as he, yet their emotions could have been, in a different life.

It was then that a familiar locking of his joints overcame him, but he led his focus back to truth. She seemed to be an outcast. On she sang some song in a beautiful, alluring tongue that he had never known. The others shouted in vain with similar sounding words.

Now his skin grew tight and cracked. Something grew from it, or perhaps formed upon him. Regardless, he continued to take in the silver light. The woman was singing up at the glittering stars, all the while the others hung their eyes low. Then she began to become covered in a wondrous dress of rich greens and pale browns. Her body froz yet her song carried on. The others had gone to shadow and there was nothing more than the silver light of the very stars above.

He too was showered in their light, Shade never coming to take him away.

Broad, fenstrated leaves dripped moisture. Something green and spidery brushed Det. Hank Langdon’s cheek. Tripping over his partner Det. Hen Ball, he yelped in an unmanly fashion. Ball collided with a trio of surprisingly sharp snake plants. She cursed. During the pandemic her daughter collected a windowsill full of cacti. Ball wondered how much stress the Superintendent had to need this slice of heaven to escape to.

“There she is you clumsy bastard,” Hen Ball said pointing at Superintendent Rowena Wainwright in the center of sunroom.

“After you, Princess. Pearls before swine.”

Wainwright was crocheting in a rocking chair surrounded by lush foliage. Along with the new mayor, Wainwright supported urban renewel in the old city center. Ball and Langdon remembered with the Superintendent’s residence had been an bank then a pharmacy, and then a Zak’s Burgers. The two detectives were amazed at the transformation of a coarse block of bricks to a minimalist urban oasis. This hot pocket of green must have costed a fortune.

“Detectives, come into my lair said the the spider to the fly,” Wainwright said with a dry chuckle.

Langdon whispered to his partner, “If she asks us to find Sean Regan, I’m out of here.”

Ball ignored his movie reference to focus on their boss. The room was hottest here. Condensation collected on the many panes of wavy old glass magnifying the overhead sunlight into furious rainbows. Wainwright had been pressuring them to close the Paint By Number killer case quickly. They had caught a suspect but were convinced there was a mastermind behind the scenes pulling their suspect’s strings. The detectives flanked their superior officer. Jungle heat pressed against Ball’s throat.

Without inviting them to have a seat on the vintage garden furniture, Wainwright continued to work her granny squares ignoring their presence. She talked without looking up.

“A little birdie has told me you have a suspect in custody. Excellent work, detectives. I’m glad you’ve resolved this scounge on our city.”

“Yes, we are working to build an airtight case now,” Landgon said brightly. "we don’t want any last mintue surprises slipping out from behind the curtain, do we?”

Ball admired the exotic plants, the irrigation system, the grow lights, the flick of the wool racing through the Super’s fingers. She appreciated a well-played power move.

“The press, the defense lawyers, and every true crime podcaster in the tri state area will be combing over the details, ma’am. Better safe than sorry, ma’am,” Ball said and took a seat.

Wainwright gave Ball a sharp look. Knowing when to avoid trouble, Langdon focused on a suggestive orchid growing on a moss ball suspended from the glass ceiling. A skittish maid brought in a tray of cold drinks. She looked from Ball to Wainwright for direction. Wainwright gave the servant a nod. Ball helped herself to the tray. The maid skirted over to Lanngdon and then hurried off.

“Ma’am you wouldn’t be able to shed into light on this case. This killer had access to many sites around the city. All sites represented by McConnell Realty,” Ball said before draining her iced tea.

“We noticed the sold by McConnell’s sign out front and wondered if you could get farther with the fancies than a pair of flat feet,” Langdon saluted the orchid with his diet Pepsi and sat the drink down untouched.

A metal crochet hook clattered to the flagstones. Wainwright set down her needlework. Shivering despite the heat, Ball imagined Wainwright as a giant praying mantis.

“Thank you in advance, ma’am. Let’s go Hank. Nasty things, their flesh is too much like the flesh of men.”

With a chuckle, Hank tapped one of the fleshy orchids and followed his partner out to the fresh cool air of the city.

The Safeway two blocks from my house throws out all of the produce once it turns. A rotten putrid pile created by underpaid college students forms for a week strait, before the city comes to collect their festering waste on Sunday. It’s become a habit of mine to sit out back behind the deteriorating building and watch as the fermented juices of old fruit get splattered across beige chipped paint. Their smell lingers over to my tent across the small gully that separates the city from the forrest and it creeps into my cold nostrils as I try to sleep. At first when I found my nights to be interrupted by stenches of a lunatics mildewed homebrew I was mildly annoyed. As I became curious though I ventured across the gully through the soup of still brown water filled with used needles and condoms and suddenly I was struck with a strange awe. The way the food lay, the way the food festered, drew me in and before I knew it I was trekking across the gully every morning at 8:30 am to see how the pile had grown.

This is the beauty of nature and city blending together. The biological clock in the nature wakes up the day, the sun, the clouds and the sky make it a wonderful place to live and enjoy. The wildlife and the human form a peaceful environment that makes happiness for all.

Evil minds linger beneath my sheets lack-of sleep, I weep, wishing to move…so it cannot harm us. D, T, N, is cometh, thy body and taking over my body, then noxious. D, T, N, stands for ( don’t trust your neighbor) still noxious; of loud noises of silence, then sirens, then they mock us. Bad chimes of speechless pests; that linger when headaches get bigger; are minds, then get filled with puss. Laughing; inside and chuckling separating us for the selfish deeds and piss on our puss liquidating the puss to be more puss. We leave; someday; chuckling as it happens to some victim filling them with black-puss. This is…Compton neighbors.

White-turned-gray towers of crumbling concrete were dwarfed by green and brown columns of life. The city remained a city, but it’s inhabitants were no longer lawyers and doctors and retail workers. Those jobs and the people that worked them died ages ago. They were strangled to death by their arrogance, and their monuments are now choked by the vines of their assertion over the land.

Our farm was on a wide spread of land, many acres, but only a few people left with a few animals to tend to. The cabins and barns had been there for hundreds of years, it was said and believed, and still stood sturdy. I remember hearing the stories of our grandfathers and grandmothers and how they had tilled these very fields, admiring the trees that stretched for miles in the distance. As a child, I would stand on our family’s porch and stare at the thick forests, wondering what lay beyond. And now, I could see.

They had come and demolished the forests, bringing buzzing saws and large machines none of us had ever seen before. Now, children sat on their porches and looked as metal buildings began to rise into the sky, impossibly quickly and improbably tall. They watched as the trees fell, spreading open the wide expanse of sky to showcase concrete, smoke, and pollution.

Our farm would be the last to go.

Moloch closes a book and walks from his study ordained with his various achievements as a surgeon. It is 3pm and like the day before, he heads down the main hall, through the foyer, and onto the east portico that overlooks his vast garden. With little to occupy his mind, his garden has become his most obsessive hobby. He beams with pride as he overlooks the garden, brimming with red and white roses. His garden sits adjacent to a beautiful lake and hidden by a marble wall, which simultaneously hides the low income apartment complexes that have sprouted around his elaborate multi-acreage estate. All of the apartments are overrun kids, tall grasses, and dandelion weeds, the latter of which has become the bane of his and his rose garden’s existence.

His hand shakes uneasily as he grips the golden railing and walks down into the garden. He reaches out, with his hand shaking, and plucks out a few of the struggling yellow leaves of the roses. While he works, a breeze blows through his coat jacket from the south. He looks up to see the seeds from hundreds of dandelions fly up above, circling him in a cyclone, and seemingly targeting his roses, settle onto the ground of his garden. He shuffles backward, trying to make note of each seed that has fallen, an impossible task. He meticulously pinches the dandelion seeds, one by one, from their fallen place, and snuffs them into his coat pocket.

After two weeks go by, at 3pm, moloch makes his daily trip to the garden. He sees the heads of some missed dandelion seeds that have covertly sprouted among his rose garden. Agitatedly, he shuffles back inside to his study, grabbing his old forceps from the second draw. Making his way back down to the garden, he clutches the forceps as strongly as the Parkinson’s clings to his ailing body. He shoves his shaky fingers into the forceps, carefully balances himself onto his knees and feebly places the forceps to the crown of the first dandelion while giving a tug. The earth releases the dandelion plant, and again he shoves it into his pocket while moving to the next. This time, the earth is more generous, offering the roots that fight for existence through the rose soil. He falls back slightly, catching himself on his free hand, and steadies himself back straight again. He places this whole plant beside him and works to get himself in a stand. He is almost up when he steps on the legs of the dandelion weed and falls backward, hitting his head on the bricks below.

2 weeks go by, and a woman from next door knocks at the front door repeatedly. She is tired and annoyed, but cleaning this estate pays for most of her bills, so she is relentless. She makes her way to the east of the estate where an iron railing separates her from the main garden. She presses her face into the iron rails, and sees the beautiful white and red rose garden dotted by yellow dandelions. Her gaze travels to find a figure, slumped between the beautiful roses, dandelions growing from his pocket. She turns and walks away defeated, determined to find another way to pay her bills.

It stood up It didn’t belong It was a stain On a crisp white shirt

No one liked it Why would they It was ugly And plain

Surrounded by green The power of nature The wind and rain It was weary

It was there It shouldn’t be We wanted it gone But it was too late

It rises in the sky Jutting up like a weed It’s unwanted And looks like a shard of metal

So don’t keep building So the green can keep growing We want our children to see the trees And enjoy peace