Friday May 1, 2015
A day doesn’t start with the sun. It starts the moment you open your eyes. But should you desire to describe a day the right way, and avail us of all its surprises and delights, I assure you, there is no better place to begin than with the sun. And this day was a promising one. As sharp and as brazen as anyone had ever seen it on that forest-strangled, dirt road just outside of the town of Sparkle, Pennsylvania.
Following the road away from town eventually leads you out of the forest and into a large, grassy clearing exploding with yellow dandelions, buttercups, and bearded beggarticks. The road then sneaks up a snaking path that ends at a small, gray stone bridge leaping across a vibrant stream. Standing just ahead of the bridge is an old wooden sign with letters bore deep into the face. The letters, once stained a dark red, are now as oaken as the wood in which they had once been routed. The sign reads: BUNYINE WOODS.
Now, what is a Bunyine? There are few alive who truly know, and of those few none has ever seen one. It is a strange word, isn’t it? Bunyine. Like something made up in haste and never corrected. Mysterious as well, for who could ever guess what such a word meant? A Bunyine could be anything, really, from a sailor’s knot to a tuber found buried in the dirt. But to know its meaning makes the word seem entirely different; in fact, it makes you entirely different.
The boy didn’t look like anyone special, and if you were to ask his opinion of himself, he would agree that he was not. Small and skinny (some would say bony), the boy’s frame made his well-worn green shirt and blue jeans look large on his body. His dirty blonde hair was down past his ears, the leavings of a home haircut that was a month overgrown. Slung over his left shoulder was an overloaded black backpack, with two dangling tassels hanging uselessly down from the edges of its straining mouth. It was as if he were carrying around every textbook from his homeroom desk, along with the desk.
As he walked up the path to the bridge, he did not look at the sign as he passed by. The stream was gentle, flowing westward as the sun rose further up behind him, the water sluicing around the rocks and going away. The boy resisted the temptation to lean and stare. The muted, clapping steps his shoes made on the bridge hushed as he reached the other side, where the ground turned from stone back into dust and dirt.
The boy halted at a large piece of shale that sat to one side of the dirt road, out in the tall, waving grass. It was like a giant seat made of gray rock with thin white streaks laced throughout its many tiers. He hopped up on top of it and set down his bag right next to him. It sat obediently upright while his feet dangled. When he was comfortable, he undid the ties at the top and pulled down the sides of the bag revealing what looked like a huge, leather-bound old book. It had a calligraphic title written on a small card centered on the face of it: The Journal of D. D. Windward.
It was a large, leather document folder filled with loose sheets. He opened it up, its frayed edges flipped over like overlong eyelashes, and he thumbed through the crinkly pages, bypassing scores of entries, all in the same neat script. Crowding the spaces in-between the paragraphs were detailed drawings, inked and shaded by a sure, but fading, hand. When the boy found what he was looking for, he spread the book out on his lap and began reciting words under his breath, softly and reverently. He stopped on one sentence, reading it, yet, again:
You must defeat the Bunyine, it read.
There on the page was a drawing of a vicious creature. Its head was misshapen and overlarge, almost as wide as its shoulders. Its body was lengthier in the middle, giving it a winding gait like an eel. However, it was more like a large feline than anything else. It might have been a picture of the vengeful god of all cats, daring you to defy its will. Derek stopped reading and looked up. Just ahead of him, the path turned steeply uphill, leading into a dim tunnel of trees. Everything was as his ancestor had written a century before.
Something shuddered in his chest as he closed the book, and he realized that he was just wasting time now. Perhaps a part of him had hoped there’d be something within these familiar entries that would convince him this wasn’t the day to go up there, a reason to prolong the wait just a bit longer. But this was it, and that was that. He knew it the moment his eyes closed the night before. He was as ready as he’d ever be. So, with little resolve, he put the book aside and dropped from his stone seat down to the ground. Such was life. There are things that must be done. Inasmuch as his defiant limbs would allow, he made his way down the flat end of the road, then an uphill turn that faded into the woods. Twigs crackled under his tennis shoes as the prickly awning of trees seemed to approach him, drawing him in and under like a rack of storm clouds over a sailboat.
As the path disappeared, allowing the forest to knit back together, the ground underfoot turned to weeds and spindly grasses. The road disappeared, taken back into nature’s greedy clutches, dragged in by its nets sewn of vines and weeds. Trees crowded in around him. Without a path to follow, neither man-made nor stamped into the forest floor by trampling deer, Derek found himself facing a canvas of flora. He walked into it, pushing his way through the low branches and young saplings. A little later, after a quarter of an hour of climbing, trading uphill for downhill, then back again, forcing his way through the stubborn, indignant growth, he found himself facing a cave in a hillside. A hole large enough to park a bus in.
Trees and vines surrounded its jagged mouth. Rocks jutted out unevenly like tumbling shelves. The whole formation seemed stacked in a deliberate arch. Someone had built this thing for it. Douglas said it was possible it had acolytes. Worshipers. Or it did at one time. Maybe not now. Douglas had been an old man when he’d made the journal. He could have told him more than he did. But, then again, he had been hounded by the insistent urgings of death to finish it quickly. Right now, the cave was just a hole. A hole made for a monster. That didn’t mean the Bunyine was real. Was it real? The answer came with a puff of breath and a snorting growl from within the cave’s stunning darkness. Derek stiffened, his throat clenched, his stomach pulled tight as a noose. The creature was here. Right here.
The Bunyine.
Though he could see nothing, he could hear the beast’s movements. Its claws scraped against stone as it shifted its legs underneath it and relaxed with a kind of sigh and a whimper. It stretched out its limbs but did not rise. It knew he was here. It was awake and alert. Derek was certain, somehow, that its eyes were meeting his own. Things remained quiet for what seemed a long time and he realized, without noticing, that he had backed up at least two body lengths until his back met the trunk of a tree. He could go no further, at least not without turning around and showing the beast his back, which he knew he could never do without breaking into a frantic run.
The cave rumbled as the creature yawned, the sound from its throat oozing like a chain of black bubbles from a witch’s cauldron. Derek felt his bones tremble, his eyes grow wide, his breath halt. Was that a purr? Yes, of course, it was. It was too familiar a sound to be mistaken for anything else. So, it was a cat after all. A house cat made a sound just like this, but a house cat’s purr was never wound with such menace. This was loud and vast. Derek wanted to speak to it, to break the awful silence that came after, but he found his breath strangled with fear. To think, he could come this far and not find any words, just a few words, to prove his worth.
“Brave are we?” said the deep voice from the cave. It was a voice wrought of earth tremors, not vocal cords. The voice of a demon.
“Hoo...uh...” Derek whimpered. He could not make the words happen.
“Why not come closer, boy?” taunted the Bunyine. “What could happen?”
Derek was not sure if he was being baited or if he was being mocked. There seemed little difference in the end.
“I’d like to fill my belly with your warm blood,” it bellowed, with longing. “That’s what I do to children. I bite off their arms and their legs, then I watch them thrash about, pounding their heads and screaming for their mothers. It is my music.”
Derek managed to look away for just a moment. He saw no signs of violence around him, no soupy puddles of gore or dry stains. Just the same, he knew the Bunyine was telling the truth.
“Have you come to get a look at me? That’s what you want, isn’t it? To see that I was really here.” Derek cleared his throat yet pushed back even harder against the tree trunk. Shingles of bark crinkled and snapped at his clawing fingers, like he was forcing the tree up straight, preventing it from falling over.
Derek pulled himself up and brought together his cowardly legs. He leaned forward and managed to take a step away from the tree. His eyes, however, did not leave the cave mouth, and it saw something down below. He could see the Bunyine’s claw. It had been there all along, ghastly and sharp. Obsidian black. Its color had kept it hidden in the rim of the shadows. When the Bunyine noticed the boy looking at it, he lifted the claw and clicked it playfully on the stone. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Derek’s whole body knotted up. What little ground he’d gained he wanted to hold. He was so stiff that he thought his jaw would not unclench. The words flushed out when he tried to speak, as if fleeing for cover.
“I came to see you,” he croaked.
The Bunyine snorted, its sinuses blatting like the chimney of a tugboat. It soon floundered, turning into a sigh of pity. Then the giant body heaved, sucking in a hate-filled lungful of breath. “It’s time we were acquainted, Derek!” The name struck Derek like a wet slap. The monster chewed his name up and ground it into powder, then it chased the remnants away like a brace of frightened hares. This was the voice of a hunter. A killer. The voice of hunger knew his name.
Then it came. It was too sudden to be ready for. Eyes glowed in the cave’s mouth. They were gigantic and bright yellow, like two sour moons. Then they were right there in Derek’s face. In an instant, right there. From underneath those eyes came a roar like a million gears grinding, a thousand throats screeching. It was loud enough to rub trees raw and blow back their branches. Derek never saw the teeth, and he did not realize that he was still alive until he was far away from there, racing back through the saplings and bushes.
Birds crazed from the trees and took off in all directions. To any small animal on the ground, any spry fox or trembling rabbit, the forest seemed suddenly ablaze with terror as thousands of creatures, both large and small, fled for their very lives. Somewhere within it, a large, terrible thing whipped back into its cave, running as if it were burning in the thin straws of sunlight. It lay down. Soon enough, all became quiet and the woods seemed little more put out than a tender sleeper awoken by the tapping of rain on his window.
Thursday April 30, 2015
No other two people in the entirety of the world did what Peter and Alyssa Huffy did in April of the year 2015. They departed their seven-year-old, single floor house in San Diego County, CA (pop. 3.1 million) and moved to a small township in Forest County, PA (pop. 7000). On the day of their arrival, they set off early from Alyssa’s parents’ place in Harrisburg and took a somewhat roundabout path. Alyssa’s parents, native Chinese, didn’t quite understand their affable, bespectacled son-in-law, but they loved him and were always sad to see them both go. Peter apologized, but he had to see as many of the nearby ‘villes’ as he could en route. He claimed he’d never seen a real ‘ville’ in his life and wanted to see if they were like they were on Andy Griffith, with people waving hello and fishing off bridges. Alyssa higroaned, but let it go. It was Peter’s turn to drive, and the Golden Rule was to never argue about directions with the driver. Perusal of a PA map will show names like Troutville, Curwensville, Sykesville, Reynoldsville, Brookeville, Strattanville, Summerville and Shippenville. The deal was they had to get to Sparkle before nightfall.
On the way, they marveled at the extensive countryside, the endless hills of trees, which crested and troughed like waves. Out here, nature was infinitely busy to eyes still used to the sparser, burnt landscapes of Southern California. It was a bright day and, it having rained for just a bit, the greens and browns of the earth twinkled, as if to please.
Peter, tired and grumpy, yawned and spoke his mind. “I don’t wanna drive anymore. This was a bad idea. I’m really dumb,” he said. “Let’s just pull over and live on the side of the road.”
Alyssa groaned. “I don’t wanna live here. I want to live inside. Get some sleep in a warm bed that’s not in my parent’s house.”
Peter perked up. “I don’t know. I thought that was pretty hot. Sex in your old bed.”
His wife shook her head. “That’s…that’s…I don’t know what to say to that.”
“It had that sneaking around thing that sex had in High School, you know?”
“When did this happen? Was I there, Peter? Who did you sleep with? Was I even awake?”
“I don’t usually bother checking.”
“You should start. Let’s do that from now on.”
“Maybe you’re never awake. It’s possible we’ve never even consummated this marriage. Not legally.”
“I’m still entitled to half your garbage.”
“I think we’ve found a loophole, though.”
“The sneaking around stuff is true. My mom’s a snoop, she’s always been one. I think she went through my purse.”
“I like your parents, though.”
“I know. Stop liking my parents. They’re your in-laws, you friggin’ weirdo.”
“Your parents are nice.”
“My parents are boring.”
“So are my parents.”
“Mine are more boring.”
Peter was shocked. “Are you kidding? My parents are from Kansas! They’re the plainest of the plain! The Caucasianest of the Caucasians! They think hungry, homeless people are just showing off how much more suffering they get to do!”
Alyssa disagreed. “My parents are from the Chinese Kansas. No! It’s worse! It’s a polluted Missouri!”
Peter slapped the steering wheel. “Check yo’self! Compared to mine, dinner with your parents is like partying with Led Zeppelin!”
“Bring it!”
“Oh, don’t even start!”
“My parents make dumplings for fun, Peter! For fun! They have dumpling parties!”
“My parents are dead! Did you know that? Just because they talk and move around, that doesn’t mean they’re alive. They literally died five years ago.”
“My parents have a VCR!”
“They’re corpses, Lyssie! They rise from the grave just to send us Christmas cards! It’s an Egyptian curse!”
“My parents saw Avatar NOT in 3D!”
“My parents…seriously?”
As evening approached, the couple felt too weary to explore the town of Sparkle, the historical part, which they had seen only pictures of, so they continued to their new house, which stood a couple miles outside of town. They had never seen it in person, so when they pulled up to their new, very old house, they were twice as curious as they were tired. Though their realtor’s little car was sitting out in front, neither of them looked for her. They put their arms around one another, an act that had become as natural as tucking in one’s shirt, for the newlyweds.
Alyssa squeezed him just a little harder. “Jeez! Pictures just aren’t as good as real life.”
“That’s for sure,” Peter replied. His voice dragged a little. “Video games, though. Video games are as good as real life.”
Alyssa groaned, rolled her eyes. “Three days, Peter. Don’t make me kick your ass.”
“I know. Three days. I got it.”
“Please, for me, just try to get by until then.”
“Right. I’m sorry. Three days. Three days. Seventy-two hours...straight…in a row.”
“It’s amazing.”
“It really is. It’s like a storybook house, or something.”
“Our first house.”
“Our first house. Should I carry you across the threshold?” Peter asked, nudging her.
Alyssa snickered, her head nodding towards the front door. “You’re gonna carry me up those porch steps, Van Damme?”
Peter shook his head, emphatically. “Noooo. You’re gonna walk up those steps, then I’m gonna carry you across the threshold. And it’s ‘carry me up the steps, Schwarzenegger’, not Van Damme. Where the hell did you get Van Damme?”
“I like Jean Claude Van Damme. He does Van Damme-age.”
The front door of the house opened and a short, sixty-something woman stepped out on the front porch. Peter gleamed.
“Hey! There she is!” he called.
The lady clapped her hands together, a big smile. “Oh, hi! You’re here! Oh, how wonderful.”
“Hey! How are you?” asked Alyssa.
“Fine. Just great. Oh, I just can’t wait to show you around. The house is so beautiful. I just love coming up here. It’s the loveliest home in Forest County, I’m telling you. It is a legendary place in these parts. Well, we don’t have to go through all that, again.” Velma was speaking of a tour, and lecture, she’d given them of the home on-line. It had lasted more than two hours. Although she didn’t handle the camera very well, she had answered all of their questions. However, as is common in these times, Peter had retained very little of what they were told. “You two are going to love this.” She assured them.
Velma Thrawlins, formerly red-headed, had a smile that matched the kinds one saw on billboards along the freeway. Her clothes gave a similar impression: her burgundy dress with matching sport coat stood out against real clothes in the same way hotel rooms stood out from bedrooms. Underneath it all was nervousness, and a sincere desire to never disappoint. Velma stepped up daintily to the couple, Alyssa first, and took her hand in both of hers. She laughed politely, as if something funny had been said.
“Oh, I finally get to show it to you! Let’s go in,” said Velma.
“Okay!” replied Alyssa. She was a lovely woman of thirty, trim and athletic. She was wearing gym clothes, purely for comfort on a long day of traveling, and suddenly felt coy about meeting a stranger so disheveled. As the two went on greeting each other, Alyssa’s husband wandered a bit off to the side.
“Oh, you’re going to love this! I just know it!” cried Velma. “The house is just so beautiful. I’m telling you, it is a legendary place. You’re going to be so happy here.” She then turned to Peter, who was then several feet away. “How do you do, Peter? I’ve been just dying to meet you!”
Peter was visibly tired. “Hey. Good to be here” Peter said, a second before realizing that this was a phrase you made before accepting an award or introducing yourself on a game show. Peter was twenty-nine years old, and retired. He was skinny, with brown hair, and a little above average in height. Overall, he appeared to be healthy. He had on a pair of new glasses, with round lenses and wire rims. They had replaced what he had called his ‘geeks’, which had thick, plastic frames, after much pleading from Alyssa. He’d complained about it, but in truth, he was glad to put whatever he could of his old self behind.
Velma clapped her hands together and rubbed them. “Well,” she beamed. “Let’s not dilly-dally. Let’s take a look at her! For real!”
“Definitely,” said Alyssa, who took Peter’s hand. The couple exchanged a quick smile then followed Velma in through their new front door.
The exterior of the large house is quite peculiar, it never fails to elicit remarks from the few seasonal passersby. Most can’t explain what is strange about it, only that the individual parts of a house seem to be put somewhat in disorder here. Within, however, it is even stranger. The first floor gives the impression it was made for a giant. The ceiling seems to rise for a mile. Some people guess 20ft, but it is higher than that. The huge front staircase, opposite the main entrance, has a smooth handrail and widely spaced balusters. Most people find it far too large, even out of proportion to the second floor, on which more typical home dimensions begin to show. The house gets smaller as you ascended the stairs, and Peter could not help but whistle when he saw them. He was impressed. Velma beamed, like a proud parent.
“There seems to be no rhyme or reason for much of the design,” she said. “The house was not built off of any plan. It was just, sort of, devised in segments representing different styles, some I don’t think even have a name, really. The end result is just, as you can see for yourself, simply stunning, if eccentric.” This was, nearly, the same pitch she’d given on-line.
Peter was impressed. “Wow. I thought people were smaller back in the ‘Little House on the Prairie’ days,” he couldn’t help but say.
Velma smiled, wide-eyed. “I know! Isn’t it magnificent? I’ve, actually, never shown this house before. Pictures really don’t do it justice, I think. The size doesn’t come out.”
“I can’t get over how big everything is,” Alyssa asked.
“Well, the house was originally supposed to be far larger. You’ll notice how exceptionally high the ceilings are. The stairs were meant to be a grand staircase. Apparently, he changed his mind after they were built, and considerably sized down his ambitions as the house approached completion. This created some proportional differences. The expanse of this whole Acropolis it’s built on seems to attest to that. It’s part of the house’s charm.”
“Acropolis?”
“Well, that’s what Douglas, the original owner, called it. The plateau. Or hill, if you want. That was the times he lived in. Ancient themes were very common in architecture in those days. Like men of his time, he was very handy, for the most part. He even made the stained-glass window in the attic.”
“Wow. Really?” Alyssa asked.
“Oh, yes! He was a very impressive man. The kind of man who could just accomplish anything if he wished to.”
Peter nodded. "Jeez. Sounds like he could've had his own motivational seminar."
This presentation was starting to make Velma visibly nervous, as if every minute brought her closer to peril, but she hid it under a careful smile as she turned back to them. Somehow, they had strayed off the comfortable narrative she’d prepared, or had just reached the edge of it. She only had so much she was prepared to say about any part of the house, and she ran out just a few questions into each small presentation. “I’d never sold a house on-line, site unseen. It really does make things simpler, but without coming here in person, well, I’ve been so worried I’d miss something. I guess there’s a trade-off for things being simpler. By the way, a contractor determined that the house’s old heating tanks are still buried on the property. Just so you know.”
Alyssa’s brow wrinkled, she turned to her husband. “Umm...first I’ve heard. Peter?”
Peter’s eyebrows popped up. “Is that bad?” he asked. “That heating-tank-thing you just mentioned?”
Velma was contrite. “Well, it’s not as if there’s any imminent danger. You might want to have it taken care of someday, though. Just so you know.”
“Boy,” replied Peter. “That, really, was very simple. Not knowing is way simpler than knowing.”
Velma was silent for a moment. Her mouth was hitched open to defend herself, but Peter and Alyssa had already moved on. They were perfectly content. This was a good day for them. Their sincere smiles and their darting eyes gave that away. She clapped her hands together, again. “Well! Don’t you want to see the rest?”
After that, they got back on track. She took them all around and the couple seemed happy. They were quiet and stopped asking a lot of questions. The kitchen was huge and the back door led to a long wraparound porch, which swung around the side of the house to the front, with an identical deck one level right above it. The main bedroom was to the left of the top of the stairs. It had large windows that offered a view of the surrounding land. The room opposite it was just as large, but was far less open. Peter saw it becoming his workroom. He just wasn’t sure what work he would be doing, if any.
After a quick look at the smaller guest bedroom and bathroom, Velma led them to the attic. The ample attic stairs led up, then circled around to the back of the house to an archway opposite of the front Eastern wall. It felt strange. It was strange. Not so much wrong, just strange. This place had been constructed by a mind that did not see things the way everyone else did. At the top of the staircase, Peter and Alyssa stopped and clutched hands all the harder. It was awe. As much as one can feel at the end of the day. Built into the Eastern wall was a most magnificent stained-glass window. They had seen pictures of it, of course, hadn’t done it service. The colors were so vivid, it rivaled a summer sunset in charm. The background was a rich, dark blue, with circular yellow stars scattered all around a large amber moon. It looked like marbles circling a drain. The contour of the glass inside the circles seemed to swirl. The couple approached it reverently, Alyssa was particularly moved.
“My god,” she said, lightly, separating from Peter and moving closer. “It’s amazing.”
“Yeah,” Peter agreed, sincerely. “Amazing.”
“It’s very old. Not quite as old as the house, but nearly,” said Velma, proudly. “About two decades ago, the owners wanted it taken apart and repaired, have the glass polished and the lead cames replaced. Just typical things you do, really. The community very much objected to this idea. They made quite a problem for the owners, so they left it alone.”
Alyssa grimaced. “Over window maintenance?”
“People take preserving Mr. Windward’s legacy very seriously. You will find that making any significant changes to the house will arouse similar sentiments.”
“They wouldn’t even let anyone polish it?”
“They should have gotten someone from the outside to come in. That was my advice. I know it all sounds silly, but Mr. Windward used some kind of strange glaze on it, that’s why some of the colors are so muted. It’s apparently similar to some kind of lead concoction that Da Vinci used. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is.”
Peter chuckled incredulously. “Muted? I don’t see anything that’s muted.”
Velma smiled and shrugged. “Unfortunately, not everyone has an eye for that sort of thing, Peter.”
“Oh. Right.” For a second after, Peter felt very mildly insulted.
“Does it mean anything?” Alyssa asked.
“What? The moon and stars? I don’t know about the stars, but the moon rises up past this very window. The size of the moon here is inaccurate, but it was over-sized, I believe, so as not to leave too much empty space.” Velma clasped her hands together, quite pleased with the clarity of her response.
“We should make this our bedroom,” said Alyssa, half-seriously.
“It’s very cold up here in the winter, Alyssa. This kind of window lets in the cold as if there were no glass at all!” Velma quipped, clapping her hands, again. “But it’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say,” added Peter. He held up his hand, wanting to run a squeaking finger down the surface of the moon, but changed his mind. He had a vision of the townsfolk marching up the hill with pitchforks and torches.
A short time later, Velma led them downstairs. She was still chatting it up, boasting of their new house’s premiere assets like she’d built them with her own two hands. At the bottom of the stairs she turned around. “So where are you two staying tonight?”
“Here,” said Alyssa. “We’ve got a couple sleeping bags and air mattresses.”
“And your furniture?” she asked concerned.
“It’s coming,” replied Peter. “ABF. Shipped it in a U-Pack.”
“Oh. I was going to suggest staying at the ‘Doss and Wick’, a beautiful B&B not too far from here.”
“Nah. We’re gonna sleep here, right in front of that big window.”
“That will be so romantic,” Velma said, with a polite smile, then she sighed and turned away. “For the first couple of days, anyway,” she added.
The couple hugged and kissed, again, as newlyweds will do at the tiniest success. They weren’t that newly-wed, however. In fact, they may have crossed the finish line and were now, simply, wed. “We really don’t have much coming, though. We lived in a ranch back in Cali. One-floor,” Alyssa said.
“Oh! Then I recommend visiting the town as soon as you can!” Velma said. “Sparkle is renowned for its arts and crafts. That’s what’s kept it alive all these years. I recommend Rose Windward’s store. She sells beautiful antique furniture. And she’s not out to get you. She’ll give you a deal.”
“Okay,” said Alyssa, happily. “We’ll do that.”
“Windward?” Peter said. “This furniture lady is related to the founder of the town? Did this used to be her family’s house?”
Velma shook her head emphatically. “No, no, no. She’s not related by blood. She has no connection to this house. So, get out there as soon as you can, check out some of the shops. It’ll be a good way to start getting to know the locals, too, I think.”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “Might as well. We’re locals, too, now.”
“Oh, well...” replied Velma, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know about that. I think you’ll find the natives here will be calling your grandchildren the ‘new people’. They take a great deal of pride in their heritage.”
Peter’s brow creased, pensively. “Hmm, I thought you had to cross a land bridge to be called a native.”
Velma laughed and wagged a finger at him, playfully. He shot out his own finger and wagged back. “They call that kind of talk ‘smartass-tic’ around here,” said Velma.
The couple returned the laugh. “I like that! I like that a lot,” said Peter. With that, Velma walked out the door and left. The two lovers stood on the front stoop and watched her car disappear into the evening.
After Velma was gone, the house finally felt like it was theirs. They walked around the first floor, not speaking, just admiring, for there wasn’t much to say. Everything was flawless. A long day became a perfect night, and words just seemed to pollute the air. The house turned dark as they were bringing in their things from the van, but neither of them made any attempt to turn on any lights. They just threw their sleeping bags over their shoulders and slowly made their way up to the attic where the moon would later be peeking over the bottom edge of their new window.