Old Madge Journey finally took to walking the streets of Miltville, muttering to herself. It seemed she was trying to decide something, but no one could really tell. Folks tolerated her, for she had lived there all her life and was harmless despite her weird-acting ways. Some thought her tipsy, but she'd been a teetotaler for as long as anyone could recall.

Finally, on her deathbed, surrounded by her tiny circle of family and friends, Madge told her tale.

"You know I was married 50 years to Frankie Journey, a fine, loving man. We raised horses and had a good life. Then came to day when he took my favorite stallion out for a ride. They tried to jump a rail fence but didn't make it. Both died that day of broken necks. I went into mourning and have been stuck there ever since. The dreadful and the shameful thing is this: All this time I haven't been able to decide who meant the most to me--Pretty Boy my favorite horse, or the pretty boy who was my dear husband."

Madge Journey closed her eyes in final rest, and the Baptist Minister was called in to say a prayer for the three departed souls.

​Uncle Sween usually comes for dinner with us on Tuesdays, unless he gets a call from Tom Grandy down at the stockyards. Then he'll call dad and say, "I gotta go down to the beef pens and check out some really primo stuff. I'll come over tomorrow evening."

Uncle Sween is a butcher; he's had his own corner store at 5th and Main for 30 years. It's a family tradition for him to have dinner with us once a week. He comes in, takes off his jacket, puts out his cigar, pulls out his chair at the dining table like as if he's in his own house not ours, and says, "Hey, come on, everybody. Let's eat!"

And he sits there, solid and smiling, holding a knife in his right hand and a fork in his left while Mom puts the platter of meat, bowls of vegetables and basket of bread on the table. Dad says a hasty prayer (we're nominal Baptists), then there's a long moment while Uncle Sween looks from one to another of us with his glinty little eyes. A gob of spittle oozes from the corner of his mouth and he begins carving his meat, all the while looking from one to another of us like he's maybe thinking it one of us he's cutting up instead of a piece of Mom's pot roast.

​June felt down, way down. Ever since the cursed monthly first arrived five years ago, it had visited like clockwork—now it was a week late. She wasn’t ready to panic yet, but it made her worry, her mind snaking where she didn’t want it to go, through thought mazes, always lost, but ending up at the same place.

She didn’t know whose it was. She heard Scott’s car stop outside, engine running, waiting to drive her to school. She knew it wasn’t his.

Her mother yelled from the next room. “June, that boy’s outside. Tell him to get a new muffler.”

Things were increasingly difficult around the house since the doctor had diagnosed her mom bipolar. June figured she had her reasons for refusing to take the medication. She complained the meds made tired and sleepy, dead inside, like someone else had taken hold of her mind. She told June she could handle the disorder without meds. Her last two bosses didn’t agree. She’d been fired.

June fussed with her hair; she put it up in a French twist bun every morning. Her sister, gone and living on her own 100 miles north, had taught her how to do it. Now it was just the two of them and June felt like she was the mother.

June thought about the time she spent on the braid—fifteen minutes even when her hair was wet—maybe it wasn't worth it. She’d soon have a lot more to take care of.

As the Lark swung open its wings amidst the hilly area, a blast of icy air hit its wings. It sensed the silence from the smoky mist, only cold air hissed into the vacuum.It was flying across the breeze of air twisting its wings upward and backward.Frustrated with the silence, it started to whistle and sing,

"I broke the silence-
which has no sense,
Silence makes the hill obsolete-
but my song makes it alive,
Its rhythm conquers over silence-
which has no sense-
as sounds always thrive."

But the voice of wind crackled as it echoed,

"I can see-
Without the pin drop silence-
Sound makes no way of sense,
Silence allows the sound to occupy-
Its volume of free-
And that is why-
Sound makes its way without any try."

Sighing, the lark redirected its way to the bank of a river.

Momentarily impressed by the depth of the river's watery flow, the lark enjoyed long hours beside it. It started to sing with its smooth voice,

"Anybody knows yet?
The river turns the barren land's fate-
Into a field of complete greenery,
without its flow, the land remains dull without any prosperity."

The streams heard the lark's song, they jumped on the bank to bounce
with a rhythm of reply,

"Perhaps, you forget,
Without land's patience and respect,
I can not have a smooth flow,
Cutting its deep edge, I make my glow."

The lark flew downward through a grassy slope where the plain is bordered with some trees.It was carrying some seeds with its beak and wondering with some free fall of seeds upon the branches of a tree, the leaves wavered. Cutting the air, their hollow voice sounded,

"It spoils our grandeur,
Flourishing up above is our nature,
Seed remains within muddy soil,
We are heaven and they are hell."

The lark gasped, looking down at the leaves, it started to think and refused to accept whatever these referred.It whistled which quipped some worthy words,

"Silence paves the way of echo,
Land spaces the river to flow,
Seed is the mother and soil is the womb of tree,
They behold the branches and leaves to let them flourish free."

​We're swamp people and we like it here. It's dark and dank and some call it smelly. We just sop it all up. Yes, sir. We got folks coming to visit from all over--Texas, Mississippi, Florida, Arkansas. We even had a couple from New York City come for a stay. Their folks still call, asking about them. We just say, "No, ma'am (or sir, as the case may be), we ain't seen 'em lately," and let it go at that. No use stirring up a hornet's nest with strangers.

Mornings are purely heaven. You wake up to high humidity and the smell of old mud and all manner of rotting things . . . you adjust, and after a while it gets to be like having your own expensive perfume that you don't have to pay a red cent for. The only thing: You've really got to be careful walking along the trails hereabouts. Take more than an couple of steps off the built-up area and you're liable to be neck bone deep in good old sucking sand--and no one's gonna be fool enough to try and get out there and help you. I expect we got about as many unfortunates buried out here in the swamp as resides in the biggest cemetery you could imagine. Of course, there are no headstones in the swamp, so how are you really gonna tell how many folks are resting out here?

And those Texans. Always bragging about how big everything is in their state. Pshaw! We got mosquitoes so big that two of them can carry off a Jersey cow with no problem. And our gnats. Man alive, they fly so thick at sunset that one little old bunch of them can blind a person in ten seconds or less if that poor soul isn't careful. But the two worse things out there are the cotton mouth water moccasin and the old horny-skinned alligator. Our moccasins grow to be twenty or thirty feet from head to tip of tail, and one bite will send you right on into Eternity in the blink of an eye. And I don't even want to talk about the 'gators. They've been mistaken for battleships on several occasions--and they just love to lie in wait in the deeper pools, where they can snap you up and put you under water for a few weeks till you're all tender and succulent. Some folks like alligator shoes; but let me tell you: Our alligators like human feet (with the rest of the body attached) a lot better.

Anyway, we hope all you folks will think about coming on down for a visit. We'll show you around, give you a feast of homemade 200-proof moonshine and all the possum stew and hog brains and salty tripe that you can handle. Can't ever tell: Pay us a visit, and you just might decide to stay around these parts permanently.

Like that young couple from New York City.

Darby McGrill woke in the middle of the night and shambled off to the bathroom, mumbling about his "Damn old prostate problem." That wasn't his only concern, though. On his last office visit, young Doctor Johnny Frankenmine studied Darby's record and told him in so many words that he was all but in the grave because of an incurable growth in his belly. Afterwards, Darby had half-heartedly (the way he did most things) prayed for Divine Help.

As Darby stood before his "potty fixture," as he deemed it, letting Ma Nature take her own sweet time acting, he became aware of a wee, thin voice a-calling out to him: "Hey, Darby McGrill, don't just stand there peein'. Get me outta this daaark place!"

Startled, McGrill opened the medicine cabinet and peered inside. Over to one side on the second shelf, behind a gob of dusty cotton and an empty bottle of aspirin, there lay a large, purple pill--the likes of which he'd never seen--that immediately began rolling around agitatedly as though under its own power. "Get me the hell outta here, Darby McGrill--and I'll cure what ails you!" said the purple pill.

Wondering if he had gone completely daft, Darby picked up the pill and popped it into his mouth. 'Twas a powerfully painful task getting it down, for sure. He hiccoughed once, and the tiny voice issued from his mouth: "Now get ye to bed, Darby McGrill--and tomorrow ye'll be foine and live another thirty years or more!"

And his and everyone else's astonishment, Darby McGrill did just that.

It was a solitary night as two strangers appeared beneath the lamp post of the platform. It was a small station and very few passengers were waiting for the late night train.

The two strangers eyed one another curiously, and soon the first one yearned for companionship and friendly conversation. "I think I need a chat."

The second stranger breathed deeply. "No chance of the train's early arrival!"

Soon, they became friends. The first stranger asked, "Can I ask you a strange question? Do you believe in ghosts?"

"No."

The first one huffed in frustration, vanishing into the murky darkness. Only shadows remained.

"Oh shitaki." The teen in question stood up and hid behind his beansprout of a little brother, Mike. Who at the moment looked down at him with a knowing look. He glared up at him, but traded that with a look of fear as his sister stomped forward like a bull preping to charge. She was clutching her sketchbook to herself, glaring daggers at him.

Gulping, Jay sent a small wave towards the girl. "H-Hi, MJ. A beautiful morning ain't i-" She pinched his earlobe painfully, dragging him out from behind their sibling.

" Oh, yes," she spoke with dripping sarcasm. "A perfect morning. Except for one thing...WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET A TATTOO?!" She screamed. Having enough of this mother hen, he pushed her away. He looked to his arm.

Up from his shoulder to his forearm, A well designed jade dragon wrapped around it, the mythical beast's eyes looking so life-like.

He reminded himself to thank his dad for letting him, but he guessed he should of told MJ as well, thinking she would think tattoos were "vile" or " weird".

James sighed, deciding to step in for his silent brother. " Look, MJ-"

" I mean seriously! At least tell me ya were going to let me sketch it!"

The others couldn't help but stare dumbly at her. " Huh?"

Raising an eyebrow, she shrugged. " What? I like tattoos, can ya blame me?"

"We thought ya hated em"

" Why would I have one if i hate em?"

" YOU WHAT?!"