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Going Away

�Yo! Flo! You gonna grab this seven top today, or what?� Dennis yelled across
the kitchen in a gruff, mocking voice.
 Amy turned from the coffee station where she was brewing a fresh pot of decaf.
�Kiss mah grits, Mel,� she yelled back to him.
 Dennis tried to hold his grumpy puss as long as he could, but finally it broke and
he started laughing. 
 �I mean it, Amy. My food�s gonna be DOA by the time you put it out, for
chrissakes.�
 �In a sec, shug,� she said as she walked towards him with the pot of coffee in her
hand. �Gotta couple more tickets t�put in first though. Don�t want your ass gettin� bored
back there, now do we?� And she walked past him and out the swivel door into the dining
room.
 Dennis shook his head and smiled. Then he heard �Oh shit!� and turned his
attention down the hot line, where his su chef Jerry was standing, poking at something in
the salamander cooker with a pair of tongs. 
 �What�s up, jer?�
 Jerry turned to look at him. Between his slighty sunken and propped forward chef
hat and his half-buttoned, grease-stained chef jacket his face was flushed and
sweat-streaked, but still smiling.
 Mid-July was not a very good time of year to work in a restaurant kitchen. If it
wouldn�t cost an estimated ten dollars a minute, between hood vents and exhaust fans and
doors, Dennis would have put in an air conditioner.
 �Nothin�, chef,� Jerry said, and turned his attention back to the object he was
fiddling with. 
 �Ouch! Shit! Sonava-OUCH!� Finally he pulled the object out with his tongs and
plopped it on a plate. Around the burnt finger he was sucking on Jerry said, �Twice bake�s
up!� and then slid the plate down the line to Dennis.
 Dennis put his hand out to snatch it, smiling and shaking his head. Jerry wasn�t
incompetent; far from it actually-he was just about the best su chef he had ever worked
with. No, incompetent he wasn�t; just damn funny to work with.
 Dennis picked up the plate with the twice baked potato on it and plopped the
chicken cordon bleu he had been cooking next to it. He drizzled his cheese sauce
delicately and skillfully over the chicken, sprinkled shredded parmesan cheese and
chopped chives on the potato, and set the plate in the pick-up window underneath the
plate warmer lights.
 Then he reached into a large bowl of ice and pulled out one of his �fruit people.�
That�s what people had begun to call the odd little garnishes he spent most of the morning
every day carving and putting together.
 Dennis plopped his �fruit person� onto the side of the plate, its wobbly eyes
bouncing around on its little grape face, and rang the bell.
 DING! �You�re up, Sandy!� he  yelled just as she walked thgough the swivel door.
Dennis leaned over his cutting board and put his face next to the plate on the warmer
shelf.
 Sandy reached for her plate absentmindedly, while trying to keep the tray in her
other hand, covered in sodas, coffees and salads, balanced.
 Finally she turned her attention to the plate she couldn�t quite grab, (the sameplate, coincidentally, that Dennis was moving back and forth just out of reach of her
probing hand), and she let out a �Jeeesus!� and almost lost her tray when she saw Dennis�
face propped on the shelf with his eyes rolled back and his tongue sticking out.
 �You shithead!� she said, with half a smile on her face. She grabbed her plate,
rebalanced her tray, and walked out the door, showing him her own tongue as she walked
past him.
 He chuckled at that. Down the line Jerry added a few laughs too, before saying,
�Man. She hates that!�
 If there was one thing Dennis knew, it was how to make a stressful situation less
stressful. 
 He then opened the small refridgerator next to him at the end of the line. Looking
inside he silently counted his remaining specials.
 Dennis closed the door and looked up as Sara, his newest waitress, walked
through the door.
 She had started last week, on Monday night to be exact. One week�s worth of
initiation was usually what he gave the newbies. By Friday he had gotten a ketchup soaked
french fry to the side of the head and a good deal of laughter from Sara. That was usually
how Dennis knew the hazing was over. �Gotta break �em in� he�d always say.
 �Sara?� She turned to look at him. �Two chicks left, okay? Pass the word.�
 �Sure,� she said, and began to walk out.
 �Oh! And eighty-six bakers, alright?� Jerry piped up from beside him. 
 �Sure,� Sara said again, and went out to the dining room.
 �Outa bakers?� Dennis asked.
 �Um... Yup.�
 �But I thought we had enough to go with the chicken.�
 �Um...� Jerry looked at Dennis, his mouth in a crooked guilty smile, and then
motioned with his eyes to the small garbage they shared between them. 
 Dennis looked in, hunching over. In it, sitting on top, amid dirty gloves and paper
towels, sat two, finely burnt potatoes.
 Well, Dennis thought, time to rethink that whole �competent� thing, and chuckled.
 �Sorry, boss.� Puppy dog eyes getting wider.
 �No prob, Jer.�
 Jerry�s mouth began to curve into a smile.
 �Course, you know they�re coming outa your paycheck, right?� Dennis said.
 �What? You gotta be shittin me--�
 �And those were expensive potatoes, too,� Dennis said, cutting him off.
�Imported, don�tcha know.�
 �You�re such a shithea--�
 �Twenty bucks a piece, I believe, yup,� Dennis said, matter-of-factly, straight
faced as a corpse.
 �Oh, blow it out your a--�
 �And all that sour cream! That stuff doesn�t grow on--�
 tictictictic-a-tic-a-tictic-a-tictictic
 The sound of the ticket printer stopped them both mid-sentence. 
 �We�ll discuss this later,� Dennis said, the chide in his voice ever apparant.
 �Blow me,� Jerry cracked back as he reached up to tear the ticket from the printer.
 �Whatcha got, kid?�
 �Five top. Just apps so far. Look, Dennis, it�s a pretty slow night so far. Why
don�tcha take off. Get an early start on your vacation. We can handle.�
 �You sure?�
 �Course. Besides, I can�t very well drink on the job with my boss hanging around,now can I?�
 �Hmmm...� Dennis looked around his kitchen, with a look he hoped passed for
contemplative. �Good point, Jer.�
 He reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys, and threw them to Jerry, who
caught and pocketed them in one motion.
 �Now don�t forget to--�
 �Oh, shut up and get goin, I�m thirsty.�
 �Another fine point, m�boy.� And he started untying his apron and headed for the
door.
 He hadn�t taken more than two days off in a row since opening this place two
years ago. And, although he was quite apprehensive about being away so long, he still
couldn�t hide his excitement.
 His wife was especially excited. She had been trying to get him to take her on a
trip up to Maine, where they had spent their honeymoon, for years now.
 And now that they were coming up on their tenth anniversary, he couldn�t think of
a better time.
 Plus, his staff was great. Amy, who had been his hostess since the beginning, and
whom he had worked with for five years before opening his own place, would be his
acting front of the house manager. And Jerry, well... No worries there.
 When he got to the back door of the kitchen Dennis stopped and turned back
around.
 �Jerry. If you need anything, I�ll have my cell turned off and stuffed away in the
glove compartment, so feel free not to call if something comes up, okay?�
 �Sure, boss,� Jerry said, and chuckled. �Have fun, man.�
 Then he spotted Amy back in front of the coffee station again, presumably
percalating another pot of her famous decaf.
 �Oh, yeah, and Flo? When i get back in two weeks you�d better be gone, ya hear
me?�
 Amy never turned, but without hesitation her right hand flew out and smacked her
right bottom cheek, in that oh-so-ever-subtle universal gesture.
 Dennis turned and walked out, laughing all the way to the car.
 Yup. Good crew. Everything�ll be fine...
 
 
 
 Lying in bed, waiting for her husband to come home. She should be used to this by 
now. After ten years of marriage, it still filled her with school girl anticipation. 
 Their game.
 She�d go to bed just before he usually got home. Some times she�d watch t.v., or
read a little, and when she�d hear his truck pull up she�d shut the night table light off, or
the t.v., and she�d pull the covers up over her head, feigning sleep, and snore like it was
going out of style.
 Then he�d creep in very quietly, and he�d slip up the stairs with such grace you�d
think he was a government trained assaisin, not a chef at a small town restaurant.
 Then he�d inch and foot his way across the carpet, and, when he was close enough,
hovering over her covered form, he�d pounch into the air onto the bed. They would
wressle for several minutes until finally falling into eachother�s arms, exhausted and
laughing.
 It was almost a tradition now, but it still lost none of its charm. The last ten years
had lost none of its charm, as far as she was concerned, and tonight was the start of what
should prove a charming vacation. She�d been waiting for this for a very long time--they both had--and she figured,
why not start the vacation a little early? She had a nice suprise waiting for him, and it had
cost eighty dollars at Victoria�s Secret, so he had better like it. And had better not rip it.
 It was far too early for her husband to be getting home from work, she knew,  but
she was already rolled on her side, blankets pulled over her head, everything in the room
shut off.
 Too excited.
 To sleep, to watch t.v., to read. Too excited for anything.
 Just when she didn�t think she couldn�t take it anymore she heard a noise. A creak.
 She shut her eyes tight and started to breath heavy. Of course, it wasn�t very
convincing, but then it never really was--it didn�t have to be.
 Several minutes went by. No more creaks.
Maybe that wasn�t him, she thought. Why would he be home now, anyway? Last time I
checked it was only a little after nine. Course, maybe he left early, thinking the same
thing as me. That�s it.
     And then her rational mind spoke up. Look, you�ve been doing this for years, you
would�ve heard his truck pulling in. That thing ain�t new, you can hear it comin� down
the street. And the stairs...
 But her dreamy mind interrupted. Hey, I was lost in thought. A garbage truck
could run through the bedroom and I�d probably hardly notice. And... I mean... What
else could it be...?
 Before she got an answer, she heard the noise again, 
 creeaaaak,
 only this time her mind wasn�t lit up, the buzzing excitement wasn�t quite so loud;
she wasn�t thinking about the beautiful ride along the coast, or sunsets on the beach, or
quaint motels with lobsters on the key chains and names like The Come On Inn.
 No, the buzzing had quieted down enough for her to place the source of the noise.
The creak. It was coming from inside the bedroom.
 No way! No way it could be Dennis. Unless he really was an international spy. I
would�ve heard the door... or him sneaking up the stairs... or... I would�ve--
 When she heard the noise the third time the buzzing excitement dwindled to a
distant hum, surpassed and overwhelmed by the shrill ringing of fear...

Too excited. He could barely drive. Just thinking about getting the twenty minutes
home drew a smile on his face he didn�t think anything could erase.
 Screw our little game, Dennis thought. I�m just gonna run up the stairs and
cannonball on the bed!
 His smile widened.
 He flicked through the radio stations several times before finally settling on
something that fit his mood.
 �Love me one time, could not speak. Love me one time, baaaabah, yeah my knees
got weak,� Dennis sang at the top of his lungs. �Love me two times baaaabe, I�m goin�
away!�
 Beneath a beautiful marble statue of himself in Paris, Jim Morrison was slowly
reaching up with stiff hands, trying to cover his ears...
 Then, suddenly, Dennis heard a noise. A pop! 
 He looked down at the instrument panel and saw the heat gauge was buried in the
red.
 �Ohyousonofabitch,� he cursed through the smile he was sure nuclear fallout
couldn�t destroy. He looked back up and saw steam billowing out from under the hood.
 �Shit!�
 Dennis pulled over to the shoulder, put his four-ways on, and got out.
 Good thing we�re taking Karen�s car tomorrow, he thought, still smiling...

Crreeeaaakkk.
 There it was again. What was that?
 She started to roll over, very slowly, so she could get a peek at whatever was
making that noise. There was a small amount of light spilling into the bedroom from the
hallway night light; she could probably see whatever it was that was...
 Oh, this is silly! she thought to herself. Scared to death in my own house. Covers
pulled over my head like some kid scared of the monster in the closet.
 Just when she was about to just sit up, flick the light on and see what was going
on, she heard another noise, and it stole her last bit of courage from her.
 Thud-thump.
 Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit, ohshit, ohshit, ohshit. 
 In that big computer terminal that is our brain, the little man with the big cup of
coffee who sits behind the screen finally pulled up the memory file on that particular
pattern of sound.
 Like clothes falling on the floor, she thought.
 Where once was the stoked-hot furnace of bravery, now only a white-hot ice-fire
burned.
 Then she heard it again. Thud-thump. And then: Creeaak. 
 She began to shiver very, very quietly...

By the time Dennis found the water bottle in the back of his truck the radiator had
stopped steaming.
 He poured the three-quarters-full liter bottle�s contents into the tank, hoping it
would be enough to get him home. Then he replaced the cap, which had half popped off,
and closed the hood with quite a loud report in the still night air.
 �Five more miles, baby, c�mon,� he said as he hopped back into his truck. He
started it up and drove back out onto the road.
 He looked down at the heat gauge, and noted with pleasure that the needle was
posed at the halfway mark.
 �Piece of shit,� he said, and his smile, which had never fully left, widened still.
 He pressed the excellerator down, pushing the old Toyota up to fifty, and began
flicking through the radio stations again...
 �There�s a lady who�s sure, all that glitters is gold, and she�s buuuuying a stairway,
to heaaaveeen,� Dennis sang, in his best high-pitched inpersonation.
 Almost home. And that smile just wouldn�t go away.

Creeeaaakkk. Fwish.
 A new noise. Five-tenths of a second of keyboard punching and she is told the
noise is that of a foot sweeping across the bedroom carpet.
 Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit...
 Now or never, chickenshit, that voice inside her head screamed at her.
 She took two very large breaths, reached up very, very slowly, grabbing the quiltin each shaking hand and, taking two more breaths for good measure, ripped the blankets
down from her face and upper body, at the same time sitting up in bed...

Dennis glanced in the rearview mirror as he sped along, and slowly stroked the
generous growth of stubble sprouting from his face.
 He had grown the beard over the past winter from a combination of boredom,
laziness, and the spirit of experiment.
 Now it was mid-July, and it was beginning to be rather itchy.
 He supposed it was time he shaved it off. Karen would appreciate it, at least, he
thought.
 He knew she loved him for who he was and all, but he also knew she quite disliked
the beard.
 �So let it be said! So let it be done!� he said to himself in the empty, dark cabin.
 He cranked the engine up to sixty, scratched his beard, and smiled...
 Couple more minutes.

She tried to scream, but she couldn�t. She tried to breathe, but she couldn�t. Even
a mild attempt at fainting didn�t work, so she just stared.
 What was standing before her, just inside of the walk-in closet and half behind the
closet door, was a figure.
 It only stared at her.
 Slowly it began its motions again. Creaaak. Fwish, fwish. Creaaak. Fwish, fwish.
It took short, small steps; shuffling--like an old man, or something in a lot of pain--as it
slowly pushed open the closet door.
 It was all the way out of the closet now, fully exposed. Something about its
posture seemed oddly familiar, but she couldn�t place it.
 Then it half turned towards the bedroom door and began to walk in its very slow,
laborous, scuttling way.
 Fwish, fwish.
 It�s leaving! Oh my dear god, it�s leaving!
 And then it stopped in front of the dresser. It turned its head slightly upwards
towards the mirror on top of it. It stayed that way for several long, excrutiating seconds.
 Finally it made a small, choking sound, like something small trying to swallow
something very large. And wet.
 It turned back at her, then, so quickly she jumped and let out a small whimper.
 It was close enough now to the bedroom door that she could just make out its
features.
 It wore a dark suit and a white shirt; polished black shoes and a red and black
striped tie. Something very familiar about that suit, too, that perfectly-rational-sane-
never-gets-scared part of her mind said.
 Her eyes looked up into its face, not quite caring where she�d seen that suit before,
only wanting it gone from her sight.
 Its shadow-darkened face, what she could see of it, was not quite right. At one
moment it seemed fine, and then it would look blurry--almost as if it was melting and then
refreezing again. 
 Its nose would sag down, then straighten up. Its lips would melt and pull back
from its teeth, then become solid once more. And its face was mostly tanned, except for its
upper lip, chin and cheeks, which were a light shade of pink/white.
 Her heart was beating so fast and hard she could feel it in her teeth. And all shecould do was sit and watch as the figure across the room just stood there, staring back at
her; its eyes staring out at her from its changing, mishapen, god-aweful face.
 It stood there like that, slightly hunched over, its arms hanging loose in front of it,
pointing at the floor. Then a cold, wet sound came out of its mouth:
 �Chluh...�
 A large bubble of what could almost be called spit spilled from its mouth. It sucked
it back in and tried again.
 �Chluh... Chluh...� It paused to swallow in that chokey way again, and then:
 �Chlaren!�
 It smiled at her then; a half-crooked effort. 
 Everything in that smile was hideous. It said look out, it said keep your distance, it
said behind these teeth lies a forked tongue that�s gonna lash out in search of prey!
 But then there was its eyes. She looked into its red, watering eyes, and she thought
she could see concern; thought she could see a pleading cry of anguish; thought she could
see something... something human.
 And then its eyes narrowed, losing their false, somehow familiar, kindness. And its
smile transformed into a snarl of melting, constantly reshaping teeth. Liquid. Solid. Flat.
Sharp.
 Oh shit, I�m gonna die in lingerie, was all she could think.
 Then, with a speed the thing had not yet even eluded to, it ran at her, mouth open,
saliva boiling and streaming, eyes wide and gleaming.
 �Chlareeeen!�
 And, finally, she was able to scream.

Dennis pulled in the driveway, noticing the heat was rising again and not caring a 
bit about it.
 He stepped out of his truck and shoved his keys into his pocket. He took a couple
of deep breaths of cool July night air, looking up at the sky. Constellations swirled and
whirled, stars blinked and twinkled. From the corner of his eye he saw a comet trailing the
sky, and with nothing he could think of to wish for, he finally turned away.
 He looked up at the darkened bedroom window. She must�ve gone to bed early.
(Or at least pretended to.)
 Dennis smiled his large, goofy grin, started whistling, and hurried up the short
walk to the front door.

As her last few breaths escaped her, she stared into its eyes. 
 One would bulge out while the other deflated, and then shrink again as the other
eye began to grow. Its eyelids slowly became transparant and melty, running down around
the enlarged eyeballs and collecting underneath, in the small pockets of luggage just above
the cheek. 
 Its nose would slowly melt away, revealing bone and cartilage and sinewy tissue,
before taking its shape back. Veins stood out on its tanned forehead in ripples, pulsating,
and in spidery networks along its white cheeks and neck.
 As everything tunnel visioned to a darkened pinpoint where all she could see was
its eyes, its horrible, familiar eyes, she could hear it saying over and over again,
somewhere far, far away:
 �Rungh, Chlarun, rungh. Rungh chaway!�
 And then it, and the rest of the world, fell silent around her.

Dennis slammed the door behind him and tore up the stairs, nearly falling and
sprawling on his face twice.
 He skirted the Constantine sofa table in the hallway at the top of stairs, bumping
the lamp on it with his shoulder, making it rock back and forth until it stopped still again.
 He swung open the bedroom door, flicking the light switch with a backwards
motion of his hand, and ran in.
 �Karen, I...� was all he got out.
 He stopped two feet short of the bed, staring down at his wife--half on and half off
the bed, a soft blue growing into her skin.
 His smile left him then; permanence burned to ashy memory.
 Dennis fell to his black and white checkered knees, and the world fell silent around
him...

Dennis looked at himself in the mirror. His newly shaven face would have been
almost comical, under a different circumstance. 
 The tan he had aquired over the first two months of the summer hadn�t quite
burned through his beard, and he was left with a perceptable, albeit slight, two-tone face.
His cheeks, a pinkish-white, burned like hell, but he barely noticed, or maybe barely cared.
 He thought, at the very least, it would�ve made Karen happy to have the beard
gone.
 He stood there, his face pressed against the bathroom mirror, staring into his red
swollen eyes.
 Then a knock at the door brought him back to reality, and he rubbed his eyes, and
wiped their evidence from his cheeks.
 �Jus--just a minute,� Dennis managed to choke out.
 He pulled his jacket on, flushed the toilet, although it was empty, and opened the
door. Jerry and Amy stood in the hallway, red and swollen eyes of their own cast down to
the carpet.
 �All, um. All ready, huh?�
 Jerry looked up. �Sure. Whenever you are.�
 �Yeah. All set.� Dennis flicked off the bathroom light and stepped into the hallway.
 �You okay, shug?� Amy said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
 �Yeah, hey, fine.� He looked up at them, from one to the other. �Thanks.� Fine
staff indeed.
 �Okay. We�ll take Jer�s car, alright? We�ll meet you outside.� She turned to walk
down the stairs. Jerry patted Dennis on the back and begin to walk behind Amy.
 �Sure. Wait, um... Guys. I was thinking I might wanna, er... I gotta take a little
time off. I mean, I might be goin away for awhile, and... I know it�s a burden an� all,
but...�
 Jerry turned back to look at him, a very sad smile spread across his face. �Take all
the time you need, boss. We can handle.�
 �Anything you need, hon.� Amy spoke up behind him.
 �Thanks, guys, I...� But Dennis could say no more. Being this constantly close to
tears was making him an emotional wreck. He thought he might cry if somebody asked
him last night�s Yankees score.
 �I um... Just gotta grab my tie. Be right down.�
 Jerry and Amy nodded in unison, and made their way back down the stairs.

Walking back into that bedroom was no easy thing. He�d only gone in there once
since he had found Karen two days ago, and that was this morning to get his suit out of
the closet.
 He stood and stared at the bed, the bed where they�d loved and cried and shared
everything a husband and wife could share, and more, and felt fresh tears retracing the
familiar lines down his face.
 The bed was made now. Karen�s sister, he imagined. She had stayed with him the
last two days; had been a big help in fact. Must have been her, then, who cleaned
everything up after the police were done, recreating and piece by piecing.
 It had taken six hours in a small, poorly ventilated room for them to be conviced
Dennis didn�t kill his wife, although they were still uncertain of several details. They
assumed Dennis scared the killer off, before he had had a chance to rob them, (what other
motive could there have been?), but they could not figure upon his escape, unless, of
course, he had hidden somewhere and left later.
 All these things ran through Dennis� head and he stood and stared at the bed he
would never sleep in again; in the room he would most likely never go into again; in the
house he would most certainly sell as soon as he could.
 At last he wiped his face and walked to the closet. He opened the door and
stepped inside, grabbing and pulling the string on the overhead light. 
 He rummaged around and finally pulled out the tie he wanted. He flipped up his
collar and tied it loosely around his neck, then walked over to the dresser to get a better
view in the mirror, kicking the closet door shut behind him as he did.
 Karen had always liked this suit on him. He found it completely uncomfortable and
hindering, but for her, he would wear it.
 He finished with his tie, the red one with the black stripes she liked, and slid the
knot up; buttoned his black suit coat up; turned down the collar on his white shirt.
 A moment�s linger, enough to think she�d never get to see him in that suit anyway,
never get to see him without the beard again, and he headed for the door.
 Before he could reach it, though, he heard a noise--a  creeeaaak--and he stopped
and turned too look. The closet door was half open. 
 Dennis put a foot out to walk over and close it, then realized it didn�t really matter.
Then he heard another noise. A thud-thump. Just clothes falling, he thought, and turned
away.
 As he walked to the door he heard it again. Thud-thump. 
 Karen would hate having clothes on the floor like that. That thought turned him
around again, and walked him to the now doubled closet door, as his eyes misted over
again.
 Dennis opened the door all the way and took a step inside. He reached up and
turned on the light and--
 �Oh my god! What the--� was all he got out before the closet door slammed
closed behind him.

GIRL

�and the girl dreams of gingerbread houses, and of dolls that live there, made of candy. The girl dreams of animals in forests full of smiling trees, their leaves, blown by a cool wind, wave at her. She walks along the path, waving back to the trees. The path narrows as she walks, and the nice soft dirt slowly turns to mud. Up ahead she sees the forest is darker, the trees there don�t smile. She looks back�the animals behind her look sad. They don�t want her to go. She doesn�t have a choice, there�s no way off the path. The girl dreams� and hears a door shut. Quietly. In the darkness at the end of the path she sees a light, and hears a creak� then another door slamming shut; and darkness again�
	The girl wakes up, and tries to roll over, but she can�t. She tries to go back to sleep, but she can�t. She tries to breathe, but she can�t, so she dreams�
	The girl dreams of a park, and children playing. The girl watches a dove fly across the sky. He seems so free, she thinks, so free� The trees around her turn into candy canes, red and white. Swirling, hypnotizing� inviting. They smile, and whisper, and make promises. The trees are very tall, and sometimes they make the girl scared. Sometimes their branches hurt her� sometimes� But right now the trees are nice, so she follows them. They come to a stream, calm and mirrored. The girl likes to look at her reflection. �You�re a very pretty little girl,� the trees tell her. That makes her smile. Sometimes the trees can be very nice. They follow the stream, and slowly the water starts moving faster. She doesn�t like it when the water�s like that. She looks far ahead�the stream leads to the forest. She doesn�t want to go to the forest, she doesn�t like it there. But the trees won�t let her turn around and go back. The trees aren�t nice anymore. She tries to get away, but she slips and falls into the stream. It carries her away. She can hardly breathe through the rapids. She looks around, but nobody�s there to help her. And the stream carries her into the forest� into the darkness�
	The girl opens her eyes. She doesn�t like watch she sees, doesn�t like what she feels. She doesn�t like this dream� She tries to scream, but the leaves cover her mouth, and the trees tell her to be quiet�
	The girl closes her eyes as hard as she can and tries to dream, tries at least to pretend. And for a little while the dreams are nice. But then the door shuts again� The light in the forest� and then darkness� And the trees are telling her everything�s okay. And the girl lies awake, eyes closed, wishing only that she was a dove�

SANDCASTLES

It seems for hours she has stood there, watching the waves wash upon the shore. The midnight moon slowly slides across the sunset sky, the stars shine bright, almost blinding, but she barely notices. The beach below beckons her, but it�s too late, she�d have to wait until tomorrow.
	Footsteps from behind frighten her. Father. Her eyes race across his face, tracing the lines.
	She lowers her eyes, sinks deep, deep inside� where she hides.
	Her head down she walks around him, to her room where the moon can�t follow.
	And she sleeps, and dreams, of sand and beach, of hands that hold too tight, and she fights the tears that always come.
	Morning sun strikes her face and she wakes. She is invisible, and makes her way to the beach, her eyes barely open because of the blinding midday sun. She finds a quiet spot of sand and she builds herself a new home.
	She is almost finished when father calls. It�s late, he says. They only seem to notice me when I�m late, she thinks. She looks back as she follows father to the house. She watches the violet lit clouds sweep across the fading blue sky, and she watches the tide tear down her almost finished home.
	Tomorrow�
	Tomorrow never seems to come soon enough. But, as always, today is tomorrow, and she wakes, and waits and watches, wanting only what she can�t have. And once again, she crosses the kitchen, unnoticed, to the door.
	She opens the door slowly, savoring it. She swings it wide and stands there, loving the view. Outside. Out. She lets the door creak closed behind her.
	She steps out on the porch. Father is there, reading his newspaper. He notices her. Soft wind rustles his paper, whispering to her. She tries to understand what it says, but she can�t.
	His hands hold the paper still, and fold it. He turns to her and asks why she goes to the beach every day. He noticed.
	She lies instead of cries and says she just likes to play in the sand. Father wouldn�t understand. 
	He wouldn�t understand what the sand is to her. The sand is something she can�t describe; the words are lost on her lips. The sand is always there for her. It�s like sunshine�bright, beautiful. The sand is outside, out, away� The sand can be anything she wants, anything she can make it be. The sand can be home�
	But sunshine can�t always last forever. It soon starts to rain, and father comes to take her inside, away from home. Again she�s lost her way, lost another day. So close�
	She sits and stares out her window, watching the rain wash away another day. She sighs and dies inside� inside. She feels trapped, and raps softly on the surface of the glass. 
	Darkness ends day and she sleeps. She cries unconscious tears and she wakes from her dream. The darkness seems to scream at her, and she lies awake and waits for morning. 
	Today she starts early. Her curly hair uncombed she steps out into the shadow of the sun. 
	The fresh scent of lilacs attacks her senses, making her smile. The looks up; the sun overhead seems to smile back. She notices that there aren�t any clouds in the sky today. Today� She smiles
	She carries her pail and shovel and sits down on the sand. She starts the foundation for her new home.
	She stops only for a sandwich and some soda when the sun is directly above her, ready to make his descent.
	She works for hours, but finally she sees the sun is getting closer to the water, the water is getting closer to her home. The tide would swallow it soon. She had to hurry.
	She hears the front door open wide; father is coming to take her inside.
	But she is almost done. She won�t let this slip away from her again. She works quick but careful, makes sure everything is in place. 
	Her finger carves the scar of the doorway; dirt turned to stone.
	Her home is finally finished. She brushes the sand from her hands and opens the door.
	Father calls out her name and looks around, but she�s nowhere to be found. He looks down and sees the sea splash against his shoes. 
	And he watches as a lonely sandcastle is carried away on the water�

GOLD

She lays awake in a lake of dreams; trying to swim to the surface. She screams at the ceiling in quiet contempt. 
	�No breaking the skin tonight,� she thinks. She rubs her wrists and closes her eyes.
	Nothing. 
	She stares at her ceiling again, counting her sticker stars. It�s been awhile that she�s laid here in the dark, and the stars are staring to fade, losing their synthetic, stored light. Perfect cut-out shapes.
	She closes her eyes again, listening to her breaths; feeling the rise and fall of her chest. Up and down; slow rhythmic pattern. Soothing, relaxing, torturing. She closes her eyes tight.
	Nothing. Still wading.
	Sleep finally whisks her away�
	In the morning she stares at herself in the bathroom mirror. She brushes her curly wet hair over and over again, unblinking. Waking dreams. 
	The sink water brims over the edge, breaking her thoughts.
	She unplugs the sink, letting the water drain. She watches it, envious. She sinks into her thoughts again, trying to find her plug.
	Nothing. Still wading. Calm waters� No ripples, no currents, no waves.
	She blinks; looks at herself again. She wonders if the face in the mirror knows more than she does. She puts her brush down and begins to braid her golden hair. 
	Two perfect braids. One to each side of her head. Two perfect golden braids. 
	At the bus stop she stares at the sun as she waits. She stares at it because she knows she�s not suppose to, because she has control over doing it.
	Yet she still marvels at its perfect roundness. And she starts to dream.
	Then the bus pulls up in its great mundane goldenness, with brakes hissing and its snaked length grumbling. Its doors open, and she steps up and walks into another dreaded tomorrow. 
	Bells ring and the storm comes. She tries to wade upstream through the rapids of people. Blank white walls; Glass case of heroes she doesn�t know.
	She hates this place.
	She stares ahead and dreams.
	Still nothing. Still wading. Calm waters� No currents, no ripples, no waves. Nothing to carry her to the surface.
	Home. Mid-afternoon. She lies on her bed�her refuge. The place where her dreams try to come. She can never quite see them though. They never break the skin; the surface of her consciousness. Instead they just swim around in her brain. 
	So many memories she can�t remember. She knows they would hurt if she could, but she thinks it hurts worse that she can�t. 
	In case of intrusion her homework sits beside her on the bed. But for now she lies on her sleeping arm watching her goldfish.
	One lonely goldfish, swimming slowly back and forth, becoming bigger and smaller through the distorting glass.
	 She watches her goldfish, suitably, but perhaps poorly, named Goldy with envy. So simple a life. What dreams could haunt a fish? She thinks.
	Sleep, then, catches her off guard.
	She is woken by the creak of a door. Dinner time. 
	�Wash your hands. Is your homework done? Don�t forget to feed your fish.�
	The door creaks again and becomes a small shaft of light.
	She sits up, shaking the last of the dreams from her hair. She sprinkles a few flakes of food into Goldy�s bowl.
	�Wish I was in there with you, Goldy,� she whispers. �Just swimming around. Carefree. Dream free.�
	She turns, stares at her bed, turns her head and goes down the dinner.
	That night the flood gates open. Dreams of candy canes and tree branches dance around her head. Echoes of someone calling her name, far, far away pulls her awake. Sweat beads down her forehead. She wipes it away with a shaking hand. All just dreams, but it seems she is learning to swim.
	She can�t remember any of it though. Only one image stayed with her through the passage between the world of the dreaming and the waking. A castle, made of sand, cracking and blowing away. She relishes it.
	She falls back to sleep with a smile for the first time in a while. Not because of what the dream is or what it means. Only for what the dream constitutes. 
	Something. No longer wading, but swimming. Calm waters gaining currents. Ripples spreading out across the water, becoming tiny waves. 
	She�s finally free of the undertow, underwater�s gravity. She�s beginning to swim upwards�
	The next morning she wakes refreshed.
	She sits at breakfast, staring at her parents, from one to the other. Somewhere in the back of her head a chess piece is moving. 
	When the bus comes, she almost welcomes it. For some reason, she welcomes it. It no longer seems the harbinger of boring doom. It almost seems� nice. 
	She seems to remember liking it before, looking forward to it in fact, instead of dreading it. A means of escape�.
	At school the kids seem nice to her, nicer, in fact, than� than what? She can�t remember. But it was coming. Like a tidal wave building up.
	It could be seen from the shore by her third class. As was her custom, her head was propped in her hand, her Biology teacher�s words drifting around far above her head in orbit. 
	Then, suddenly, she broke free of her day dream. She sat straight up in her wobbly wooden desk chair and screamed.
	The class turns to look at her, her teacher�s mouth stops half open, mid-word. 
	She gets up and runs out of the room, hearing her name being called after her.
	She sits in a stall in the bathroom, head in hands, staring at the huge wave rising up over the horizon. And riding upon the wave, amidst the foaming mist, a simple wooden chess board, black and white. 
	The Black Knight is homing in on the White King. 
	She stands up, and feels her face break the seal of the water. She takes a large breath and walks out of the bathroom. She walks through the hallway, past the glass cases, wondering for the first time what the people in there are like.
	She walks through the front doors into the sun�s stare. It looks curious at her; a queried look burnt across its face.
	She begins to walk home. Only a mile. It�d be good�give her time to think. 
	As she walks the sidewalk fades to shadows. The wave is climbing up, blotting out the sun.
	She gets to her street, and walks past all the trees she grew up with. She never noticed until now how much they�ve grown since she moved here.
	She turns into her driveway. She looks from the lawn to her window, which she spent so much time looking out of.
	The sun is almost gone now. The wave is tremendous. And she is floating on top of the water, underneath it, under its burden.
	The Knight moves then. Two spaces over, one down. Check. 
	She touches the front door knob and memories flash in front of her eyes. They don�t mist away, though, like her dreams do. These stay with her.
	She opens the door and walks into the anteroom. She hangs up her coat and school bag absentmindedly. Her coat slips and falls to the floor. She doesn�t notice. 
	She only sees the kitchen now, melting away into her vision as she steps into it. It looks like it did years ago to her.
	Dim shapes, ghostlike, fill the room. All replaying and acting out events she can barely remember. But she was beginning to.
	The King takes a step to the left, but the Knight, sword wailing, catches up with him. Check.
	She watches the ghosts for some time, as, outside, the wave begins its descent; its white crest high above her world.
	She makes her way from the kitchen, through the living room, where more ghosts are waiting for her, waiting to haunt her, to the bottom of the staircase.
	The memories are stinging now in their clarity, and tears stand in her eyes, waiting to escape.
	She stands at the foot of the stairs. One at a time she climbs them in the darkness. The tears, free from their fate, fall down her cheeks.
	She stops in front of her bedroom door. Her hand reaches out for the knob.
	Steam streams from the Knight�s horse�s flared, screaming nostrils. It was growing restless. 
	As her door swings wide, her room brightens a little. The wave is coming down fast. She walks in and stops. She can feel her heartbeat in her head now, and with each pulse another tear falls.
	She looks down at her bed, from way above the water where she is floating.
	She stares at the ghosts in her bed for a long time.
	Finally she turns away, knowing that she�ll never sleep in that bed again, and walks across the room towards the window.
	Outside the wave was getting close; she could smell its salty, white-crested smile.
	And she could hear hooves stamping somewhere close.
	She breaks her gaze from the window and starts to walk across the room towards her goldfish. She catches a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror.
	�I look so young right now,� she whispers. Her golden braids are frayed and falling out.
	She walks to the other side of the room, through the ghosts, to the stand on which the fishbowl sits.
	�Oh, Goldy.� She can barely choke the words out though the potato in her throat and the tears running over her lips.
	The King, ever elusive, takes one final step left, into the corner of the board.
	She sits, staring into her fish�s eyes. It seems to her he knows everything now too.
	She hears, then, her parent�s car pulling into the driveway. Home from work. Around her the ghosts have stopped their routines. They are staring at her.
	�What am I going to do, Goldy?� Her voice is but a hoarse whisper now. And the goldfish, staring back at her, seems to answer her.
	The Knight charges. Checkmate. 
	The wave crashes down upon her then. The world drowns around her. She tries to breath and the salt water stings her lungs. 
	Everything is swirling around her, the currents turning her this way and that, rushing through her ears.
	Then it stops. Everything stops. She could breath. She looks up into Goldy�s eyes�
	
	She can hear her mother�s footfalls on the stairs now. Mother walks into her room, calling her name. She can barely hear it though, her mother�s voice sounds low and muffled.
	Her mother looks around the room, frowning. Her daughter would usually be home by now; be in here doing her homework on her bed.
	Mother looks around the room once more, and spots a pile of clothes on the floor. She walks over to where they are in front of the fish bowl, cursing her daughter�s untidiness. 
	As she picks them she looks up, and stares into the tank.
	�That�s strange,� Mother says. �When did she get another?�
	She stares at them and shrugs. Two goldfish, swimming happily around in the fishbowl. Two golden fish; a perfect match.

The Door

"If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite." 
                                                                                    -William Blake

Part I. The Other Side

1. Open door

In the grip of sheer desperation, and wavering ominously close to the edge of a good fit, he finally managed to open his Baby Ruth bar, nearly dropping it in the process. In one fluid motion he tore the candy bar free of its wrapper and shoved it into his mouth whole. If Billy Tanner had any clue that it might be the last Baby Ruth he ever got to enjoy he might�ve taken a little while longer to savor it.
	Satisfied, as only chocolate and sugar can do to someone who has yet to reach the inevitable age of coffee, cigarettes and alcohol, Billy clopped noisily down the sidewalk in his oversized �you�ll grow into �em� sneakers. 
	The fresh air of late Spring smelled faintly of promises of not-to-distant summer days; of fields to romp through; of bike trails to explore; of tree houses to be built; of a new puppy he was begging his parents for to play with.
	Three more weeks, Billy thought, as he hoisted his slipping book bag back up over his shoulder. And then I got three whole months. 
	Summer vacation. Another satisfaction we grow to forget about. But for an thirteen-year-old it stays at the forefront of the mind soon after the first of the snow begins to melt away.
	As he strolled along his usual path home from school, dodging the familiar cracks and holes in the old sidewalk, Billy thought about his final writing assignment: Your Plans For Summer.
	He was used to these by now. It seemed every teacher he ever had had always assigned the same essay, and he had always written the same old thing. But this year he wanted to make it better. 
	Billy quite liked his teacher this year. Miss Mcarther was really nice and a very fair teacher, and at an age where puberty was creeping in with the subtlety of a thunderstorm, Billy also thought she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. So he wanted to write something extra special for his last assignment for her. Sometimes boyhood crushes have a way of bringing out the scholar in us.
	So Billy strolled along, whistling and tapping a stick along the boards of a fence, his head in the clouds and his mind busy composing his masterpiece. 
	He turned right at the corner at the end of the street and began walking up a slight slope of a hill, unconsciously dodging the familiar cracks and holes, still tapping away at the fence, keeping a rough timed beat with his whistled tune. He stared straight forward as he walked, his eyes looking mostly inward to his thoughts; he was barely aware of his surroundings.
	Then suddenly something out of the corner of his eye made Billy stop dead and cease his drumming and whistling, and brought him out of his daydreams.
	To his left, across the street, a door lay open. Of course, it was not uncommon this time of year to see doors standing open. Lots of people liked to air out their houses during the warm days in May after being shut up most of the Winter. 
	The uncommonness of this door, however, lay not in the fact that it was open, but in that the door was not attached to a building. Instead, the frame casing and all was propped up against the side of a building. And, although it rested on an angle against the building, the door was opened outward, apparently ignoring the rules of gravity. That, though, in and of itself was not so odd--perhaps its hinges were stuck, or maybe something he couldn�t see was holding it open. But what had caught Billy�s eye was what he saw through the door. 
	The door stood open only several inches, but he could still see through it. And what he saw on the other side was not the white, peeling paint of the building it was leaning against, as one would expect, but a field of grass that seemed to go on for miles. And, although it was a perfectly nice May day, the sky above was still partially overcast. Through his sliver view in the door Billy could see a cloudless blue sky, and bright sunlight seemed to radiate out of it.
	This has gotta be some kinda joke, Billy thought. Maybe its mirrors. Or a big picture. Man, I�m probably on one of them hidden camera shows. 
	Billy looked around. There were very few people out for a halfway decent afternoon, and the ones who were seemed not to notice what Billy had not been able to miss.
	Yup, hidden camera for sure.
	Billy looked around again, shrugged, and started walking across the street.
	Halfway there he froze. He blinked his eyes and stared back into the door, not believing he had seen what he thought he had seen.
	But there it was, chasing its tail in the grass. It circled and circled in streaks of brown and black and white, out of Billy�s view, back into view. Finally it gave up its chase and flopped down onto its back right in direct view through the cracked open door. 
	When it finally rolled over and sat up Billy could tell what it was: a German Shepard. He couldn�t believe his eyes. He blinked them again, and when they cleared the dog was still there, and he noticed something else as well--the grass was moving softly in the breeze. He had been too far away to tell before.
	Am I goin� loony toons here? Before he could answer himself a car horn startled him out of his daze.
	Billy jumped at the noise and looked around, hardly realizing he was still standing in the middle of the road. The driver blared his horn again, yelled something Billy couldn�t make out or wasn�t old enough yet to understand, and issued him the popular and ever-faithful middle finger.
	Billy trotted the rest of the way across the road, waving an apology back using all five of his digits.
	He stopped five feet from the door, well off the road, and stared into the field. The dog was gone now, only the grass and trees and hills and sky remained. Billy watched, fascinated, as thin stratus clouds rolled across the blue sky; cascading shadows, like waves, rolled along the field below them.
	Then, barely visible, far away in the horizon where green met blue, he thought he saw the dog again. 
	Billy walked forward for a better look, his footfalls unprejudicedly stamping across the sidewalk. His subconscious mind was also too engaged in this mystery to guide his mindful footsteps away from the cracks and holes and imperfections of the pavement.
	It was the dog, alright. And Billy could almost see what it was he was chasing-- butterflies. Around and around the dog ran, pausing here and there to pounce at the sky at something.
	How could this be possible? Billy took a step back from the door and looked around. Still no one noticed him or what he was looking at. 
	He walked around the side of the door and looked, determined to find the source of this hoax. Behind the door was nothing. Only the side of the white, peeling building lay in the almost-closed door�s shadow. 
	Billy leaned his head in and turned to look out through the door. Everything was fine. His town, his world, as it should be, lay through the crack in the door. 
	Holographic projection? Billy had a vast wealth of television knowledge, and he relied on it now to explain this little conundrum. But, if it was a projection or something, I�d still see it through the other side, wouldn�t I? Billy thought for sure he would.
	He went back around to the front of the door to examine it. The door was simple: wooden casing, stained to a cherry-brown color, and the door itself--wood also, windowless, with four inlaid square panels. But the handle, the handle caught Billy�s attention. 
	It was silver with tiny gold engravings wrapped around it. It wound out of the wood like a snake from its nest and burrowed back in about eight inches down. It looked like no door handle Billy had ever seen before. It looked ancient, yet brand new at the same time. In short, it was beautiful.
	Billy leaned in for a closer look, and could see that the gold trim depicted very small, but quite intricate scenes. He squinted, trying to make them all out, and then one caught his eye.
	It was a very small knot of lines, intense in their detail although still clear and precise enough to make out easily. And the scene drawn there, etched into the silver handle, was of a boy staring into an open door at a large field. 
	Billy stood up at once and whirled around--still no one was watching him. He turned back to the door, an uneasy feeling creeping over him like cloud cover. 
	Then a noise brought him out of his fear, slowed his fast-beating heart. Through the door a dog was barking. Billy looked into it, through the small opening, and saw the dog, for sure now a German Shepard puppy, sitting what seemed not ten feet away. It barked again, staring at him, its tail wagging.
	A smile suddenly spread across Billy�s face. He wanted a closer look still.
	Hand shaking, still barely convinced he was actually doing this, but far more convinced it wasn�t really real anyway, Billy reached out towards the door.
	The moment his hand touched the handle a shockwave resounded through his head. A ripple moved outward from the door and spread out in every direction, like a rock dropped into the middle of a calm, placid pond. 
	Everywhere and everything the ripple met blurred and, for a split second, became the world through the doorway.
	Billy reeled backwards a step, his mind flooded with a thousand images, like watching an entire movie in one second. He saw himself, in the other world, in the tall grass, running and playing with the dog; saw himself climbing the tallest tree he could find; saw himself lying in a clearing in the field, one hand propped behind his head, the other around the German Shepard lying next to him.
	And then the world returned to normal. The ripple was gone, or moved on, perhaps. The rapid images stopped. And Billy could think again. 
	His hand was still on the handle, and without thinking why, and against the voice in the back of his head screaming to be heard, telling him it was probably not a good idea, Billy swung open the door. 
	Sunshine poured over him; he could feel its warmth against his face, on his skin. He could now see the full expanse of the immense field, seemingly untouched by human hands. And the sky rolled on for miles in its deep powder-blue brilliance.
	And the dog, of course, still sat staring at him. 
	Billy stared back, enthralled. He took a hesitant step forward with his right foot, the voice still screaming at him, and when his foot touched the grass on the other side another wave rolled through him. This one was smaller, however, and dissipated quickly. Billy shook his head clear again and looked down at his foot.
	Buried in the deep grass he could see his shoe. Well, not exactly his shoe. Instead of his cheap, dirty, �you�ll grow into �em� shoe, his foot wore the rather expensive basketball shoe he had begged his mother for. 
	Before Billy had a chance to ponder this a butterfly sprang up from grass, apparently disturbed by his footstep, and flew towards him.
	It bee-lined to his right side, a flurry of green and purple and white in flight, and zoomed right past him. Billy turned to look at it as it flew by him; he had never seen a butterfly so brightly colored before. It looked almost fake, surreal. 
	As the butterfly darted through the threshold into Billy�s world its colors seemed to fade. Seconds later it became an ugly brown, slowly turning to black. Finally, flapping helplessly at the air, it fell to the ground.
	Billy watched in horror as it blackened even more and began to smoke. Soon it was gone completely, but Billy could still see the charred, discolored spot on the sidewalk where it had been.
	Then the barking of a dog brought Billy back to the view inside the door. The dog was standing now, barely a foot away, staring up at him with its sympathetic eyebrows raised; its teeth showing in a smile.
	It crept forward, ears back, and stretched its neck towards Billy�s shoe, its eyes still on his. Then, suddenly, it sat back on its haunches and let out a bark, startling Billy.
	It looked at him fiercely, eyes never wavering. It let out another yelp and stared at Billy, as if expecting an answer.
	�Well, hello to you too, boy,� Billy heard himself say back. The dog tugged at Billy�s pant�s leg once more.
	�Hey! Knock that off!� Billy said, his smile growing ever wider. �I dunno, boy. I don�t think I�m supposed to go over there. I mean, my Mom�ll freak if I�m not home soon.�
	The dog pulled harder, whipping its head back and forth as it tugged.
	�I know, I know, I wanna play, too! But... but, hey! Maybe you could come over here and be my dog.�
	At once the dog stopped pulling at Billy�s pants and sat back. It lowered its head and slowly, but purposefully, shook its head back and forth.
	�You...you can understand me?�
	The dog looked back up at him, its eyes still pleading, its smile gone.
	�Well, if you can�t come over, I guess I could come over there. Just for a little bit. I dunno though, what if...� Billy trailed off and looked around him at the street, looking for something, anything to help him understand all this; and to help him end the debate going on inside his head. Go or not? Go or not? Go or--
	The dog, meanwhile, took this opportunity, as the boy was scanning the streets and lost in his thoughts, to grab his pants and give him one final, good tug.
	Billy whipped his head forward as he felt his feet coming out from under him. Trying to keep himself from landing on his back, he thrust his weight forward and planted  his left foot next to his right in the grass.
	When he finally regained his balance Billy looked down at the matching pair of Shaquille O�neal�s hiding in the grass. He looked behind him and saw, through a rectangular door frame, the world, his world, moving about its daily routine.
	Then Billy looked down at the puppy sitting in front of him, looking up at him, its pleading eyes seeming sad now; its tail no longer waved side to side.
	�Well. I guess you got it your way, huh?�
	The dog only whined in response.
	�What�s the matter? You finally got me over here, don�tcha wanna play no more?�
	The dog whined again, and suddenly Billy felt a shift in the air-a sudden stiff breeze-and then he heard a slam! that echoed for several seconds after.
	Billy turned around, knowing what he�d see before he saw it. And sure enough, he saw that the door was closed. In fact, it was barely visible--it seemed to blend in with the rest of the surroundings. Billy could just make out the wavering outline of the door frame against the backdrop of the green field.
	Once his eyes adjusted to it, Billy couldn�t help but see it. It reminded him somewhat of the creature from the old Predator movie that seemed to rerun on cable every other weekend.
	Billy felt nervous suddenly. What if it doesn�t open? What if I can�t get back?!
	He immediately reached for the door knob.
	Outside, back in Billy�s town, in his world, an open door in a leaning casing slammed shut, and nobody noticed. Then the casing, from the heavy door�s impact, leaned away from the building and began tottering on its edge, as if trying to regain its balance.
	Then, when balance failed and gravity gained advantage, the door frame finally fell over, onto the sidewalk, with a loud bam!, puffing up dust and adding quite a few new cracks to the pavement. Still, no one noticed...
	When Billy�s hand finally found the practically invisible door handle and wrapped itself around it another wave shook through him.
	This time the images in his head weren�t of happy romps through the grass with the dog or climbing trees. This time the images he saw were scary, horrible. In one second he saw himself running through a forest, the branches of trees slapping at his face, trying to grab him--the same trees he saw himself delightfully climbing; in another second he saw himself trying to swim, trying to keep his head above water, as he�s carried away down a rapid moving stream towards a giant drop off; in the next second, Billy saw himself trapped in the top of a tower, a tower made of sand, so high in the air that when he looks down from the window he only sees clouds....
	Billy forced himself to let go of the handle. When he did he was shot backwards like he had been shocked and landed on his back. 
	After several seconds his disorientation left him and Billy sat up and looked around. The door was completely gone now. He looked  behind him, for the dog, and saw it way off in the distance, trotting away from Billy, its head down. 
	It stopped once, turned its head back to look at Billy, and then continued to walk away.
	Billy sat up and got to his feet. He looked around and around--green for miles. Finally, with sadness claiming his high spirits of only moments ago and tears welling in his eyes, threatening to break free, he started walking in the direction the dog had gone, feeling completely and utterly alone...

2. Lost

As the perfect sun dripped the minutes into hours Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead and fought the urge to just sit down and give up. 
	When he looked down at his watch, wondering how long he�d been out here, Billy stopped dead and stared. The hands of his watch weren�t moving, but that wasn�t what made him stop. His watch looked... fake. That�s the only way he could describe it; like some ones really accurate and quite talented, yet still noticeable attempt at making his watch out of... out of what? It looked soft and squishy, like it was made out of molding clay yet to be heated, but it felt like real plastic. 
	Billy couldn�t put his finger on it, but something--the colors, the texture--something looked off. Something about the hands, they looked as if they were never meant to turn and spin, like they were painted across the face. 
	He looked up then, and around. He hadn�t noticed it before, but everything around him had the same texture; that same fake vivid dream quality. 
	Looking around and then eventually down Billy caught site of his new shoes again. They looked just like the ones he�d seen in the stores. He squatted down to get a better look.
	Eventually he found something that bothered him. The inside of the shoe was unfinished, blank; just stitched fabric. No size numbers or brand marks. Even when Billy pulled back the tongue there was no writing, no size chart, nothing. Although it was a small detail, it still disturbed him greatly.
	It�s like a homemade sneaker, and the maker only got to see a picture, or maybe had it described to him. They�re not... really real.
	He looked around again, wondering what else wasn�t really real. If his shoes... Billy pulled out the bottom of his yellow pollo shirt and held it out. It too looked different, although hadn�t seemed to change as much as his shoes did when he crossed over. On a whim he felt around the back collar for the tag. Nothing.
	He inspected his jeans too�the same as the shirt. Same but different. And socks? Same, only cleaner, like straight from the package new. Now he noticed for the first time the minute contrast between his clothes and his skin. Staring at the sock wrapped around his ankle it hit him. It was like one of those movies that blended cartoon and reality together. 
	Did I hop into Roger Rabbit world here? Will the Animaniacs run by any second?
	His arms, too, looked too real compared to the shirt sleeves hanging around them.
	What the heck...
	But before Billy had any chance to ponder these mysteries further, he heard a cry in the distance, the cry of something hungry and large and mean. Billy stiffened and strained to listen. He heard it again, more than one at a time. Wolves? I�ve heard wolves, that don�t sound like wolves. 
	Billy turned round and round, wondering which direction to run, and what, more importantly, to run to. 
	He heard them again, growls and howls that were growing louder and closer with every second. Billy�s heart raced, and his brain struggled to keep up. He spun once more in a circle, looking for something, anything that could help. Finally he saw what he needed, and he ran for it.

***

Billy sat on a branch, in a large, old, practically leafless tree, about fifteen feet in the air, watching the distant hills intently. The howling had become loud and constant, and he was sure he�d see them crown the hill any minute.
	He looked down the tree. I sure hope whatever that is isn�t coming for me. And if they are, I hope they can�t jump this high...
	Billy looked up. The tree went on for about another ten feet, but the branches above him looked mostly flimsy; he�d go up there if he needed, but only if he needed.

He looked around the large expanse of the field, thinking how lucky he was that this one, solitary tree had decided to grow here. 
	Strange is the word actually, not lucky, Billy thought, remembering only moments ago he had stood, looking around and around for something, anything. And he had seen nothing, until he had taken one last look around. Then he had seen it�a huge tree sitting in the middle of the open field. So, how did I miss that the first time? Maybe I�m just losing it. But I swear... it wasn�t there... it... 
	Then, as he expected, Billy saw movement in the distance. In seconds the whole pack was in view, almost a dozen in all. They tore through the grass, thrashing as they jockeyed for the lead, snapping and biting at each other. 
	They made a wide trail through the underbrush, speeding through the field toward Billy. He could only tighten his grip on the branch and hold his breath. 
	Then it happened. As Billy watched, feeling the stale air tightening in his chest, he saw the pack was crossing the field at an angle away from his perch. 
	Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! They�re not coming for me! They�re running right by!
	Then, as Billy watched the pack chasing down the opposite horizon, something else happened. The last creature in the pack slowed, falling behind the rest, looking around. It raised its head high in the air, nostrils flaring. 
	Oh, no! Billy suddenly realized something�the wind, that cool current that blew through the grass, making the rich green field look so inviting, was blowing straight through him... and towards them!
	The animal, Billy could see it a little better now that it had stopped and separated from the rest, (and it definitely didn�t look like any wolf he had ever seen), whipped its head around then. Although Billy couldn�t see its eyes, he was sure it could see his, and he was also sure it was staring into them, judging him.
	Then it leaned back, arched its back, and let loose a howl that could probably be heard for miles.
	Up ahead the rest of the pack stopped quick and turned. A series of grunts and growls passed between the creature that had stopped and the rest. Slowly they seemed to reach an understanding and began trotting back across the field. 	
	As they neared the solitary animal the pack, in perfect unison, turned to look at Billy. It hit him like a physical blow and he almost fell from the tree. The animals seemed to sense this, and they began their howling, snarling run across the field again, this time, however, they were running towards him.
	No, Billy thought. No, you gotta be kidding me! I am not sitting in a tree in the middle of a field in some other world somewhere watching a pack of.. Of what? Of giant wolf-dog-hyena things coming to eat me! 
	Billy still hadn�t taken a breath, and when he thought he might not be doing too much of that soon, he thought he might as well enjoy it while he could. He exhaled the large breath he had been holding for so long and felt that familiar light headed feeling. 
	Stupid! He cursed at himself, knowing passing out and falling out of the tree wouldn�t be much help right now.
	As the pack closed in the noise was almost deafening. Billy could also see them better now, something he wasn�t exactly happy about.
	Again, as with everything else in this world, they looked almost like something real, like a really good artist�s rendering of something he has never seen, only had described to him. 
	They looked like wolves, yes, and a little like hyenas, sure. But they also looked like something from a cheap horror movie about marsupial werewolves. 
	Their ears were oversized and lined with hair, and waved behind their heads as they ran. Their snouts and jaws were also oversized, dramatically so, and the fangs that protruded from them were so large they would almost be comical, if the things they were attached to weren�t living and breathing and running towards him, snapping those fangs together so loudly Billy could hear it in his tree, still fifty yards away.
	Another thirty seconds and they were on him, circling his tree, growling and snapping at each other.
	Wake up! Billy�s mind screamed at him. Wake up! You know it�s just a dream, it has to be, so just wake up already before you wet the bed!
	But it wasn�t a dream; Billy knew that as sure as anything else. He was in some sort of dream world, but he was wide awake.
	The first wolf thing leaped then, straight up, catching Billy by surprise. First it was a flash, then a pair of orange eyes were level with his. 
	It snapped at him and Billy recoiled out of reflex. He could smell its breath, rancid and sweet from whatever it had last eaten; and he could feel the heat coming from it, rising out from whatever inner hunger possessed it.
	Billy knew he had to climb. He hoped the creatures, whatever they were, couldn�t jump that much farther. He also hoped, just thinking of it as he began to climb, that they couldn�t climb trees too...

***

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