SilveryWind
The willow tree was huge; huger than he remembered it to me.
When Jacob was a little boy, his grandfather's favorite tree on the whole land was the weeping willow, tucked away deep in the forest and away from prying eyes. Now, nearly fifty years later, long after his late grandfather had met the earth again, Jacob stood underneath the tree with his own grandson. Jacob wondered what the boy thought of it.
The food was canned and packed away in the garden that was the grandmother's closet, probably to never be seen again.
Caiden always hated going to his grandmother's house, and it was because she was such a . . . well, a PSYCHO. For whatever reason, she wanted to horde every can food and snack bar and piece of cheese that she got her hands on, no matter what the expiration date said (really, she had a Campbell's soup can dating back to 2002), all in the name of surviving the apocalypse.
The flour was packed high in a compact pile on top of Mother's table, and I wasn't entirely sure what she wanted me to do with it. You see, Mother was a fickle sort of woman who would lay everything out for you that you needed, and she would expect you to automatically know what she wanted you to do. That might sound like an easy chore to some, but it wasn't for us, because, as I said, she was a fickle sort of woman, and you never knew what she was thinking about.
It was a stolen thing, the kind that you seen on the news channels every day from the time the crime was first discovered to the time the culprit was located, arrested, and dead. It was the kind of stolen thing that no one would let go, no matter how hard you wanted them to. It was the kind of stolen artifact that you just wanted to put in your past and let everyone forget, and yet, somehow, no one did.
Or, at least, no one did for Johnny McCay.
When he was practically a baby himself his father "went out for a walk," and came back with a precious stone that looked like it belonged to one of those fancy museums. Papa told Johnny that a stranger had given it to him, and, being so young, Johnny believed him. Now that he was nineteen, Johnny felt that, looking back, he should have realized that the precious material had not been given to Papa. When had Papa ever done anything like accept a gift from a stranger? Strangers didn't give Papa gifts, Papa took strangers' things and gave himself gifts. He was a rotten man, and now that he was dead it appeared that all the blame would go to Johnny. None of the officials were listening to him--of how he was born and raised in the forests, away from civilization, of how his father was the one to go to the towns, of how, before his arrest, Johnny had never once left his cabin in the woods. . . .
It as a strange thing, for the son to pay the price for the father's sins. Yet it happened daily, and it was happening to Johnny.
It was his job to ensure that George Stringent was able to live in the most luxurious way possible, exactly as it was before his parents were murdered by the Seat. It was absolutely vital that this was carried out to a T, because if it did not happen exactly as She said it should, then they would all go exactly the same way as George's parents: in a pit of fiery revenge.
The boy was just an octave higher than everyone else, and that was what made him so special . . . what drew her to him. Her boss had told her that it was prudent she find a kid that showed real talent in either singing or acting, and it seemed that she would not have to disappoint him.
"I'm Elizabeth Cater," she told him, bending down to his level. "And you are?"
"Joshua Starkland," he mumbled. What a shy boy.
She gave him a warm smile. "Well, Joshua, you sing beautifully. Would you like to be in a play that I'm conducting?"
The motorcycle was sleek and shiny: it was, in other words, everything Mac wanted. He was a smart dude, and an almost nerdy dude, but he was a dude who liked bikes nonetheless.
And that was why his mother had went out and bought him one for his birthday. After everything he had been through in the past few years, he certainly deserved a break.
There was a small paper clip at the top of the desk, slightly stained with Darren's blood. Kaitlyn took it with fingers that did not shake, fingers that were protected with a thin glove that would protect her from any tricky questions the police had to ask her, and slipped it into her right pocket.
She was calm.
Calm.
Calm.
Calm.
After all, what else was she supposed to do? Her brother had just shot himself, and there was blood all over his apartment . . . and what was she supposed to do? Break down? Curl up and cry? Was she supposed to follow his lead as she had always done before and take a bullet to her jaw?
No, of course not. She was supposed to stay there, like a good little girl, and carry on with the work that he had found so important (or so he had said; if it was truly so important, why had he killed himself before finishing it? what had he really been hiding all those times when she asked him where he had been when he came in late at night?). It would start with the bloodied paper clip, of course--as well as any files she would be able to find in his apartment.
Then she would make a call to the coroner.
The headquarters were on the far right of the railroad tracks, underneath the road and below the sewers.
Disgusting.
It was a disgusting set of directions, but James knew that he needed to follow them precisely if he was to find where he needed to be. It was of the utmost importance that he found what Jeremy had told him before he was imprisoned (wrongfully) by the county police. It was only James' good luck that he knew, more or less, the general direction of where the entrance was . . . though, on the other hand, that could just as well be his bad luck. Who knew what was under there?
But there must have been something of importance, or otherwise Jeremy would have never begged his brother to go on a hunt for the mysterious yellow piece of paper.
"I want you to stay with me," she whispered. "Stay. Please."
But of course, he wasn't there to hear her. She felt the sob approaching quickly from somewhere deep within her chest; the pain was taking her breath away, so that she was having trouble staying calm--not that "staying calm" was at all easy at the moment.
She felt so alone. What was she supposed to do, with something like this? How was she supposed to carry on, day after day, when her father's body had been set on fire and burned until it was nothing but ash only a few hours prior? Yet, that was exactly what she had to do: carry on.
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