'Round These Parts

            Abagail awoke to the sound of one of those stereotypical car alarms, the kind before they programed them to do anything more than honk loudly and flash their brights. She rolled over, taking her second pillow, the one she usually saved for the morning after her head sweat through the first one by morning, and pressed it up against her face, wrapping it around in hopes of muffling the noise. It was a blaring cacophony of sound. After about five minutes of it going Abigail stood, pulled on a night gown which immediately stuck to her damp body, and threw her window up, prepared to yell at the top of her lungs.

            First she looked across the street, the Jones’ car was silent, and so were the Cohen’s four cars. Her adjusting eyes caught the lights flashing into the street and followed them back to her own driveway. The light illuminated shards of glass and spray paint along her white cement driveway. A crudely drawn swastika and the words “Get out while you still can” in a thick black marred the once clean strip.

            Outraged, Abagail picked up her phone and dialed the Cohen family. Standing by the open window she could hear their house phone ringing, the faint sound of the caller ID mispronouncing her last name almost made her smile.

            “Please leave a message after the tone.”

            “Hey, it’s Abagail, from across the street. How come you didn’t tell me there were Nazi’s before I bought the house?”

Trust Issues

            “Darren, can you come in here for a moment?”

            “What is it, Mom? I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

            “Just come in here.” Her tone was a little harsher the second time around.

            Darren lifted his headphones off of his ears and hung them from the hook nailed into the wall just above his computer. “What’s going on, Mo—” He stopped as he entered her room, a small lockbox sitting on the floor in front of her feet which were audibly tapping the ground in impatience. Immediately Darren’s brow began to perspire.

            “Do you mind telling me what this is, why it was hidden behind your old kid toys in your closet, and why it has a lock on it?”

            “What were you doing in my room? Mom, I’m twenty, don’t you think it’s time to stop snooping?” His hands were sweating too, he could feel the salty mixture pooling in the crevices all along his calloused skin.  

            “We don’t keep secrets in this house. My roof, my rules. Open it.”

            “Mom, seriousl—”

            “Open it. Now”

            Darren bent down, sliding the karabiner off of his belt loop and flipped the rings back until he found the smallest key. He twisted the lock, popped the box open, and turned it to display it to her.

            There was a single piece of paper with elegant type on it. Darren’s mother bent down to read:

“Now I know you’re snooping through my shit. Good luck next time.” - Darren

Old Flame

            Thomas opened the musty, old cabinet that sat behind his bedroom door and immediately sneezed. It was a full body sneeze, bringing his chest against his thighs. The cabinet doors swung outwards, revealing the visibly coated books, bags, and bins he couldn’t remember the last time he looked at.

His parents had sold the house during his semester abroad. All of their things had already been transported to Ohio, their carpets being pulled up so that the new couple moving in could get rid of everything Thomas found familiar. The realtor told him he had only the weekend to clean out his room before the new owners wanted to move in.

Laying atop the first stack of books was an opened envelope, still crisp, stuffed with thick papers. Thomas lifted the parcel and wiped it down, knowing immediately what it was. He turned the envelope back over, slipping out the first folded piece of paper, unlined but covered, every inch, in words. Dearest Thomas, they all began that way, the middle parts never mattered. They were like journal entries, dictating events that didn’t matter anymore, events he hadn’t even thought about in as long as he could remember, but they all ended with: All of my love, Sabrina.

Thomas picked up his phone and scrolled down to the S section. Her number was still there. He hit call and it began to ring.

“Thomas, is that you?”

“Sort of.”

“What are you calling about?”

“I forgot what you sounded like.”