by Colin Ososki
At the top of the staircase, first reached by Lyrah, who came to a sudden stop, there rested a long hallway, built in the same old wood and lined with doors of all sorts. There was also a balcony, to the side, that allowed one to view the living room. Milo came up quickly behind her and stopped when he saw the hallway. “Interesting,” he said. He took a step down the hallway, and then paused. The pitter-patter of the afternoon rain could be heard again. Lyrah looked out the half-broken window across from the top of the staircase and noticed the darkened sky and white rain falling.
“It’s raining again,” she said to herself, in a kind of cheered way.
Milo felt a feeling of unease stepping into this hallway. I feel like an intruder, but nobody is living here. Relentlessly, he continued. “Should we continue?”
Lyrah turned away from staring at the rain. “I think so.” She looked around for a moment. There were eight doors in the hallway, starting from where they stood, four on each side. But one stood out from the others. “Start with that one, there,” she said, and she pointed to the green door at the end of the hallway. “It’s different from the others.” The other doors were painted various shades of browns and reds.
Milo walked forwards, with a bit less caution as before, towards the green door. Lyrah stayed back at the staircase, to his surprise. I wonder what this house holds; perhaps the person, or people, who had lived here, were boring. His next step made the floor creak louder than before. He looked back at Lyrah.
“Nobody is living here anymore,” she said.
“You’re right,” replied Milo, who was halfway down the hallway, “But whoever was, didn’t want anyone past that green door. Look.” Milo pointed to the green door and Lyrah saw that there was a bronze lock on the handle. Lyrah came forward.
“Are you sure we can’t just break it?” She asked.
Milo did not respond. Instead, he walked over to the lock, took a good look at it, took a look around him, and then walked back to Lyrah. “There is nothing in this hallway to use,” he said, lifting his hands. He felt tired after the long walk in the forest.
“I’ll be right back,” said Lyrah, running down the spiral staircase. Milo looked over the side of the rail, wiping his forehead of sweat and dust. She had disappeared to the lower floor quickly, and he could hear her footsteps on the floor. What the hell is she doing?
Moments later, she returned up the stairs with a small shovel. Milo watched as she walked over to the lock on the green door and aimlessly smashed it with the shovel. The lock dropped off the door in pieces. “Alright,” Milo said.
Together, they opened the door. The room was completely empty but for a large wooden cabinet at the far side. Milo and Lyrah both looked at each other, and then continued onwards into the room, cautiously. Obviously curious, Lyrah walked right up to the cabinet and began to open it. The doors were a bit heavy. “Milo,” she said, without taking her eyes away, “look.”
Milo came closer and looked inside the cabinet. Inside, lying on the floor of the cabinet was a piece of old paper with a drawing on it. It was a tree, in the forest, drawn in black ink. Lyrah picked up the drawing and looked at it, the ink on the paper almost drawing her in effortlessly.
“It’s a great drawing,” said Milo. It really was an extraordinary drawing.
“What do you suppose it was doing in a cabinet,” Lyrah began to ask, “in an empty room that was locked?”
“Is there anything else on the paper?” Milo asked. Lyrah ran her eyes across the paper, and then flipped it over to observe the other side. There was something written in small print near the bottom left corner. Don’t come back.
“Don’t come back,” Lyrah read aloud.
“That’s what it says?” Milo got a closer look at the print. “Don’t come back,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Perhaps whoever lived here left,” Lyrah said, “and didn’t want to come back.” Milo thought for a moment, and then headed towards the door. “Where are you going?” Lyrah asked.
“I’m going to look around some more,” he said, already leaving the room, “to try and find out who lived here.” Moments later, sounds of doors opening and closing came to Lyrah’s ears. Abruptly, behind her she heard a noise that sounded like pounding on a wall, followed by footsteps rushing down the stairs.
“What are you doing, Milo?” She asked. Milo didn’t respond. Is he downstairs?
“They’re empty, Lyrah.” Milo said as he entered the room again. “All the rooms, I checked them.”
“You weren’t downstairs?” she asked.
“No,” Milo replied, “Why?”
Strange. Lyrah suddenly noticed something else in the cabinet. “Look at this,” she said, pointing inside. Milo came closer and knelt beside her. Inside the cabinet, where she was pointing, there was a small, golden key. “Why didn’t we see this before?”
Milo picked up the key. Embossed in the head of the key was the word, Matter.
“Matter?” Milo asked aloud.
“Perhaps it’s the name of whoever lived here,” said Lyrah.
“You think so?” Milo looked closer at the key.
SPROUTING
The city below at night was a refreshing sight to both Lyrah and Milo. It was after they had gone home later that afternoon, and after a while at home they had snuck back out at night. They were having a talk on the rusty roof of an old city building, covered in a layer of frost. They sat with their feet hanging over the edge. “So, Milo,” said Lyrah, “What do you think of Salem?”
“How long have you lived here?” asked Milo. “I had never seen you around before I met you at the dinner hall.”
“It’s a long story,” she said simply.
Milo laughed a little and said, “Why is it always mysteries with you? Are you ever going to tell me anything?” She smiled. Without thinking, Milo’s next question came. “Have we met before?” He wasn’t looking at her, but out towards the city.
It was silent for a while, and then Milo noticed Lyrah was looking right at him. She was taken aback slightly, Milo could tell, but he had to know. He spoke again; just after he had seen her lips begin to move. “I’ve been wondering about that, for a while actually.” He said.
“I’m not sure,” she said. Milo saw her turn again to the city and she began to think. There was a long moment of silence that came, and their ears just settled on the sounds of the chilly, but gentle wind.
“Perhaps we have,” said Lyrah at last, breaking the silence abruptly.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” said Lyrah, “I mean, since we met I kept wondering if I had seen you somewhere else before. Like someplace a long time ago or in a dream.”
“A dream?” Milo lifted his head and looked at her.
“Honestly, it isn’t too often that I remember one of my dreams after I wake up.” Her eyes were fixed on the lights in the city now; she didn’t turn away.
“I hardly ever remember my dreams,” said Milo. He wasn’t looking at the city, he was looking at Lyrah. Her eyes reflected the city lights below, the snow gently falling around them.
There was another silence that came. He looked down below at the snow covered ground in the city streets. He saw an old vehicle that had probably been owned by someone a long time ago, now rusty and broken on the side of the road. He saw a couple of small rats, making their way down to the mysterious world underneath the surface of the city. He saw an empty burlap sack hanging over a wooden crate; perhaps the sack once held a bunch of food or something. This city is so still.
Milo glanced over at Lyrah once more, who was not fixed on the world around her now, but at the worlds above her; the stars. He looked to the stars as well, trying to see what she saw. One star in particular caught his eye.
“That star, there,” said Milo, pointing to the star. “It’s so bright.”
Lyrah saw the bright blue star. “That is the brightest star I’ve ever seen.”
“I wish we could go there,” said Milo.
>
“Perhaps we could,” said Lyrah. For a final time that night, there was some silence again, but a good silence.
-----
Milo was in his room, sitting in the chair next to his desk, just thinking. Suddenly, there was a quiet knocking sound coming from the window. Milo turned around and saw Lyrah, standing in his room next to the window. “How did you –”
“You’re window was open. Sorry,” she said, “Is this a wrong time?”
Milo said, “No, it’s fine. I was just writing.”
“Okay,” she said, “It’s raining down viciously.” She walked over to him, her eyes on the snow globe she had given him. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Milo set his eyes upon the snow globe once again, and he knew it was. “I hadn’t known that you were going to give me any sort of gift,” he paused, “I didn’t even know I would ever see you again after that night.”
Lyrah came closer to Milo, away from the window, which was sitting in a quite cold area of the room. But she slowed, and was struck with an expression of fear. Milo saw. “What is it?”
“Your eyes, Milo,” she said.
Suddenly he could hear the terror in her voice, almost a cry at first. “It’s starting.” He quickly turned to his mirror. He flicked on a light, and looked deeply at his eyes. Petrified, he stood there. In the outer rims of his irises, there were small veins of color, with a light shade of blue. It was barely noticeable, but come Tuesday his eyes would have full color, and people would notice. Milo took a step back from the mirror. His gut was in pain, and he began to feel light-headed. He tried to speak, but struggled. “I’m going to die!” The words came out in a sort of choke, broken and stuttered. He fell. In just a few short days, he would be taken by the Parliament to be executed in a public hanging.
Lyrah felt the fear, also beginning to shed a tear. “Milo, this isn’t the end.” Lyrah said, looking away, clearly in question of what she had just said. Milo looked at her, confused. He felt something, almost like the dark feeling from before, but this time it was different. It wasn't a deep pitch of black.
“No?” Milo asked. Despite his words portraying a feel of doubt, he felt Lyrah was right, somehow. She had been right before.
“I must leave,” said Lyrah, looking to the window.
“What?” Milo asked, “Now?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I promise we will meet again.”
“How will I find you?” asked Milo.
She leapt out the without any response but a brief smile towards Milo. He minded the scar on her cheek again; it was more noticeable in the cold. Milo had no words to form from his thoughts. His questions simply couldn't be asked.
-----
The air felt like a blanket, still as the dust on the floor and infinitesimally soft. Milo stood, breathing slowly. The mass of the long hallway was before him. He did not look behind. At the end of the hallway, which he saw now was surrounded in a wood texture, although he knew is wasn’t real wood, was a door. The door was a dark brown, with reddish tint. The handle was golden, and aside from the overwhelming presence and a star shaped symbol near the bottom, there was nothing particularly unique about this door. It stood, calling for him. Milo stared.
-----
Milo was awakened within just moments of falling asleep, it felt like. Monday was slow. He hadn’t seen Lyrah since she left. He rolled his head around in his uncomfortable bed to read the clock on his desk. It was 10:12 PM. The clock was dirty with a layer of dust assembling on the glass. He had never paid close attention to time or dates, but this was different. Soon he would have to tell his father about his eyes. He didn’t want to tell him, it would terrify him. His father took things well, but the death of his son would destroy him. He wondered how his uncle felt, six years ago when his cousin had been executed for the same reason; sprouting blue eyes. How awful.
Late, towards the shadiest time of night, Milo crept up onto the roof again with the snow globe in his hands. It was not dark outside, as he had expected. The moon lit up the sky, and the clouds hovered low in the air to create a gloomy blue atmosphere. The snowfall had stopped, and just a cool frost covered the ground. Milo stood there in the severe cold, looking into the snow globe.
-----
Tuesday was again slow and dull. He had confessed to his father the dreadful news. His father did not take it well; they had a long conversation that afternoon, followed by Milo’s favorite foods for dinner. His father contacted the rest of the distant family, whom Milo rarely communicated with. He spoke to each of his aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, for a last conversation.
The evening was drifting along quicker than Milo had anticipated, and he wished for it to slow down, slow down so far that it would reach a stop. He hadn’t seen Lyrah all day. Earlier in the morning, he had taken a long walk through the city, seeking her. It was now that he felt he needed her help most, even simply some calming words. Milo was not calm, despite what she had said before. He looked at the frost-covered window, half-expecting Lyrah to be there. When he discovered that the judgment in the back of his mind was right, that she wasn’t there, he was not disappointed, for there was a little sparrow perched on a tree branch just near the roof of the house. This sparrow, puny and allay, somehow calmed him down. Milo sat down on the chair beside his desk and stayed calm. Tomorrow he would die.
BLOOD
Wednesday. Milo actually slept for the first time in days. But with great infortune, he awoke early that morning. He peered out from the itchy blanket that covered him, and saw the time on the clock. 4:44 AM. Artlessly, he was still, unable to fall back into sleep, waiting for the knock on the door by the Parliament. This morning, he was uncertain of what to think. He turned his head towards the snow globe. It was, as always, miraculous and bright. The snow was settled at the base, the polar bears safe from the spurious blizzard. Some character in the back of Milo’s mind had raised the notion of the door again, the door from his dream. He thought about that door, staring at it in his mind.
Sunday, I was a person just like everybody else. Days later, I have become a person with death lying just ahead, calamitous enough to know it and not have the ability to stop it. Dreadfully, the hours passed with a silence that seemed to create its own miscellaneous sounds.
-----
The knock on the front door came at 6:00 AM. Two members of the Parliament took Milo from his home and walked him to the center Salem, where there was a stage build for public hangings. Snow fluttered down from the cloudy morning sky. Milo thought he would have a depressing moment where in his head he would accumulate his memories, but instead he wasn’t thinking. He effortlessly let the Parliament members walk him up the stairs of the stage, where now people from the city were gathering.
The night before his father had said to him, “Don’t be afraid, Milo.” He thought about this briefly and in his head responded to his father the way he wished he had last night. I’m not afraid. I’m furious. He looked at the snow-covered ground for the entire walk, but now as they reached the height of the stairs, he looked at the men that had taken him there and shot them both quick looks that spoke his thoughts. This is wrong.
One of the men, who Milo had seen before, perhaps at the dinner hall, glanced back at him with a look that told of sorrow. The other man simply turned away with a remorseful expression. These men, although they knew it was a harrowing act, could do nothing to stop it. Mr. Charlie entered in his dark colored chariot into the crowd of citizens, who he knew all had an ill hatred towards him. A Parliament member followed behind him, stepping out of the chariot with a silver microphone and handing it to Mr. Charlie, who had now found a comfortable seat on his wooden chair. Milo felt the noose being draped over his head. He discernibly noticed a hooded figure in black weaving through the crowd.
Mr. Charlie then stood from his chair and spoke. “Proceed.”
Milo sought the crowd for people he knew. He didn’t see his father, or any of the doctors, nor Lyrah.
; I told you that you can trust me, Milo. It was her voice. Milo’s eyes widened.
The man reached to pull the lever and there was a crisp cracking sound that Milo heard from his right ear. The lever had not been pulled, and he looked at the man responsible. Instead, the man had ceased movement to look at his arm, which was being callously manipulated by an unseen force. The man shouted, but it was just a mix of sounds, not words that could be deciphered. He cried out, “my bones!” Milo cringed at the sight of the man’s finger bones unpredictably cracking and jolting around under his skin. The veins lining this man’s arm began to throb viciously, and then he collapsed in agony as the veins abruptly broke free from his skin in a bloody flare.
Everyone turned away from the disturbing sight. A few people began to vomit, including Milo. Mr. Charlie rose from his seat with a devilish look in his eyes. Milo looked down at the blood-soaked wood below him, and came to the realization that he had not been hanged. Am I doing this? He swiftly pulled the noose off his neck and bolted off the stage, heading for the Forest. Few members of the crowd cheered him on, driving his speed and fury, while others still stood screaming at the sight of the mangled Parliament member. As he ran, he heard a few more loud cracking sounds, similar to that of thunder, followed by more shrieks from the crowd.
Mr. Charlie roared, “Stop him!”
The Parliament member lay on the stage dead in a pool of fresh blood, and with his spine torn halfway from his body. Half the crowd had left, either for the disgust of murder and shed blood or for fear of a similar demise being cast upon them. The remaining members of the crowd stood in an awkward bunch, wondering what events would occur next.
Mr. Charlie began to walk back to his chariot. As he walked with enraged strides, he called into the microphone, “Where does my Parliament stand on this! Why haven’t you acted?” He shot a bitter stare at the Parliament members who stood near the chariot, all with ready blades in their hands. No member replied to him. “That boy has a reason to die, and you all have a reason to hunt him.”
