Author name: Eye Q

Phoenix descends the stairs and heads for the side door leading to the garage. Nearing his car, he spots something peculiar on the passenger seat. He grips the door handle, bracing for the usual scent of aged leather, but instead, an acrid stench of eroded oil fills his lungs. His pulse spikes as his gaze falls onto a mid-grade canvas, propped upright.   The painting depicts Model C Art Museum, bathed in warm sunlight over a steep hillside. At the top of the stairs, a tall figure in a tuxedo stands as if posing for a photograph.The blue skin, the long hat—this is no man.This is the Omniscient. In the corner of the canvas, a signature stands out: Him.   Phoenix clenches the painting, rage building in his chest. His grip tightens as though he might smash it against the dashboard, but he freezes. Destroying the painting feels like provoking the very entity haunting him. If the Omniscient is aware of his anger, it might sever the thread linking Phoenix to the answers he desperately seeks. He refocuses. Find Him. Whether it’s the artist, the seller, or both, someone is toying with him, and he’ll kill to know.   *** Highway 55 carries Phoenix to Thomas County, a town buried beneath an overpass. Smooth asphalt gives way to cracked cement, and the buildings lining the strip seem frozen in time, their facades dusty and worn. An eerie familiarity settles over him as he spots a barbershop with a candy-cane pole embedded in brickwork—just like the one from his dream, a precursor to Model C in the imagined Hapesville.   Further down, near a sunken curb, he finds the store: Utopia. Its purple sign hangs crooked, letters fading like a forgotten memory. He parks, debating his approach. A surgical mask and Ray-Bans conceal his identity—harmless enough for gathering information. Beneath his belt, a pistol rests snugly, its weight grounding him.   Inside, the shop defies its worn exterior. Polished granite floors glint under the flickering light of an old bulb. Golden-framed paintings line the walls, their style reminiscent of Da Vinci but steeped in dark religious undertones. At the center, a desk sits like an altar, flanked by three easels displaying Him’s works. The middle painting seizes Phoenix’s attention: the Omniscient, staring back as if alive.   A voice breaks the silence. “Can I help you?”   Phoenix turns. The seller—a short, husky man with a receding hairline—wears a tropical Hawaiian shirt that clashes with the shop’s solemn decor.   With his speech still absent, Phoenix pulls out a sticky note and writes: Why did you break into my house?   The seller squints. “What? I didn’t—”   Phoenix slams his pistol onto the counter. The man’s face drains of color.   “Please! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”   Another note lands in front of him: Who broke in?   The seller stammers, hands trembling. “I swear, I don’t know! Please, man!”   Phoenix shoves him toward the Omniscient’s painting, jabbing a finger at it before slamming another note down: Who is the artist? Where does he live?   The man collapses against the counter, sobbing. “His name is Him! I don’t know his real name! He drops shipments from 303 Cherry Brick Road!”   Phoenix stiffens. That’s the vacant property across the street from my house.   The seller pleads. “I swear, that’s all I know!”    Releasing him, Phoenix storms out, his mind racing. He heads back to Pine Hill, to the house on Cherry Brick that has haunted his waking and dreaming life. *** 303 Cherry Brick Road looms in quiet defiance, its brick façade weathered but untouched by time, spanning roughly 2,000 square feet. Darkened windows reflect the last light of dusk. Overgrown shrubs claw at the air like skeletal hands, framing the pathway to the door. The house pulls at him, alive in its silence. He should walk away. He can’t.   Pulling into the cracked driveway, his headlights skim the exterior. For a moment, movement flickers behind an upstairs window—gone as quickly as it appeared. He shakes it off. Just a glare. Then, a faint glow from a first-floor lamp cuts through the dimness.   Phoenix moves to the porch. The door stands solid, its chipped paint revealing raw wood beneath, as if the house is shedding its skin.   His hand hovers over the doorbell. A chime echoes back.   He wants to leave. But something holds him there.   The door rattles. It creaks open just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness.  As if nudged by an unseen hand.

Resentment plays a chaotic melody in Tia’s mind. At 33 years old, the foul tune begins after her lone shift as a bank teller in Gulfport, Mississippi. Over the years, her mother preached the importance of table etiquette to impress a good man, emphasizing how to prepare multiple dishes—whether plucked fresh from the backyard or processed and crammed in cans. Tia bites her bottom lip to shield her emotions: one day, she’ll cook for the right man, ending a miserable drought akin to her repeated failure to attract that high-value gentleman.  Swoosh! Her car nearly skids against the yellow curb. The boring white Honda Electra, purposed to save her cash, sputters along the worn road. She steadies the wheel, her knuckles whitening with the effort. Trees blur past her in brown and green streaks, disappearing into the distance. In Gulfport, the plantations seem to stretch into infinity. The late skies bear heavy clouds, stealing the blue away and leaving behind an ashen gray that suppresses light before it rains. Yet, for now, the rain holds off. The asphalt changes from smooth to grainy as Tia enters her subdivision. The homes are pale, their paint chipped from floods and hurricanes that have battered the area over the last three decades. For most of these houses, no improvements have been made since then. Porch screens remain torn, flapping in the corners. Grass in certain yards rises to knee-length, barely contained by cracked walkways leading to the front doors. Tia often wonders if people still live in them until she sees several grannies and their cats scurrying out to check the mail. She gulps at the sight. These women were once young, filled with fine goals and dreams, finding solace in the belief they’d one day be happily married in a fortress of a palace. Tia climbs a hill in the road. Her car levels out before descending. From the crest, she spots her home—white with blue trim around the windowsills. A shadow moves on her porch. Squinting, she makes out a silhouette—a man. She pulls into the driveway and notices the man sitting on her wooden rocker. He’s a handsome Black man with a dazzling smile, his white teeth beaming even amidst the shadows of the porch. As she steps out of her car, he rises, towering at an astonishing 6’4”, with a groomed, symmetrical beard that complements the thickness of his brows. He stands still, comfortable, as though he’s been sitting there every day, as if that porch were his throne. Tia steps out, her heart hammering, back pressed against the car. Finally, he moves, holding out a single rose wrapped in plastic.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally,” he says, his voice smooth and deliberate, slicing through the mist. Tia hesitates but steps onto the porch, her shoes slipping slightly on the moist boards. “Do I know you?” Up close, the man is even more striking. An elegant fragrance wafts from him—Twilight Woods by Bath & Body Works. She recognizes it because she wears the discontinued matching fragrance. He’s the man of her dreams, yet she knows such perfection can’t be real. “Here… my love.” He hands her the rose. “I’ve seen you on certain days, always alone. Looking lovely, but never with a lucky man by your side.” She blushes, her gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s just me. Been that way for some time now, but I can hold my own.” “My name is Theo Irvin Anderson.” Her eyes sparkle. “I’m Tia.”  “Yes, I asked about you already.” His grin widens. “Funny, isn’t it, how the initials of my name spell yours?”  He lets out a wicked laugh that reverberates from his chest. His persistence sends a shiver down her spine, an eerie feeling creeping in like silence before a battle. “So, Theo,” she asks cautiously, “why are you really here?” “For no reason other than to enjoy your company and get to know you.” The rain begins suddenly, clattering against the pavement like hollow-point bullets. Tia turns, her hand reaching for the door lock. It’s already unlocked—a common occurrence she ought to break, as it happens when her hands are full and she’s distracted on the phone. “It’s pouring,” Tia says. “Where’s your ride?” “I needed some exercise earlier,” he replies. “My hike here helped me catch up on my steps.” As the rain pours harder, unease settles in Tia’s chest. She clutches the rose tighter, willing herself to believe his honesty. Theo pulls a business card from his pocket. “I own a construction company, in case you need renovations. The second number is my personal line. Call me if you’re interested in coffee and bagels at Ronny’s.” “O…kay, thanks. I like bagels.” She smiles, relieved. “I’ll call to check if you made it home safely.” She retreats inside and secures the chain latch to the door behind her, then proceeds to inspect her house insuring her items aren’t tampered with or stolen. She starts with the living room that looks exactly as she left it—tidy but worn. The beige couch sits unblemished, and the glass coffee table is clear except for a small stack of mail. The LED TV remains mounted on the wall, its console beneath still lined with her knick-knacks. In the kitchen, the counters are waxed spotless, the air fryer unused, and the fridge hums quietly with its contents undisturbed. Her bedroom is in order, the bed neatly made with its faded quilt. The vanity is polished, the bottles of perfume and jewelry neatly sorted. The closet reveals her shoes stacked and nightgowns draped on their respective hanger.  Satisfied, Tia peeks through the peephole. Theo is gone. Forty minutes tick by, and she calls his number, salivating for her potential mate. “Hey, this is Tia. Just checking to see if you made it home safely.” Heavy breathing fills the line, mixed with faint wind and movement. “Thanks for checking,” he says, his voice strained. “I’m not home yet.” Her stomach tightens.

Hickory Road had long been shrouded in mystery, its grim legends driving away visitors since 1959. The road was said to be cursed. Its witches’ darkness, dead or dormant, lingered untouched by time. Locals whispered tales of strange occurrences, of shadows moving where none should be, and of voices calling out from the void on moonless nights. No one dared to investigate further. It was a place where secrets festered, feeding the soil with fear. The Eisenhower family drove into this eerie backdrop in a white van, their laughter and small talk cutting through the gloomy dusk. Jeff, the burly father, steered the vehicle with ease, though his frustration over the broken air conditioner was evident. His muscles, hardened from years as a European bodybuilder, tensed as the oppressive heat bore down on them. Beside him, his model-thin wife, Rachael, handed a pack of  Skittles to their teenage daughter, Jessie. She had auburn hair neatly tied back, and her freckled skin glowing faintly in the dusky light, exuded a quiet, understated beauty. They were new to Hickory, blissfully unaware of its haunted history. Meanwhile, a teenage girl named Marcia sat on her porch. Her chin rested on her hands, watching the Eisenhowers’ arrival. Marcia, with her long dark hair often falling into her eyes, carried an air of restless energy and quiet determination. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across her face, highlighting her plush brows. Hickory’s witches had left their mark on her family, and she couldn’t shake the unease that came with new neighbors. She decided to greet them, despite the warnings her older sister Emma had drilled into her over the years. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Need a hand?” Marcia asked, her tone cheerful but cautious. Jeff and Rachael had just gone inside the house, their voices faintly audible as they discussed unpacking and the creaky state of the floors. Marcia glanced at Jessie, who was struggling with a small box near the van.  Jessie smiled and handed over a heavy suitcase. “Thanks! I’m Jessie.” “I’m Marcia. So, what brings you here?” “My dad’s new job. The house was a bargain,” Jessie replied, her voice carrying a note of pride. “It’s old but full of character.” Marcia hesitated, torn between spilling Hickory’s secrets and letting them discover the truth themselves. “Just… be careful. This place has a strange history,” she said cryptically before heading home, her steps slower than before. That evening, Marcia confided in Emma, who was reading a weathered book by candlelight. The flickering flame cast ghostly shapes on the walls of their small living room. “Should I warn them about the witches?” Marcia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.” “What if they get cursed by the witch, Pink? They live next door to her,” she added, her voice trembling. Emma set her book down, her face darkening. “She’s probably dead. But if they were cursed, it wouldn’t compare to what she did to me.” “What happened?” A heavy silence filled the room. Emma exhaled in frustration, as though dreading what she was about to say. “It was fifteen years ago, after you were born. I was nineteen and in crisis, suffering a pain like never before.” Marcia frowned. “What kind of pain?” “It wasn’t physical. It was something worse.” Emma’s lip trembled when she held back her tears. “I hated her after what she took from me.” Marcia leaned in, intrigued. “What did she take?” “My husband.” Emma’s voice cracked. She sat up, the memory settling on her like a weight. “She had a crush on him, wanted him for herself. She was beautiful—prettier than anyone in the area.” Marcia’s jaw dropped. “What? I thought she was just some old coon.” Emma’s face lit up . “No, girl. She was gorgeous. Cocoa colored skin, berry-scented hair with her pink lipstick—she knew how to make an impression.” The glimmer in Maria’s eyes suggested she was all in.  “So that’s why they called her Pink.” Emma nodded, a sad smile forming. “She was beautiful and talented—she could paint, sing…” The luster in her cheeks deflated. “She killed my husband after he refused her, and chose me. We had just got married and set off for bed.” “ The next morning, I found my husband debilitated with the word ‘PINK’ carved into his forehead. After that she became goulish, disappearing into her house, never to be seen again.” Marcia’s pitch lowered . “What happened to her? Did she die?” Emma shrugged. “Some say she starved. Others say she hanged herself. Some think she’s still alive in that house.” Emma sighed and closed her book. Her expression was heavy with concern. Her house, a weathered two-story structure with peeling paint and creaky floors, had an air of quiet unease. The dimly lit rooms and faint scent of aged wood gave it a somber character. Shelves of books lined the walls, their spines faded but still readable, while dusty encyclopedias hinted at a history long forgotten. It was a house that seemed to absorb the unease of Hickory Road, holding its secrets close. “Most people won’t believe you, Marcia. But if you do, be prepared for them to think you’re crazy.” The sun set and made way for the dawn of the next day. It was a hot, sluggish afternoon, the kind where the air felt thick and every sound seemed amplified. The girls sat cross-legged in the Eisenhowers’ front yard, sipping lemonade from mismatched glasses. Jessie had been unusually quiet, her gaze fixed on the peeling shutters of the dilapidated house next door. “I swear I saw something,” she said finally, breaking the silence. Marcia glanced up, with a rippled forehead. “What did you see?” Jessie paused, swirling the ice in her glass. “Someone was peeking through the blinds. It was quick, like they were watching us.” Marcia felt a flutter in her chest. She set her glass down on the grass and leaned closer. “Are you sure? That house has been empty for years.”

It’s some minutes after work, and I’m driving a black ’72 Mustang that is two-tone and in need of restoration. I watch trees reflect on the windshield as the afternoon turns to evening, then hear bing. It’s a text message from my wife, Stella, who’s all brains and a butcher knife of a blade. Looking down, I become petrified, swallowing air down my parched throat. I hate you! Gliding the steering wheel between my palms, I wonder, what the hell did she see? My phone rings with an intensity that echoes until the voicemail intercepts the noise: “Hello, if you’re hearing this, I’m unable to speak. Leave a name and message, and I’ll contact you soon.” I look down and see a new text bubble brewing. It reads: Pick up the fcking phone! A thought strikes and triggers the logic-thinking mechanism inside my brain center. What if I’m reading it all wrong? How could she possibly know about my secret? Her message reads simple, but somehow complex, as though she wants to say something without saying it to see how I’ll respond. Stella calls again, and at this point, I’m six minutes closer to our subdivision. Traffic lights flash green and remain there longer than usual. My radius clears, but I need to miss the green light and let consecutive red lights slow my arrival. This will give me time to devise an explanation while heading home. However, texting her at least once before turning into our driveway may defuse her suspicion. Hurrying to look down, I type with an erratic heartbeat. On my way, got held up at work. What’s wrong? I scan the road ahead, hear another bing, then another one. Just get here. Better if I show you. Roads are normally packed with masses of vehicles that make driving from point A to point B an overgrown dragon crying in the living hell, but these roads turn into ghost towns when I give two fucks about the destination I’m heading. The signpost ahead reads Welcome to Pine Hill, and it’s centered on a bricked island at the entry of our subdivision. A left turn brings me closer to fate — the truth about Stella’s discovery and the turning point to where our relationship will never be the same. Above the trees I can see the rooftop of our home, two stories high, with a balcony for three. I make another left turn, lift my eyes, and find myself out of the car staring at our brick home. Stella leaves the front door propped open just to irritate me. The glass storm door reveals our living room, well-appointed with a dark wood interior and a hanging chandelier. It also reveals Stella, who’s sitting in an accent chair in the middle of the room. I admit, even mad, she’s still beautiful, her eyes an earth-tone green and her face as tan as cocoa butter. “What took you so long?” barks Stella. She’s like a madwoman who’s set to hang me if she knows my secret. “It was a wild day at work today. So much paperwork with so little time.” She reaches behind her, between her back and the chair, brings out a large Ziploc bag and holds it high. “Take a look at this.” Inside the Ziploc I see purple lipstick, a movie ticket stub, and what appears to be a yellow thong mushed in the corner of the bag. “Explain,” says Stella. There are only two real options here, and two real ways this situation can conclude: tell the truth, then suffer, with Stella and me potentially parting ways forever, or lie to preserve our vows and maintain the secret a little longer. I take the latter and speak with a relaxed brain. “My little sister was looking for that.” “Looking for…?” “The lipstick,” I say. “She must’ve dropped it when she came over the other day.” “What day?” “Yesterday, I believe.” Stella hunches in her chair with her arms crossed. “And you saw a late-night movie?” “No. I dropped my sister there. She’s fifteen, and her sixteen-year-old friend doesn’t drive either. I had to buy the tickets for them since they were underage.” Stella huffs forcefully. “Should’ve told me this last night before I fell asleep.” In the silence, I manufacture a cool guy’s laugh. Humor may change the vibe of this conversation, get her laughing at her own insecurities and soothe her. But there is one last question that I can’t explain, even when using the most extravagant lie available. “Whose thong is this?” asks Stella. “Looks a bit too big for your sister.” “Um…” Dammit, I said um. Let me quickly respond without talking too fast. “I bought those for myself and pictured you wearing them. I have a fetish for, you know…” “Thongs?” asks Stella. That was bad. All the air drains out of the room, like I’ve been placed inside a vacuum without the slightest molecule of condensation. I want to sweat but can’t appear nervous. She grins at me for the first time in a while. “A thong fetish, huh? Guess it makes sense, ’cause I hate wearing them.” She stands with vigor, like a war vet, leading me to believe that the marriage will continue. I relax a bit, as if I have escaped her wrath and can head to the showers, kill the lights, and call it a day. Instead of bypassing me with sights set on the usual routine, she shields me with her back, preventing me from stepping foot in the dining room. Seeing out the peripheral of my eye, I detect enough slack to rush past her, but I don’t think that would be smart. The wood squeaks under my toes when I halt suddenly. “What now?” She wheels around, staring with no commentary, only bitter silence. Finally she growls, “The lipstick wasn’t found just the other day. It was found a month ago, sitting on my nightstand.” “I can — ” “Shut up!” She

Right in the middle is where I crouch inside a dim warehouse. It appears I’m positioned on a stage; a tall platform with four walls and pillars supporting the bottom holds me high. We fear this place. When I say we, I speak on behalf of 15 members sitting amongst me, my crew, the ones who come from the corners surrounding the block. All of us share a common identity but look and reflect differently, like colors on a wheel. Almost everyone in Chicago knows our identities and how we travel as a group. During a shoot-out, a member may fall before the other but no matter what, we ultimately remain together. The wind whips at the warehouse’s metal roof. It’s cold today. The cement outside is probably glazed in ice. This warehouse stored sheetrock and stands after being padlocked for decades but has been reduced to a hangout spot for junkies and fugitives who are scarier than prison. In come the brothers, Lewis and Ricky, dressed like some pirates of the streets, wearing red bandannas and washed-out denim as their uniform. The older Lewis walks near the stage first, laughing for some apparent reason. His round face balloons when he speaks. “Ricky, hurry your ass up!” A faint voice echoes back, “Coming.” Behind Lewis enters the insolent Ricky and a cloud of marijuana smoke. Two gold chains hang off his slim neck. The brothers loom closer — Ricky on one side of the stage and Lewis on the other. Sectional lights switch on bright and reveal the platform. There’s a green carpet lining the stage and covering the walls. These four walls surround us, like a box without a lid. This isn’t war. It’s a boycott against the brothers. We refuse to leave them without an understanding as to why they break up our community and instate rules within our territory, such as who goes where, when, and at what time. As the brothers approach, we quiver in place and have recollections of being slammed into the walls. “Here me out, brothers,” I say. “We’re here to make amends with you, not to fight back. Tell us what you want from us, and if it is reasonable, we can work out a deal.” The brothers say nothing. Lewis hauls his belly closer my way and casts a shadow. “You’re dead-set on taking this beating today, for whatever reason.” Ricky stares in my vicinity without blinking, contours his ribs together inhaling smoke, then guffaws and spews vapors everywhere. He reaches for something affixed to his side. It’s his lethal weapon, equipped for massdestruction but used to strike us down. The madness doesn’t stop there. Ricky orders us in rows — five of us in the fifth row, four in the fourth, three in the third, two in the second, and a member in his own row. I yell out to the group, “Stand fast and don’t move! Whatever you do, please don’t fall for their tricks!” I presume it’s best the others remain quiet with their guards up, of course, because I’ll minimize the error of inciting war. Ricky grabs the weakest member of the crew, holds him hostage, letting him face the group. We call him Cue, who, in layman’s terms, keeps a chip on his shoulder. I believe the brothers have a prejudice against him because he’s white, and I’m the Black commander. On the contrary, Cue isn’t tough enough, and from the start, everyone he comes in contact with pushes him around. Cue looks defeated, like all hope’s lost, with an eternal disgust tattooed on his soul. To him, destruction means an escape to a world where the brothers wouldn’t exist; where he’d escape further torment. “Just shoot me now,” says Cue. Lewis peers at us and eyes each member while humming the old gospel song, “This Little Light of Mine.” Somehow, his rendition holds a devilish edge, like he has no godly concerns about the energies the song generates. “Please, Ricky!” I say. “Hear us out! We only want to make peace with you.” But again, there’s no response. Why can’t I get these maniacs’ attention!? It’s the same routine every time we meet. They break us apart first, then drive us into walls. They ask us to put something into their pockets, and whether we do or not, they shoot at us. Ricky uses Cue as the scapegoat…or perhaps the sacrificial lamb that has rotted away. The moment Cue stares into the narrows of Ricky’s pupils, he gets shot. The force pushes Cue back as he rolls into Brother Redd and Yella Sista — the quiet ones, the ones I only hear speak in response to questions. Like identical twins they cling together more often than not, now leaving us, after being shot at, darting back to the corners. The stage transcends a battlefield, sparking a war I’ve seen coming quite too often. How can I allow this to happen? Cue, struggling to hold his ground, meets the blunt force of another shot when Ricky cocks back his weapon, letting it fire. He rolls over to Mr. Greene, our solid, most treasured member, and utters something that’s barely detectable for anyone to hear. “Please, get it over with…I’m tired of your games.” This defiance leads Lewis to join the action. “My turn, bro.” He aims at Cue but hits Blue Collar dead-on. He’s only ten but has earned his stripes from day one. The shot pushes him into the wall before he scales over it, falling off the stage. His body hits the floor below and I hear silence. I can’t shake the impulsive thoughts of wanting the brothers gutted. Lewis stoops, grabs Blue Collar, and carries him back to us. Just look at him. I’m at a loss for words. I remind myself to not retaliate…to not stray from our mission and surrender our territory to the brothers. “Let’s keep the peace!” I shout as the brothers take us down one by one,

There’s no place like home. These iconic words, for whatever reason, I can’t shake out of my mind. There’s a rumbling sound that’s coming from metal wheels against metal rails and a hissing of brakes that is unsettling my calm. These happenings tonight lead me to one unforeseen conclusion: I’m on a train somewhere, to someplace, in some time. How did I get here? I have no recollection. Is it an end or an invitation to a life filled with uncertainty? Will I see picket fences and green grass where I’m going? The answer may surely come in due time. Where is everybody? There’s not a living soul here but me. Light flickers in the dark train and reveals through wide windows bricks in an underground tunnel. Ahead, darkness swallows the entire tunnel. I believe I know my destination now. I believe the tunnel runs underneath the grounds of The Fields, a petting zoo located in the heart of New York City. Before entering The Fields, the terminal welcomes passengers with its graffiti images; a white rabbit with red eyes is usually plastered on the bricks. But this particular night I see nothing — no graffiti at all, only bricks, mold, and cobwebs. Minutes elapse, and I just realized I’ve been standing. I can’t move! can’t even lift a finger! There’s an invisible force acting on me, keeping me rooted in one spot. The only areas in my fields of view are the rooms ahead and in my peripherals. The train lights zap, blink, then kick on bright. In a well-illuminated train I see doors to each car open, red benches adjacent to the walls, and stanchion poles mounted in the center aisles. “Someone help!” I scream, hoping a body will come to my aid. This train is picking up speed. I can’t fucking breathe. The lights blink frantically as heat radiates from my face and fogs the nearby window. Static crackles in the train’s intercom system; a voice, feminine and unnaturally pitched, pours out of the speaker. GOOD EVENING, PASSENGERS. WE’LL BE DEPARTING THE TUNNEL SHORTLY TO — It cuts off. “To where?” I say. “Where are we going!?” I understand that home isn’t promised. The scent of oak coming from the living room furniture. My wife, Annie, holding me close to her heart. And our little son, Henry, dancing in a circle. By the time I reach my destination, they wouldn’t care to remember. I’ll be renowned as the man who left his home forever. Out the window to my right, the brick tunnel bends skyward. Metal pops as the train throws its weight back and starts climbing an impossible hill that conflicts with modern physics. To put things in perspective, picture a vertical platform used in skating competitions. I ascend this hill at a 90-degree angle, held in place by the force field as I flatten into an astronaut lift-off position. Just then, a sticky substance crusts on my fingers. It mimics dry paint, and without seeing exactly what it is, my eyes tune to the void beyond the tunnel. Choo-choo, choo-choo, choo-choo, choo-choo. All aboard the train that accelerates over 80 miles per hour. Blood pools in the back of my head and induces wooziness. The greater I ascend, the more dazed I become. Starlight beams at the mouth of the tunnel, to where this train is surging with unbelievable velocity. Wheels underneath the cars leave the track and derail. Ahhhhhh!!! Is it over yet? Did I die? The answer is a disappointing no. In mid-flight, I see dark matter and the Earth pulling further away. The train levels on its wheels but, oddly enough, there are no railroads in space. That cracking noise floods through the intercom again. GOOD EVENING, PASSENGERS. WE’RE CURRENTLY EIGHT MINUTES AWAY FROM THE EDGE. PLEASE REMAIN SEATED WHILE TRAVELING. Quite frankly, the only edge I know is the one aligned with the limits of the universe. Or shall I say, the point where my universe ends. The train trembles. Then it warps, leaving behind Mars faster than I can view it, now beyond Jupiter and Pluto, and exiting the Milky Way. Once traveling in minutes per light-year, the train relapses to miles per hour. I’m entering a galaxy without darkness. It’s white. Outlines of stars and planets show in a black trim, like a galactic coloring book. Hovering in the center of the outlines are written words. These words accumulate into substances that fill in the white spaces. Gravity emanates from a pile of words written on this particular planet. The closer I get, the bigger the letters. Nooo, we’re crashing into it! This word called gravity manifests its definition: “A force of attraction that tends to draw particles or bodies together,” and pulls the tail end of the train, breaking loose a car. Metal flies off the next, nearest car, jarring it loose. The train begins to accelerate but struggles to break the pull. Hurry up! Get me outta here! The train thrusts closer to the planet that’s enlarging. Debris in the shape of letters slashes my window, sucking out the red in the bench. As my car drifts into a word nest approaching the planet’s stratosphere, the engine boots again, increasing my force field. In the car I scream with the intensity to puncture lungs, then POOF — the planet vanishes far into the distance. GOOD EVENING, PASSENGERS. UP AHEAD IS OUR DESTINATION — THE EDGE. Beyond the coloring book galaxy where words manifest matter, this train halts at a translucent wall. Deep within me, I understand what’s behind this wall. Those visions of me holding Annie while she rakes her fingers through my hair, and me kissing my son’s forehead after tucking him in bed for the night, will cease to exist behind this wall. My house, my home, my legacy, my future, will never have existed. Now the train starts forward. I gaze at the aisles ahead and see, one by one, cars disappearing in the