Leave Every Light On
Children leave every light burning for reasons adults dismiss. One child begs to keep a single lamp on, because the dark here is never simply empty.
Children leave every light burning for reasons adults dismiss. One child begs to keep a single lamp on, because the dark here is never simply empty.
A rain-soaked coat appears on a hook empty for twenty-three years, its ticket reading Bellweather, a station with no trains since 1998.
Boys get louder when she walks in and teachers soften, but he keeps his eyes on his notebook. He notices everything she does, and she may too.
Lost on empty country roads with a dead phone signal, two travellers joke about fuel and hunger. The navigation arrow stays frozen on a blank grey square.
His friends laugh when he says his reflection is alive. At twenty-four he knows what he saw in the glass, and it has stopped copying him.
New glasses turn grey dots on the kitchen wall into tiny blue flowers. His mother's careful smile says she knew, and the world sharpens in ways he did not.
A moving truck wakes the street, and the house next door finally has tenants. Then Sarah starts leaving messages, and asks him to keep his window open.
Twelve-year-old Keith strays close to the dry stone well his father warned him about, and something down there says his name.
Jacob's mother leaves with one instruction: bed by eleven. His headphones are too loud to hear the rest, and at eleven something asks why he is still up.
Every night he locks the door, takes his pills and waits. At twelve thirty-seven the cold arrives, the mattress sinks, and she lies down beside him.