Powerful,
poetic,
proud,
all around,
and resoundingly not
a finite resource.
No one can
stop it
restrain it
or legislate it
even if they hate it.
To dam it up
hide it
flee it
fight it
deny it
is a worthless war
of losing battles.
So drum it up.
Choose it.
Ally it.
Sing it.
Say it.
Be in it.
In short,
I can sum up
what I know
about love
in just two words,
and it’s this:
IT IS.
creative writing
Sally’s Mill (A Short Story)
May 1, 2019
Here’s how I imagine it happened, back in 2001:
The weather outside was almost unbearable. An early heatwave loomed over the fields, and the storms that rolled through that afternoon left behind a swampy, balmy soup of thick air and hovering mosquitos. Bad as that was, the atmosphere inside the mill was worse. Thirty some bodies crammed into a dark, dusty space, all breathing and dancing and spilling drinks, jumping around to music so loud it shook your brains, yelling and singing, and just hot, frenetic chaos.
“I’m going outside,” Jo Whitney said to no one in particular, because no one could hear her, anyway. At least, that’s how I imagine it. I’ve been told I have a good imagination.
People wondered later where she’d gone, and no one told the police about the party when they came around asking questions. A bunch of kids drinking alcohol in an abandoned, condemned building on the night before graduation? Not one of them said a word, and they wouldn’t have had anything to say, either, because Jo slipped out of the mill and into the night, and that was the last any of them – or anyone at all – ever saw of her.
May 2, 2019
Joanna Whitney’s was the tenth disappearance associated with Sally’s Mill. It wouldn’t be the last, and I think we’re on number thirteen now. Or so the rumors say. And still people go there. Kids party, the curious search, police patrol, and every few years, some unlucky soul goes missing. It’s not our town’s oldest tradition – that would be the Winter Hunt – but it is the most talked about. Well, that would probably also be the Winter Hunt, but Sally’s Mill is a pretty close second. There’s even a rhyme we say, when we’re young and more amused than afraid: “Stay away from the hill, and from old Sally’s Mill.”
It’s not much, I know.
May 5, 2019
As it turns out, my dad got caught up in it once, all the Sally’s Mill craziness, when he was about seventeen. He told me this story today, and I’m recording it here, in my second journal of the year, because I feel like someone should write this down, and because he never reads my journals and so he won’t know I told on him.
Here’s what he said:
It was a stormy night, heavy and damp and dark. Thunder rumbled through the trees, and on the horizon, lightning flashed bright and white against the black sky. My dad was at a party, and went outside to get cigarettes from his car. As he stood outside the door of the mill, smoking (gross, Dad!), he heard hounds and the call of hunting horns, howls and yelps, and people shouting, and the braying and steady gallop of horses. He heard them over the music from the party, and the rush of the wind. He said it sounded like they were only down the hill, so close by, but he didn’t see anyone. And as the sound moved closer and closer to him, he said it was like the air froze, and all he could think was, “What in the hell?” And then he ran inside, and he never told anyone. Not because he was scared. He never told anyone because he dropped his cigarette when he ran, and it started a small fire in the brush, and everyone had to run away and the police investigated and declared it an arson. The good news is, no one got hurt, and the fire didn’t do too much damage. The bad news is, my dad’s guilty of arson, I guess.
They say nothing good ever happens at Sally’s Mill. I guess they’re right, huh?
May 11, 2019
It shouldn’t be ninety degrees in early May, but here we are. Today is Saturday, but you couldn’t pay me to go outside in this. Today will be a reading day for me.
I feel bad for writing down what my dad told me. I think it’s sort of a silly story, but I wouldn’t want him to get in trouble for something that happened so long ago, especially when it was an accident and it didn’t hurt anybody. I’m thinking about tearing out that page.
May 12, 2019
I did some reading yesterday on fox hunting. I’m surprised it’s not obsolete. But I did learn that it never happens at night, so I don’t know what my dad heard. He was probably drunk. It was dark, and the weather was awful. He was just a kid who made a mistake, and I wonder if he made up the whole story just to justify what he did. It’s a horrible thing to think, isn’t it?
May 18, 2019
I just can’t help but wonder why people keep going to the mill. I guess people just can’t get enough of scary stories, but still: I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. My grandmother always told me she was proud of how curious I am. I’m starting to think it’s actually a curse. There are always more questions than answers, and every time you get an answer, it just leads to more questions. It’s enough to drive someone crazy. Not me, but someone.
May 20, 2019
Okay, so I’ve done some research. It’s interesting, actually. There’s nothing in the history of Sally’s Mill that makes it a haunted or a frightening or an unsafe place, other than the fact that it’s condemned, of course. It was built around 1810 by the Marsden family. They’re still around. Named for John Marsden’s wife, who lived long and happy, and tended by that same family or their relatives until it closed down for good in 1981. John and Sally had several children, kept a couple of houses in the state, and were involved in all sorts of local issues and events. The only thing I found that made me nervous is that there was a Civil War battle in the area, and some of the soldiers did hide in the mill at one point. They got caught, of course, and carted away as prisoners.
And then, I guess, there are the disappearances, but maybe that’s just coincidence? I should do some research on those, too, but I’ve got end of school exams and essays and such coming up, so I don’t know when I’ll have time.
May 25, 2019
There’s a party at Sally’s Mill tonight. Should I go? I’m not actually invited, but one of my friends is, and I’m sure I could tag along unnoticed.
May 25, 2019 (later)
I’m going. Even though it’s hotter than Hades right now and I’m not really invited, I’m going. But I’m going in smart. I’m bringing supplies: a flashlight, a whistle, a camera, a recorder, and just because I know it will be loud and miserably sweaty, some earplugs and my portable neck fan. I know I’ll look like a dork. I don’t care. People don’t really notice me, anyway.
I’m nervous, though, still. Maybe because I’m not a social creature, or maybe because of the disappearances, or my dad’s story. I’ll update tomorrow. If I come home, that is! (Oh, God, why did I even write that?)
May 26, 2019
What an absolute waste of time! A big, fat, annoying nothing. I stood inside, I stood outside. I waited. I saw nothing. There was nothing. Just the mill, and the hot weather, and a bunch of kids drinking warm beer. My head hurts. I dripped enough sweat last night to fill five buckets, and I came home with a bruise of my knee from falling down a set of rickety old stairs. And I ripped my favorite jeans.
Never again, Sally’s Mill. You and I – we’re not friends.
May 26, 2019 (later)
I spoke too soon. I feel awful. I can’t believe it.
Jackson Fletcher disappeared last night.
He never came home after the party. I did see him there, in a corner with his buddies, but I don’t remember if he left before me or not. I did see him go outside. Did I see him come back in? I’m not sure. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. Maybe he’s just at a friend’s house. Maybe he crashed his car and he’s in a ditch somewhere. That’s not better, is it?
WHY DOES ANYONE GO TO SALLY’S MILL?
And why him? Why him, of everyone there? Why not anyone else? Why not me?
May 30, 2019
I’ve considered ripping out all of these pages and burning them. I don’t know where I’d burn them, but I just don’t know if I ever want anyone to read them. I’m only a few pages into this journal, anyway, and I could scrap the whole thing.
Jackson Fletcher is still missing. I don’t think he’ll ever come home. I see it in my head. His mother saying goodbye to her son for the last time on Saturday evening, his face at the party, laughing and bobbing his head to the beat of the music, and not one of them knew. Not one of them knew it would be the last time, that he wouldn’t come home. It’s just horrible.
I looked back today on my entries about Jo Whitney, and I just…I can’t believe I wrote about it like that, like her life was a story. I can’t believe it happened again. I guess it just never seemed real.
I don’t know what I’ll do with this. I don’t know who I can tell – about this journal, my dad’s story, Jackson, the mill. Any of it. But if I don’t trash it, and you find it, and you read this one day, I’ll tell you, because now I know it’s true, what they say. I hope you stay away. I hope they tear the whole building down. I hope it burns. I hope it collapses. I hope it rots away and becomes just a distant, terrible memory. I hope you believe me.
Nothing good ever happens at Sally’s Mill.
************
Thank you for reading! This is the fifth of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore
Here are the first four, if you’d like to read them:
I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of June.
No Words (A Poem)
How many ways
can you say
“My heart breaks”
before you
run out
(of days
of time
of lives)
of words?
Want (A Poem)
I want to be
wild –
to roar at the sky
and sing with the wind,
to bloom alongside the flowers
and reach like the trees.
I want to be
free –
to think in cycles
and centuries,
and dance with the darkest memories,
and shine like the brightest stars.
I want to
see –
to feel it all,
hold it all,
to cradle it
here in the palm of my hand,
and know that I know
so little,
and everything.
Drenched (A Poem)
Rain, rain, rain
through April to May –
could it be you’re here to stay?
It certainly feels that way.
************
Yes, friends, it’s yet another rainy day, and it’s set to be a rainy weekend. I like rainy weather – it’s good for book-reading and tea-sipping and nap-taking. But…it would be nice to see some blue skies for more than a few hours at a time between rain clouds. I shouldn’t complain, though. Everything is so lusciously, livingly green.
If the weather keeps this up, it’s going to be a very vibrant summer.
The Monday Dilemma (A Very Short Poem)
Why,
oh why
does it always
feel like
I have more
demands than hands
and
tasks than time?
In Search (A Short Story)
Two local men missing since April 15th. No leads. Parents plead for information.
*
I don’t like the term “monster hunt.” Humans can be monsters, but everyone goes on and on about Bigfoot. Spare me. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We set out around noon on the first warm day of spring. There were two of us. There was me, and there was Ty, my best friend. Ty carried the map, the tent, the food, all the other “useful stuff” (his words), and the dog’s leash. So, I guess there were actually three of us – Ty, me, and Septimus.
I asked Ty once why he named the dog Septimus.
“Because,” he said, “he looked like a Septimus. Just look at him”
In front of us now, walking up the trail into the woods, Septimus sniffed and explored, nose to the ground with his floppy, pendulum ears dangling into the leafy brush, drool trailing along behind him in a silvery, viscous path. He didn’t carry anything.
I held the camera.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,” Ty said, craning his neck around to get a glimpse of me behind him. “And I don’t want to be in whatever video you make when this is over.”
“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep…’” I replied.
“You didn’t come up with that.”
“No,” I said, “that was Robert Frost. But it makes my point.”
“Which is?”
Ty walked on ahead.
“Which is,” I said to his back, “that you’ll never find anything if you don’t go looking, and there’s no place like the deep, dark woods to get started.”
“I think they made a movie about that once,” Ty said. “But seriously, it’s a good thing I came with you. You’d get lost looking for fairies and we’d find you half-starved and crazy two days later.”
“I can read a map,” I said.
“No, you really can’t.”
“What are you even complaining about? You love this stuff.”
Ty loved the outdoors the way that some people love cake. He couldn’t get enough, even it meant too much outdoors and not enough paycheck.
“Monster hunting?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” I said. “Hiking and camping and stuff.”
And thank goodness he did love the outdoors, because I wouldn’t have wanted to do this kind of thing without him, it being my first monster hunt and all. Ty and I had done everything together since he taught me how to catch grasshoppers in kindergarten, a lesson my mother was never particularly fond of. I’d always been the reader, the researcher, and monsters – fairies, pixies, Bigfoots, Wampus Cats, selkies – they were my first love.
“This is my best friend, Drew,” Ty always said when he introduced me. “He’s a weirdo.”
Over the years, I’d come to embrace my weirdness, but I’d never felt quite bold enough to do anything about it. That changed last week, when a couple of day hikers spotted strange lights on the Dragon’s Den trail. They also reported odd noises, footsteps and rumbles from the woods, from all around them.
“Come on, man,” I said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“In the backpack,” Ty answered. “Along with your toothbrush and the three books you insisted on bringing for one night.”
“Knowledge is power,” I said. Because that was true.
*
Missing:
Tyson Collins, age 26
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 180 pounds
Andrew Miller, age 26
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Green
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 175 pounds
Last seen at the Dragon’s Den trailhead, Saturday, April 15, at 11:45 a.m. Traveling with one dog, a red bloodhound. Please contact….
*
We set up camp that night about a mile from the trail, which Ty said was already pushing it. Ty dealt with the tent, while I found a good spot for the camp stove and took out the dinner supplies.
“You’re not supposed to go off trail in these places,” he told me. “It damages the forest floor.”
“I think it’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s just the two of us.”
From his perch beside Ty, Septimus howled.
“And the dog,” I added.
“Still, they have designated spots for camping.”
“Those places are too crowded,” I said. “We’d never see anything.”
“We’re breaking the rules,” Ty answered, flat and short.
“And I’m catching it all on camera,” I joked, and snapped a picture from across the camp stove.
Ty set about making dinner, a box of Velveeta shells and cheese, while I rummaged around in the backpack for my book on mountain legends.
“I bet it was just a bear,” I said.
“So you brought us all the way out here to look for it?”
Ty stirred the cheese sauce into the noodles. Septimus drooled beside him. He spooned two heaping portions into our plastic bowls, and handed one to me.
“I mean, I don’t want it to be just a bear.”
“Make sure Septimus doesn’t eat my dinner,” Ty said.
I stared at Septimus as Ty wandered off into the woods.
“I hate peeing in the woods,” I told the dog. “Probably a luxury experience for you, huh? New and different?”
Septimus panted back at me.
From somewhere to my right, Ty yelled, “Stop it, man!”
“Stop what?” I called back.
“Stop messing with me!”
“I’m just sitting by the campfire, dude. I’m watching the dog like you asked.”
Ty came back a couple of minutes later.
“Not cool, Drew,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Septimus didn’t touch your food.”
“Walking up behind me that way,” Ty said. “The footsteps. I know you’re trying to scare me.”
“Wait,” I said, and choked down my last bite of pasta. “You heard footsteps?”
“Yeah,” Ty answered, “and I know it was you.”
“It wasn’t me, but we have to go check it out.”
I stood up and grabbed the camera. Ty didn’t move.
“No,” he said. “We don’t, and we shouldn’t.”
“Ty, that’s why we’re out here!”
“If it wasn’t you,” he said, “then it was probably a bear, and it probably smelled our food, and we should probably just leave it alone.”
“But…” I started.
“Unless you want to be mauled by a bear,” Ty finished.
“Fine,” I said. “Just, fine. But if it happens again, I’m going to go look, and you’re not going to stop me.”
Ty let out a puff of air, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “It’s late. We should just get some sleep.”
I wasn’t about to argue with Ty in a bad mood. I’d learned years ago that it wouldn’t work. And so we pulled out our sleeping bags and crawled into the tent.
“You gonna brush your teeth?” he asked me.
I glared back at him, unsure if he could see it in the dark.
“Okay, then,” he said.
We settled in, boots off and tucked into a corner, with Septimus nestled between us, already snoring.
*
Tracks found in search for two missing locals. No sign of belongings or human remains. Parents still hopeful. Reward offered for any information.
*
I awoke to the high-pitched sound of Septimus whining in the dark. Outside, something stirred near our campsite. I could hear the twigs snapping, the underbrush rustling, and if I strained my ears enough, I was pretty sure, something breathing.
“Ty,” I croaked.
My heart raced, and my hands shook. I wasn’t sure whether this was fear or excitement.
“Ty,” I said again, louder this time. “We have to go look.”
Ty rolled over and said, “Leave it alone, Drew.”
“No,” I yelled. “I won’t. I told you if we heard anything else, I’d go and look, and I’m going to.”
I squirmed out of my sleeping bag and pulled on my hiking boots.
“You’re being stupid,” Ty said.
“No, I’m investigating.”
I grabbed the camera, pulled its strap around my neck, unzipped the tent flap and flung it open. Before I could catch him, Septimus shot out like a rocket, barking and snarling, more aggressive than I’d ever seen him. And certainly faster.
Ty was up in milliseconds, pulling on his own boots, huffing and glaring at me.
“We have to get Septimus,” he said.
And then we both ran, out into the woods, away from the tent and into the night.
“I thought you said I was being stupid,” I grunted out, between breaths.
“That’s my dog, man,” Ty answered.
We could still hear the bloodhound, somewhere ahead of us, howling wildly into the trees. And all around us, just like the hikers said, we heard other things, strange grunts and heavy breathing, the sharp crack of branches breaking.
“What is that?” I yelled.
Ty ran ahead of me, and I struggled to keep up. The camera banged into my chest with every step.
“Slow down, Ty!”
Ty broke into a clearing ahead of me. He stopped so abruptly, I ran into him. Septimus sat at his feet, entranced.
I saw lights. So many lights. Dancing in the tree line, lighting up the sky. Lights, and something else. Something big, twisted, looming, waiting. Something…
“Oh, my God,” I breathed.
I raised the camera to my eye.
*
Found, 1 mile from Dragon’s Den Trail, marker 10:
1 camera, Pentax K3, damaged, SD card intact
1 dog leash, blue
*
I don’t like the term “monster hunt.” You think you’re hunting them. You’re wrong.
**********
Thank you for reading! This is the fourth of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore
Here are the first three, if you’d like to read them:
I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of May.
April’s Short Story
It’ll be up tomorrow! In the meantime, here’s a preview. Enjoy!
**********
I don’t like the term “monster hunt.” Humans can be monsters, but everyone goes on and on about Bigfoot. Spare me. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We set out around noon on the first warm day of spring. There were two of us. There was me, and there was Ty, my best friend. Ty carried the map, the tent, the food, all the other “useful stuff” (his words), and the dog’s leash. So, I guess there were actually three of us – Ty, me, and Septimus.
I asked Ty once why he named the dog Septimus.
“Because,” he said, “he looked like a Septimus. Just look at him”
In front of us now, walking up the trail into the woods, Septimus sniffed and explored, nose to the ground with his floppy, pendulum ears dangling into the leafy brush, drool trailing along behind him in a silvery, viscous path. He didn’t carry anything.
I held the camera.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,” Ty said, craning his neck around to get a glimpse of me behind him. “And I don’t want to be in whatever video you make when this is over.”
“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep…’” I replied.
“You didn’t come up with that.”
“No,” I said, “that was Robert Frost. But it makes my point.”
“Which is?”
Ty walked on ahead.
“Which is,” I said, “that you’ll never find anything if you don’t go looking, and there’s no place like the deep, dark woods to get started.”
Our Only Place (A Poem for Earth Day, 2022)
Home,
and more.
Mother and Maker,
from the good dirt
to the blue water,
the mountain
to the shore,
this place is ours.
Our only place,
from solid ground
to deepest sea,
to be.
In all of space
and time,
this earth
belongs to us,
nurtures us,
gives to us
and takes,
brings life and death
and all things between.
And in turn,
we belong –
to land and sky,
to ocean and sand,
to each other
and this planet.
How great
and terrible
a lesson to learn:
that here,
we have
everything.
Bloom (A Poem)
All things have
(and take)
their time –
to go fallow
and then rise
from root to sky,
to bloom and grow.
Nature shows us –
there is no shame
in a patient cycle of
quiet moments
and many tries.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 