For Ashlea

From where I sat in the park, at a wooden table next to Founder’s Rock, I could see the rose garden, Japanese Friendship Garden, the carousel and playground, and the mini-train depot. It was one of my favorite places to sit and write aside from the arboretum on the west side of the park. It was isolated enough to give some privacy, but practically in the middle of everything. There was a party or something happening at the carousel, so kids were running around, yelling and laughing. The breeze helped carry some of the noise away, but I was at a park, so I expected the noise.

               I was deep into chapter seven of the book I was writing when a figure entered my peripheral. She stood, arms out, hands balled into a fist. Her head was down but she was looking at me. I, at first, ignored her. She then scooted into my eyeline and emitted a low, piercing wail that I was impressed she could hold for so long.

               “Can I help you?” I finally said, and the wailing stopped.

               “What are you doing?” she came over and stood next to me, looking at my notebook

               “I’m writing,” I replied.

               She looked at my notebook like she was trying to read it. I don’t know how much she could understand since my handwriting wasn’t great. “A book?” she asked.

               “Yes, actually,” I replied.

               “I’m at my cousin’s birthday party,” she said. “He’s turning six.”

               “Well, happy birthday to him,” I said and gave the girl a smile.

               “I’m older. I’m seven.”

               She looked younger. She was short with long, blonde hair. She had blue gray eyes with one slightly askew. She had a slight lisp but spoke and acted confidently. “I’m Ashlea,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes slightly fluttering.

               “I’m Michael,” I introduced myself.

               “What are you writing?” she looked again at my notebook, now practically in my lap.

               “It’s actually about a young girl and her growing up and surviving middle school,” I explained. I wasn’t exactly positive about where I was going with the story. I couldn’t figure out a hook for the story and currently had a stupid science fair as a placeholder conflict.

               “What’s her name?” Ashlea asked.

               “Abigail.”

               “What’s her middle name?”

               “Joyce.”

               “Mine’s Rose.”

               “That’s a pretty name,” I replied. “Don’t you need to get back to the party?”

               “Nah. They can see that I’m here,” Ashlea said and leaned over to wave at the people at the carousel. “They know how to reach me.” She took my pencil and began drawing on my notebook. I thought about stopping her but didn’t and watched her draw. She was sketching a flower, a sunflower from the look of it. It wasn’t very good but decent for her age. I could erase it if I wanted to. “Did you know there is a galaxy called the Sunflower Galaxy?” she asked me. “You know, out in space.”

               I stifled a laugh. “No, I didn’t know that.”

               “They say it looks like a sunflower, but I don’t think it does. It’s blue. Sunflowers aren’t blue.”

               She stopped drawing and looked at her work. She added a couple more dots for seeds and put the pencil down. She then walked away back to the carousel. I watched her leave and looked at her sunflower. I continued writing, leaving the sunflower and writing around it. Ashlea came back a few minutes later with a beat-up checkers set. There was a small stack of board games on a shelf in the carousel building. They were pretty beat up and most of the pieces were missing. When Ashlea opened the set, it seemed as if most of the checker pieces were there.

               “Play this with me,” she practically demanded.

               “Do you know how to play checkers?” I asked, closing my notebook.

               “No,” she replied.

               “It’s pretty easy. I can show you. Do you want to be red or black?” I asked.

               “Red,” she said.

               “Okay, you are going to put all your pieces on the dark squares,” I instructed and watched as Ashlea put the red checkers on the dark squares. “Now, you can only move one space diagonally. Like this,” I moved one of my pieces to show her. “Got it?”

               She nodded and moved a piece. We went back and forth a couple of times. “How’s the economy treating you?” I jokingly asked her.

               “Good,” she answered.

               I noticed she could jump one of my pieces and showed her. “And now my piece is captured. I can only get it back when I reach your side of the board and get kinged.”

               She happily jumped over my piece and gleefully yanked it off the board. Holding it, she cackled evilly and was clearly eyeing the board for other pieces to jump.

               After playing for about fifteen minutes, Ashlea won mainly because there was nowhere else to go. She had five kings to my four so I declared her the winner. When we started the next game, Ashlea took it upon herself to make slight, unapproved changes to the game play. She would move single pieces in any direction, jump pieces to the side. “Okay, well, now you’re just making up rules,” I said, pointing to a piece she moved five spaces to jump me.

               “Everything’s made up,” she said and inexplicably kinged one of her pieces.

               I shrugged, nodded, and accepted that argument.

               After Ashlea won again, through her new rules, we played once more, just moving pieces back and forth. “You go to school, right?” I asked.

               She nodded.

               “Do you like it? What’s your favorite thing to do?” I then quickly added “Don’t say recess.”

               “I like reading. But I only read in school. When I’m at home I like riding my bike and drawing with chalk.”

               “I rode my bike all the time when I was a kid. I learned later in life. Fourth grade. I haven’t ridden a bike in years.”

               “You could ride mine but it’s at home.”

               “Thank you. It’s the thought that counts.”

               “Ashlea!” a woman called from the carousel building. “Leo’s opening presents!”

               Ashlea groaned loudly. “I have to get back. Come with me.”

               “I should be going.” I closed my notebook and began to get up.

               “Just come with me,” Ashlea took my hand and led me to the carousel building. “This is Michael. He’s a writer.”

               “Hi,” I nervously waved to the woman who I assumed was Ashlea’s mother. “Sorry. She just hanging out with me and I didn’t want to be rude.”

               “She’s a very friendly girl. She makes friends with everyone.”

               “She’s a really great girl,” I looked down and smiled at Ashlea. “Have a good party.”

               “We should play again,” Ashlea said. “I can write you a letter. What’s your address?”

               I did happen to have a business card with a P.O. box listed on it. I fished one out of my portfolio and kneeled down to hand it to her. “Send me a letter and I’ll send one back.”

               “Okay,” she looked at the card. I stood up and began walking away. “Wait!” she exclaimed and went over to her mom. They talked. I couldn’t hear them but they both pointed at me a couple times. Her mom nodded and Ashlea ran back over to me. “Can I hug you?”

               “If it’s fine with your mom, it’s fine with me,” I kneeled back down and she wrapped her arms around me. I did the same and we hugged for several seconds before she pushed away, running to her mom and then to the carousel building.

               “Bye!” she briefly turned around and waved. I raised my hand in return and then she was gone.

 

🏵        🏵        🏵

               It was almost a year when the forwarded letter arrived at my new P.O. box. It was clearly addressed by a child. I didn’t even realize who it was from until I saw Ashlea’s name scrawled on the back of the envelope. She said she would write but never did. I just assumed she had forgotten and moved on. I about forgot about her over the last few months. Every so often she’d creep back into my brain, usually when I was writing and trying to draw inspiration for the main character. I carefully tore the envelope open with a letter opener, wanting to preserve the envelope. She had drawn a giraffe on the sealed side next to the return address. Outline drawn in a reddish-orange marker, scribbled in yellow, with brown spots.

               Dear Michael,

               I hope this letter finds you well. I am fine. I am sorry I haven’t written sooner. It has been pretty crazy around here. Let me start from the beginning:

               My cousin got a lot of birthday gifts. Then he cried because he didn’t get a basketball like he wanted. He got everything else he wanted so I don’t know why he was a crybaby about that. I just sat alone in the corner eating cake and ice cream.

               For Halloween, I went as a brain guy. Or brain girl. I had a black cloak and a hat that looked like a brain. I wish I could’ve put something on it to make gou gooie slimy but it was cloth. I got a lot of candy and peeople didn’t like it when I said I wanted to see their brain.

               We went to my Grandma’s for thanksgiving. Like every year. For Christmas, I got a lot of Legos. I like building the sets but I like building whatever I want more.

               This boy in my class gave me a spechul valentine because he likes me. I threw it away but I kept the chalklit chocolate. For my birthday (I’m 8!!!)—and she drew a cake with eight candles on it—I had a pool party! It was really fun! One of my friends said I was trying to drown her. I said it was a pool party and when you are around a lot of water you might get a little drownd.

               When school ended, my family and me spent a month in Colorado and New Mexico. I thought about sending you a postcard but I didn’t have your address when I was there. Here it is anyway. The postcard featured the Taos Mountains with the sun symbol in the sky and was folded up in the envelope. We just got back so I thought I’d get this letter written before I forget again.

               We only have a week before school starts again. Clearly Ashlea forgot about the letter and picked it back up several weeks later. A new park with trails opened near me so I’m spending a lot of time in nature or at the pool. When it’s too hot, I stay home and read. That’s how I found this letter. It was in a book I was reading as a bookmark.

               I’m really going to send this letter this time.

               Love,

               Ashlea

P.S. I’ve been practicing checkers for a rematch.

P.P.S. Forgive the lateness of my letter.

P.P.P.S. How’s your book going?

               I smiled at the letter. I was glad it was still able to be forwarded. I had finished my book. It had undergone a major rewrite. I had changed the main character into a girl like Ashlea. She and her parents came from that sunflower galaxy she had mentioned to me. Their planet had been taken over by aliens from another galaxy and her and her parents were now refugees on Earth. The aliens were now heading toward Earth and only these three could stop them. I had turned it into a young adult novel and found an agent who was searching for a publisher.

               The entire book was finished except for one thing. I logged into my laptop and opened up my novel. I had about three pages of acknowledgement, people I wanted to mention that helped me in the process of writing. I didn’t have a dedication page and thought about not having one. It’s clear who the book should be dedicated to. I scrolled to the blank fifth page and typed a dedication. ▩

Is That Desk Just In the Middle of the Room?

March 4, 1966

I find it funny seeing a kid basically scream "I'm nothing but a tax deduction to you!", but let me tell you kids something: $600 a year ($2000 in today's money) is absolutely not enough to justify having a kid. That money covers basically nothing of what it costs to take care of you.

I tried to do some journaling last year. I didn't like it. It didn't make me feel better or like I was figuring something out. It made me feel depressed so I stopped.

If she's not journaling, then what is she writing? Enemies list?

Did They Also Send a Newsletter About Their 2024?

July 27, 1986

Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn entered the public domain in 1961(? I'm seeing conflicting dates and I don't care enough to investigate further) so if they are reimaginings, then they are fair game and kudos to nameless author here for getting his money. And if they are just word-for-word copies of the originals then that's really on the publisher, isn't it?

What I don't like is this guy writing Huckleberry Finn in the 1980s. Is he still using n-word Jim? That ain't cool.

I find it hard to believe that Wilberforce doesn't know what a Christmas card is. I'm also a little upset at Gladys' use of "back in the last century". But the last century was 24 years ago. I've spent more years in the 21st Century than I did the 20th. Now I hate this strip even more.

The Berwalds get another mention.

In case you missed it, I have an expanded post on Joseph Bartleson and his family of Tecumseh, Kansas, with the lovely obituary for 11-year-old Sylvia Bartleston included. If you would like to support me or this website, you can buy me a cup of coffee on Ko-fi.

My Signature Looks Like Crap On Those Dumb Screens

August 10, 1965

How long has Mr. Brutus P. Thornapple had his dentures? I guess I shouldn't judge, I had a friend who got dentures at, like, 25 or something. I don't think he's lost them in the Gulf of Mexico or the Ohio River though. You should be able to keep those in your mouth. But, again, I shouldn't judge.

Is this our first mention of Brutus P. Thornapple?

The main reason I give kids about having to learn cursive is for a signature and so they can read older documents. Plus, you never know who writes in cursive so it's just a good skill to know. I don't know how much time, if any, is spent on teaching cursive because I don't work in an elementary school, and cursive isn't on state testing and teachers aren't going to go over stuff that isn't on that test.

And Wilberforce doesn't care about paying for things. He's just going to scan his fingerprint and the money will be deducted from his government income account because robots do everything in the future so no one has to work.

Vegetable Stew in Beef Broth

June 16, 1965

Another one where I can't really tell what's going on. Clearly she doesn't have a pearl in her but something else? A diamond? Three oysters don't have anything. Are those pearls? These oysters have human names? What is going on here?

By three it will just be vegetable stew.

Oh, hey. They moved the gumball/antacid machine.

Suicidal Tendencies 2 is now up on Ko-fi. If you enjoy it, let me know, or buy me a cup of coffee if you would like to support my writing and website.

The Great Portland Adventure (Not Shown)

Why does Mother Gargle get to dictate the menu? Is she helping pay for it? Is she helping cook it? It'd be one thing if she just showed up once a month but clearly she's been here for more than a week and we're on our second, maybe even third liver and onion dinner.

We're not at that point yet. Things that are in the can will still air, production has stopped on most everything else. Besides, there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of shows out there you can watch. You don't have to succumb to any of these things--especially the reality shows.

I don't even want to glance at the comments on this strip about how schools don't teach cursive anymore. They don't have time, people. They have to make sure the kid's reading comprehension is up to par before the four standardized tests they have to take during the year.

I thought Mother Gargle had recently sent Gladys a letter and I was like "But she spends 50% of her time at her daughter's house", but then I realized that it's probably a letter from when Gladys was in college or something. Replies for Gladys asking for money.

Common mistake I assume as most people are going to Portland, Oregon and not Portland, Maine.

Brutus had to drive to Portland?! That's an 11-hour drive! He had to have stayed in a hotel! Did Veeblefester pay for that? What about gas?! Good lord, now that's a business trip!

We had to come up with a one-word description of ourselves when we started back up at work. I didn't come up with one--I refuse to be dumbed-down to just one word. But I should've said 'steady' and saw how many people asked themselves "Steady? What the hell is he talking about?"

"I didn't go shopping, I stayed home and shopped." Brutus is now shopping online for how much quicklime he would need to dissolve Gladys and if it would damage his bathtub or pipes.

He's reading the manual for a universal remote, which is weird considering all it has is the instructions on how to program the remote and the codes all in seven different languages. What are you expecting to find? A way to remove laugh tracks? A way to give the vaguest description and still be able to find the actor you want to watch? A way to mute Gladys when she starts complaining about you watching too many sports games?

53 Miles West of Kansas City

Stull was originally founded as the Deer Creek community at the headwaters of Deer Creek. The community was settled mainly by people of German ancestry and by 1857, six families were living in the vicinity. In 1859 the Evangelical Emmanuel Church was organized. There was apparently a great need for sermons as Reverend C. Berner noted that he held two meetings in Deer Creek, a very dark community where no one seemed to know about conversion. By 1867, the members had collected enough money to construct a church. Land was donated by Jacob Hildebrand for both the church and an adjoining cemetery. The church cost $2,000 to build and stood until being demolished in 2002.

Stull church. Photo by unknown. Taken from the Territorial Capital Museum
in Lecompton, Kansas.

Church rubble. 2014.

A post office was organized on April 27, 1899 but was discontinued in 1903. The post office asked the town to submit a list of names for the post office and, showing a lack of imagination, the post office chose the name Stull, named after Sylvester Stull, the town’s first and only postmaster.

Stull Post Office announcement, Lawrence Daily Journal, May 13, 1899

The first business in Stull was established in 1899 when J.E. Louk opened a general store in the living room of his house. The telephone switchboard was operated in the back of the house as was the post office. John Kraft moved to Stull in 1904 and entered into a partnership with Louk but 18 months later Louk sold his share to Kraft. H. Clark Swadley built another store across the street from the Kraft store but it closed when Kraft bought the store and moved in. In 1938, Kraft sold the store to Charles Houk who operated the store until 1955. In the 1920s, Stull nearly had a bank and the Kaw Valley InterUrban Railway was going to be extended from Lawrence to Emporia but for one reason or another neither materialized.

May 11, 1899 Jeffersonian Gazette article on the
Louk grocery store and post office.

In the late 1910s, Stull petitioned for a highway route from Lawrence
to Topeka through Stull. The road instead was built through Big Springs
and is now U.S. Highway 40.

Stull was fairly isolated before automobiles and modern roads as it was a two hour trip from Lecompton, three hours from Lawrence and four hours to Topeka. School was held in the Deer Creek School, sometimes called the Brown Jug because it was painted brown. Baseball was also popular in Stull as was holding picnics and fairs in Lane’s Grove half a mile south of town.

Deer Creek School, District 48. 1879-1963.
Illustrated by Goldie Piper Daniels.

Despite being barely a small town for all of its existence, Stull was not without its share of tragedies. In 1908, young Oliver Bahnmaier wandered away from his house and was found later in a field that his father had burned. Charles Kizer died of exposure after walking home from work one weekend. Another man was reported missing by his family and was found by the search party hanging from a tree. In recent years, Stull has gained a reputation of being haunted and a meeting place for the Devil and a stairway to Hell. These claims have, unfortunately, led to rampant vandalism in the cemetery and trespassing.

Oliver Bahnmaier obituary.
Lecompton Sun, April 9, 1908.

"If they make it we have it, if we can find it" was the motto of the John Kraft store. John Kraft and his family moved to Stull in 1904 and went into partnership with J.E. Louk in a store. Soon, Louk sold his share and the Kraft store served the community until 1938 when they sold the business to the Charles Houk family, who ran it until 1955. His son, Christian Kraft, built a machine shop where his family's store was which stands today.

John and Louisa Kraft. From FindAGrave.

From the book Soil of Our Souls: Histories of Clinton Lake Area Communities by Martha Parker and Betty Laird: "The people who settled on the fertile land near Deer Creek were mostly farmers. They brought with them a rich heritage which has been imparted to the present generation living in the Stull community."

A view of the large pine tree in the old section of Stull Cemetery. Sadly, it was removed in 1998. From a file 
at the Territorial Capital Museum in Lecompton.

A poem from a student at Deer Creek School was found among their records when Goldie Piper Daniels was doing her research on rural schools of Douglas County, Kansas. It's unknown who wrote it.

Today I started to school.

I learned some words and a number of rules;

I drew some pictures with colored chalks,

The teacher said I mustn't talk.

At recess we played some games,

I learned most all the children's names;

Most of them seemed to be all right

But one big boy tried to start a fight.

It makes me tired to sit so still,

I don't like school and never will.

But the little boy that sits in front of me

Is just as cute as he can be.

Liberty Horror #6: Emily In the Cellar

Emily In the Cellar

⚘

Emily Parga woke up, like she did every day, in complete darkness. She reached over and turned on the lamp that was on a nightstand next to her bed. She turned on the radio which was always on her favorite morning show. She never deviated from the one station except occasionally to listen to NPR. She went to the bathroom, put her hair up and then poured a bowl of cereal. She ate while listening to the radio and then washed her dishes.

She turned the radio down and read for about an hour. Then she watched The Price Is Right. She liked watching it. With the audience and all the people on the stage, it made her feel less lonely. She was bad at guessing the cost of things since it had been a while since she’d been in a store. After The Price Is Right, she’d sweep and do some dusting. It got dusty where she lived. She always wore slippers because the floor was half cement and half dirt depending on which room she was in. The bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen were cemented while the closets, living room, and entryway had dirt floors. After cleaning, she’d make lunch, today was a turkey sandwich with Colby jack cheese and half a can of pineapple chunks, and sit down to watch The Young and the Restless.

During the afternoon, she tried to alternate what she did. Radio, television, reading, cross-stitching, she tried to keep things fresh since she spent all day here, by herself, and has for years. Cross-stitching was something her mother taught her. She didn’t like it at first but all that changed when she needed to figure out other things to do to fill her days. Luckily, her mother had many unstarted and unfinished project lying around.

The one she was currently working on was a simple black, white and gray one about coffee. Her mom loved coffee and was excited to get started on it and hang it in the kitchen next to the coffee maker. It remained untouched until Emily took it out of the cedar chest a week ago. Emily’s mother had died several years ago. As did her younger brother, Antonio. Since then, she had been alone. All alone, by herself.




She was fourteen. It had been a good day. Her dad always started the story out that way when he told her about that day. She didn’t remember it—a combination of the accident and her brain hiding something traumatic. They all got in the car, a maroon SUV, and drove into town to get ice cream at Dairy Queen. “How about you drive back?” her father asked her. She had just gotten her permit and had just driven around the countryside. She was ready and excited to drive back home from town.

The Pargas lived about three and a half miles south of town. About two miles from town was a fairly busy intersection that had a four-way stop. It was an odd intersection as a creek went underneath it. The intersection was essentially a four-way bridge. The family had driven over it hundreds of times. It was all familiar, there shouldn’t have been a problem but a rainstorm just before they had left lasted only fifteen minutes but the road still had puddles.

She remembers waking up in the hospital. Her father, who was amazingly unhurt in the crash, had stayed at her side throughout the two weeks she was unconscious. They had hydroplaned, where the tires kind of go out from under you when you hit water, he explained to her between sobs. He was thrown from the car. Her mother and brother, because they were in the backseat, had been killed. Emily only had a few cuts and bruises but had been knocked unconscious. After about a week, her father took her out of the hospital against doctor’s advice.

“I talked to the police,” he said to Emily as they drove back home. “They want to hold you accountable for your mom’s and Antonio’s death. They want to charge you with murder. You could get life in prison.”

“What? It was an accident. I didn’t mean to,” Emily cried. “Why do they want me in jail?”

“You know the police. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you,” he hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. “I have just the place. They’re not taking my daughter away from me.”




Emily was making macaroni and cheese on the stovetop when there was a knock on the cellar door. The knock was just a courtesy, she heard keys jingle, a lock click, and the door open. “Hi, Daddy,” Emily greeted.

“Hey, sweetie. How are you doing today?” he asked, placing a bag on the counter and giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead. “I brought you your groceries for the next few days.”

“I’m doing fine, Daddy. Thanks.”

⚘

Vincenzo Parga ran a successful construction business. When he was able to, he bought a quarter section of land to build his family’s house on. On the land was the ruin of a stone house that had burned down in the 1970s. He took some of the stone to build the new house but left the basement ruin alone. After the crash, after his daughter’s survival, he began working on the ruin. He attached a metal roof, reinforced the walls, got electricity and water to the basement, he cemented the floors of a couple of rooms and moved furniture in. He reinforced the cellar door and the basement was ready for Emily to move in.

It took Emily some time to adjust to her new situation. She was only fourteen and the basement—the basement of an abandoned, burned-out house ruin—scared her. Vincenzo tried to make the place more homey and warmer, bringing Emily whatever she might need for her stay.

She believed that at any time, she’d be allowed to leave what she now called home. “How long do I have to stay here?” Emily asked about a month into her stay.

“Until the heat dies down, sweetie,” Vincenzo answered.

“How long do I have to stay here?” Emily asked again about two years into her stay.

Finally, Vincenzo ominously shut down any further hope of her leaving. “I don’t know, sweetie. There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Vincenzo held his daughter’s cheek. “If they figure out that you’re here or living in the house then they could come busting through the door and take you away. Even if it’s twenty years from now. You might as well stop getting your hopes up.”

“Maybe I should just turn myself in. Maybe if they hear my side and that I didn’t mean to do it…”

“No! I said I would protect you, that I would keep you from them, and I mean it,” Vincenzo said.

She cried for nearly a week. She was angry at everything and everyone. Then, she woke up one morning and was resigned to her situation. She became a model prisoner, so to speak. She looked on the bright side of everything. No more going to school. Her own place. She’d never have to get a job. She really had no problems or cares in the world.




Emily popped herself some popcorn and sat down to watch the news. “A dangerous intersection will be getting a major upgrade in the coming months,” the reporter began. Emily looked up and stared at the television. She recognized the intersection immediately. “It’s a four-way intersection with a creek that goes underneath. It’s also very narrow, barely able to hold two cars in either direction. Some may remember almost five years ago when an accident at this intersection resulted in the deaths of 14-year-old Emily Parga, nine-year-old Antonio Parga, and their mother, 39-year-old Amelia Parga. It was these deaths that spurred a movement to widen the intersection and redirect the creek. Those people are finally getting their wish.”

Emily stared blankly at the TV. She was dead? No, they made a mistake. Or her father said she was dead. He had to explain her disappearance somehow, right? She finished watching the news then got ready for bed.

She hadn’t dreamed of the accident for a long time. Nearly a year. But tonight, she did, but it was different. The basics of the dream was the same. She was driving and her mom and brother were in the backseat. Her father was sitting next to her.

As they approached the intersection, where she hit the puddle, hydroplaned, and crashed, things changed. She noticed the ‘passenger door open’ warning light and her father’s hand reach over and grab the steering wheel. As the car swerved and left the road, she woke up, as she always did. She could usually just roll over and fall right back to sleep. Tonight, she sat up in bed, in the darkness, and thought about the dream and the differences she now remembered.

“Can you tell me again?” Emily asked her father when he came by two days later. “How it happened?”

“What?”

“The accident.”

“I just told you a few days ago.”

“They’re replacing the intersection. I saw it on the news,” Emily revealed. “They said I was dead.”

Vincenzo thought fast. “I made them think you were dead. So they wouldn’t be coming around her looking for you. You understand, right?”

“I think so. I remember something else, too. I think I can clear my name.”

“What are you talking about?” Vincenzo immediately got upset. Irritation and anger quickly boiled over inside him.

Should she tell him? “If I could just talk to the police. I think I can clear this up.”

“No. Never. Out of the question.”

“I want out of here,” Emily said, practically demanding. “I can live with the consequences of my actions. Can you?”

Flustered, Vincenzo stood up quickly and stormed over to the door. “You will never leave here. I am protecting you. You killed your mother and brother. You nearly killed me and yourself. You should be glad that I love you. I could just give you to the police. You’d be arrested, convicted of murder, and sentenced to death.”

“It was an accident,” Emily ran after her father as he began leaving the cellar. “And I didn’t even do it!” she shouted as the door slammed shut. She stood at the door, looking at it, trying to will it to open. “Dad!” she began screaming. She started knocking on the door and while it echoed inside the cellar, it couldn’t be heard on the other side.

⚘

Vincenzo didn’t go to the cellar for over a week. Emily about ran out of food and opted to go to bed early than stay up and eat dinner. He couldn’t leave her down here forever. What if she did starve? She needed to get out of the cellar but there was no way, except through the front door.

She was down to her last few cans of food—canned tamales, potatoes, and a can of pineapples. As she opened the can of pineapples with the can opener, she held the lid with her thumb and forefinger. She bent the lid back to snap it off from the can. Her finger slipped and was sliced open by the edge of the lid.

“Ow!” she yelled. She put her finger in her mouth and went to the bathroom to clean and hopefully bandage the cut. She washed the finger repeatedly but it kept bleeding. She worried that it wouldn’t stop and she’d die without getting out of here.

When it did stop bleeding, she then worried about it becoming infected. She cleaned the cut and put a bandage on it. If she were really sick or going to die, her father would take her to a doctor or the hospital, right? She was almost out of food and she hadn’t seen him since their fight.

“I have to get out of here,” she said to herself. “He’s going to kill me. If he hasn’t already.”




Vincenzo reappeared with some groceries on day nine. It was late at night, the ten o’clock news was just ending, which surprised Emily. “I figured you’d be running out of stuff by now,” he said.

Emily didn’t know how to act. Should she act nice or upset? Should she act like they didn’t have a fight? How much should she push? “Thank you,” she decided. She noticed a box of chicken in a biscuit crackers and took them out and tore into them.

“I will be bringing you a large thing of groceries in a couple days. Is there anything special you want?” Vincenzo asked.

Is he planning on abandoning me? Leaving me to die in here, she asked herself. “Froot Loops,” she answered. She glanced at the bandage on her finger. “And more canned pineapples.”

“Is that it?”

“Give me a minute to think,” Emily said. “How are you doing?”

The question surprised Vincenzo. She never asked about what he was doing or how he was doing. “I’m doing good, Emily. Thanks,” he smiled.

“Do you still build houses?” Emily asked. When she was a kid, she would brag about her Daddy building houses. She wondered if that would elicit any emotion in him.

“For the most part,” he answered. “I’ve done a few commercial properties since you’ve been here—buildings for businesses.”

“Cookie dough. Chocolate chip and sugar. I miss having homemade cookies. And more of these,” she held up the chicken in a biscuit box. “And ice cream. Cookies and cream and cookie dough.”

Vincenzo smirked and pulled out his phone. He opened the notes app and made a list of what Emily wanted. “All right. Is that it? I’ll be back in a couple days. Love you, Emily.”

He opened the door and left, slamming the door to the cellar behind him. She stared at the door for quite a while before returning to the living room to watch TV a bit longer before going to bed.

⚘

Vincenzo returned with almost three weeks’ worth of groceries and the stuff that Emily asked for. She immediately began putting the groceries away. “How was your day?” she asked sweetly.

“It was fine,” he answered. “We got a contract for an industrial building in the new technology park.”

“How does that work? Getting contracts?” Emily asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s usually whoever bids the lowest, but sometimes it’s just who can do a good job in a reasonable amount of time and money,” he explained. “That’s what happened with us. We offered better construction in quicker time for just slightly more money.”

“Cool,” Emily nodded. “Thank you for the food.”

“I brought you…” Vincenzo pulled a paper out of his back pocket “…the ingredients for cookies and made you copies of your Mom’s cookie recipes,” he handed the paper to Emily.

Emily had no pictures of her mom. It had been five years since seeing anything related to her mom. Seeing her handwriting made her tear up. “Thank you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anything of hers.” She stared at the handwriting for several seconds before looking back up at her father. “Can I see her?”

“What?”

“Her grave. Can you take me to see her?”

“I didn’t bury her. She and Antonio were cremated. They are in an urn in the house,” Vincenzo revealed.

“Even better. I can just come into the house and…”

“No.”

“This isn’t fair. It’s not fair to take away my childhood, my teenage years, my life in general because of something I didn’t do,” Emily argued, raising her voice.

“I’ve lost my wife—your mother—and your brother. I’m not losing my daughter,” he said. He sounded like he was about to cry but she wasn’t sure if it was real and she wasn’t taking the bait.

“That’s a lie. You’ve already lost me by locking me in here. You only see me once or twice a month. If the crash and the death were an accident, I wouldn’t be sent to jail. You’re keeping me here because I was supposed to die in that crash, too. But I didn’t so you have to hide me away. Why? Why am I down here?”

“You ungrateful…” Vincenzo looked like he wanted to hit her. His fists shook was rage. “I keep you safe and this is the thanks I get.” He exhaled sharply and turned to leave.

“Don’t you dare…” Emily ran toward him. He turned quickly and pushed her away from him. She stumbled on the slightly uneven dirt floor and fell to the ground, hitting her head on the corner of the kitchen counter, knocking her out.

⚘

She was unconscious for nearly five hours. And he just left me there, she thought and thought about it constantly over the next few days. She spent most her of her days looking for a way out but there was only one window and it was unbreakable glass, could not be opened, and sealed tight. The walls were well-built and were surrounded by dirt anyway. The ceiling was a wood and steel vault-like ceiling. She couldn’t dig through the floor. And the front door was like the door on a bank vault. She spent an entire day screaming as loud as she could for ten minutes every hour but no one heard her or no one ever came close enough to hear her.

She prepared herself for the possibility that her father would never return. She made herself cookies from her mother’s recipes and enjoyed each and every one she made. She watched a lot of TV and spent a lot of time looking over every inch of the cellar trying to find a weakness that she could exploit to escape. When she would open a can, she’d secret away the lid, placing them around the cellar to use as a weapon if she needed them.

The days and nights dragged as her sleep schedule changed as did what she did to pass the time. It was three in the afternoon, almost a month since she last saw her father, when she heard the door to the cellar clang and start to open. She had rearranged what little furniture she had so she would have cover if he came in with a gun. He came in empty-handed and stopped suddenly at seeing the rearranged rooms. “Been making some changes?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Emily quickly answered. “How are you?” she asked, starting with the nice tactic but wanting to quickly move on.

“I’m good. I’m fine. Wanted to get a list from you for groceries. You’re probably running a little low,” he smiled at her.

Get away from the door. I should’ve thought of something to get him away from the door. “Yeah, a little bit. I haven’t been eating much,” her eyes widened. “I think the toilet isn’t working.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Is it clogged or overflowing?”

“I don’t know. Just go see,” she shooed.

“I’m sure it’s fine. Is there anything you want? I have to get going,” Vincenzo clearly wasn’t going to fall for anything.

“I don’t want or need anything,” Emily walked up to him. “Because I’m coming with you.”

He chuckled a little and shook his head. “We’ve been over this. You are staying right here.”

“No, I’m not. Now get out of the way.”

“Emily, listen…”

“I’ve been listening. For five years, I’ve listened. I’m not doing this anymore. You are letting me out of here or so help me I will let myself out.”

“It’s for your own safety…”

“Get out of the way!” she screamed and charged at Vincenzo. He grabbed her arms but she kept trying to claw and kick at him. “Let me go!”

“Calm down, Emily. You don’t want to hurt yourself,” he said calmly but condescendingly.

Emily was done. She kicked at one of his legs but missed. She tried again and was able to hit his crotch. He let go and fell to one knee. She kicked at the one knee that was still holding him up and he went down to the ground. She stood over him, panting.

“That was pretty good,” Vincenzo laughed as he started getting up. “I should’ve known that at some point you’d want out of here. I should’ve just killed you when I had the chance but…”

“Enough talking,” she said.

Vincenzo watched her right arm flash in front of him. He felt a sharp zip across his throat. He held a hand up to his neck and looked down to see blood. He glanced at Emily’s hand which was holding the lid to a tin can, also with blood on it. He tried to say something, opening his mouth.

“I said ‘enough,’” and she slit his throat again. And again. And again.

The can lid and her hand was covered with blood. Vincenzo was lying motionless on the dirt floor. She was still panting as she pulled the steel cellar door all the way open and stepped out into the outside world she hadn’t seen in five years. Emily walked from the cellar to the house that she could barely remember. There had been some changes but it was still the same. She walked up the steps of the back porch to the back door that led into the kitchen. She threw open the door, it hitting the wall, startling the people in the kitchen. At the stove, was another woman. At the table, were two young boys—one, around five-years-old, was doing some kind of school worksheet, while the other, a couple years younger, was holding two action figures. They gasped at the door hitting the wall and again when they saw Emily.

The three of them, Vincenzo’s new family, stared at the girl they had only seen in pictures and only heard about. The woman then noticed Emily’s bloodied hand and gasped. ▩

Bobbo: The Test

"Put everything away except a pencil. We're going to start our test," Ms. Ortiz said as she began handing out two pieces of paper stapled together. A couple in the class groaned but everyone put everything away and got ready for the test. Ms. Ortiz dropped a test on Bobbo's desk. When she finished handing them out, she sat back down at her desk. "You have 40 minutes, class."

 
Name two important canals and what continents they are on. Bobbo read the first question on the test. That sounds right. But he didn't start writing. He kept writing over his name at the top of the page and then drew lines to connect the name, date, class lines together. He then began going through the test and filling in every open space in the letters. Soon, most letters were just faint blobs on the paper and Bobbo was directed back to the top of the page. He lackadaisically wrote Suez Canal Africa and Panama Canal South America.

If you were traveling from Mexico to Greece, what sea would you have to travel? Bobbo ignored the question and began circling the numbers next to the questions. He then began cross-hatching in the corners of the paper and using the corner of the top paper to create a design on the second page. Bobbo looked up at the time and then at the other kids taking the test and then back at the clock. He raised his hand and waited for Ms. Ortiz to call on him.

"Yes, Bobbo?" she asked.

"May I go to the restroom?" he asked.

"Fill out your pass," she said and went back to what she was doing.

Bobbo got back into his binder and took out his school-issued passport. He filled it out with where he was going, the date, and the time and got up and went to Ms. Ortiz's desk. She quickly signed it, he muttered 'Thank you' and left the room. He slowly walked to the restroom and went into one of the stalls. Bobbo spent several minutes in the stall doing various things to kill time that we aren't going to get into here. When he exited the stall, he went over to the sinks to wash his hands. There were posters put up for an upcoming dance, going out for track, and stopping bullying. Bobbo took the time to read carefully through them all. He washed his hands very methodically and slowly walked back out into the hallway.

Across the hall was a water fountain that Bobbo diligently went to and got a drink from. A very long drink. He paused and continued to stand at the fountain and looked at the poster above it even though it was the same track poster from the restroom. He got another drink and began walking back to the classroom, getting about halfway before turning around and going back to the water fountain.

When Bobbo got back to the classroom, he had wasted about seven minutes. He sat back down at his desk and wrote down the answer to the second question: Mediterranean Sea. He read the third question. True or false, India has a greater population than China. Bobbo quickly circled the answer and went to question four. True or false, The Pacific Ocean is the largest ocean on Earth.

Bobbo sighed and looked at everyone else taking the test and then up at the clock. Everyone else seemed to be working while he just sat there. For some reason, he turned his test over and began writing the alphabet and numbers down in careful handwriting. If my handwriting were a font, this is what it would look like, he thought. My handwriting should be a font.

"25 minutes," Ms. Ortiz said. "When you are finished, just place your test in the turn-in box on the counter."

Bobbo looked around the room. In his head, he began thinking about how he would have his classroom if he were a teacher. He'd want his desk by the window but there was so little space in the room that everything else kind of had to stay where it was. Beneath his alphabet, Bobbo began drawing superhero logos and then began drawing a cat and dog. He flipped the test back over and answered the rest of the first page. Three kids stood up and turned in their tests. Bobbo watched them stand up, walk to the counter, place their tests in the turn-in box, and then return to their desk. I should've took longer going to the restroom, he thought.

Bobbo began slowly working his way through the second page. Five kids finished and then another seven before Bobbo stood up and turned in his own test. Bobbo returned to his desk and got a book out his binder to read. ▩