A yellow butterfly flutters and lands on the dedication sign for the forest green bench.

Mother sits on the bench, handkerchief in hand, wiping the tears from her eyes.

For weeks, Mother has been angry at Sarah, ignoring her almost completely.

Mother looks over and mutters her name, “Sarah.”

Sarah looks up grinning, then returns to playing in the sand.

A distant woman calls mother’s name, “Mrs. Dennis.”

Sarah notices the butterfly. She stands and, tip-toeing, approaches it.

The woman approaches Mrs. Dennis, stops nearby and hold out a bouquet of flowers. Tears flow from Mrs. Dennis as she accepts the flowers and bunches them together with the ones she is already holding.

Sarah watches the butterfly as it crawls along the brass sign.

“I am so sorry,” the woman looks around. “At least they have cleaned the place up and made it safer.

“I must go, but I will try to come by later.”

The woman turns without needing an answer and walks away, her head hanging.

Mrs. Dennis stands and turns toward the dedication sign, noticing the butterfly for the first time. She sighs and lays the flowers gently near the sign.

Sarah reaches out to catch the butterfly, her hands passing right through it.

As Sarah and her mother walk away, the butterfly flutters away from the dedication sign, “In Honor of Sarah Dennis, may her soul rest.”

This damn clock, why are they always so difficult when he is around.

The old haggard clock-maker hunched over a bench. The man in the dark clock is sitting in the corner waiting.

The clock-maker is struggling with this piece.

He must get it working, it is no longer a matter of payment, but one of pride.

He has never found a clock that he could not keep running and he’ll be damned if this one is going to beat him.

The man in the cloak stood and strode over, just as the last gear is dropped in place and the release flipped. The clock began ticking again.

The cloaked man smiled at the clock-maker.

“One day, you will not be able to fix it.. the parts, maybe. Or your skill will fail, I imagine.”

The clock-maker smiled as the still grinning the man walked back to the corner, flipped up his hood, retrieved his scythe, and stepped through the wall.

The intricacies… independent and unique.

He sent the order in this morning. The letter next to her only specified “Something intellectual and creative.” He often let her have reins in the eggs, long ago realizing she was more than capable.

She sighs… A smile spreads across her face.

She loves this… sort of artwork. She has never met another who does it the same as she does. She is meticulous, careful, measured.

But also she enjoys flaws… she isn’t sure she can really call them flaws if they are intentional.
She places the finished egg in the basket lined with soft linens.

A soft chime comes from outside her window. She stands and opens the window. She walks back to the table and retrieves the basket.

The basket filled with intricately designed eggs, each the same, but uniquely different.

The looks out the window then, as the winds of time, blow past, she places the basket in the beak of the stork.

The damn birds… the incessant cooing, if Patty could think of a better punishment… she would.

She could not forget her little Katie’s laughter from the back seat. Her daughter, so bright and joyful.

They had been laughing about something, try though she did, she could never recall what.

The pigeons filled the road ahead and she slowed through the intersection as the flock took flight… filling the air and blocking her view ahead.

The car had slowed to almost a stop, but the maintenance truck, it had traveled in the fastest slow motion she had ever known.

She only saw it briefly as her daughter screamed then went quiet.

They had been on their way to the park… this park… and now.

Now she comes here every day. She sits on this bench, the very bench she and Katie would sit on.

This is the only way she can remember.

The buttery aroma of the popcorn drifts about the park as she sits immobile and heartbroken.

Her hand deep in the bag, now empty. The constant ring of the popcorn vendors popper, comforting and absurdly invasive at the same time.

The child’s laughter from the playground behind her, always grated on her.

She wanted to go over and tell them to go home, or go somewhere else, she didn’t care where. She just needed them gone.

Ugh… her back still feels stiff. She rotated her head about her neck, but with no real relief.

The jogger, what was her name… Sarah? Sarah… she knows the story and she tries to comfort Patty each day.

Today was no exception, the pigeons pecking at her feet, shooed away by Sarah.

Sarah sat next to Patty, holding her hand in one of hers, the other around her wrist, as if to reinforce that she would steady her if needed.

Sarah came and went, but today she went to the popcorn stand. A bit unusual for the health nut Sarah was but not unprecedented.

Laughter.

“Ugh…”

Children laughing no longer seemed a blessing.

Just go… away…

She looked toward the playground, the laughter continued.

She could not see the child, and an adult was no where to be seen.

She sounds to much like Katie… she needs to go…

Patty struggled, almost didn’t but finally decided to do something… anything…

She crossed the green grass toward the park.

The laughter of the little girl seemed to come from somewhere behind the slide.

The hard cold metal of the slide turned her stomach a little.

She can’t get the twisted metal of the car in the aftermath of the wreck.

She stepped into the playground, the slide directly in front of her.

Some toy, reaching up out of the sand punctured her foot.

“Her bare foot?” she thought as she twisted through the fall, unable to stop the rushing corner of the hard metal slide.

Her head… she could feel it bounce off the corner and her body went limp moments before the world faded to black.

Her eyes slowly opened. Her angel, her lovely little angel Katie met her with a bright smile. Katie giggled with joy. A nurse, her name tag… Sarah… held her wrist.

Sarah looked down at Patty.

“Katie has been here every day with popcorn. Every day for six weeks since the accident. We are so glad you pulled through. Welcome back, Patty.”

Detective Morris glared across the interrogation table.

“You said you were where, Friday night?” He said, for the umpteenth time.

The smug grin on the perp’s face… matched only by the eerie silence. That face, highlighted in red from the light in the hall, occasionally flickered with someone’s passing.

Ugh. Hours. He didn’t recall right off, how many, but it was a lot.

The suspect was guilty, his grin and silence were all he needed to know that.

“…Friday night, where were you?” His voice gruff and growling.

Grabbing the chair, Morris flipped it around, dropping it loudly onto the concrete floor.

As the cavernous echo reverberated and died, the suspect finally shifted in his seat.

He leaned forward, the grin gone from his face. Morris leaned in, listening intently.

Morris felt his head spin… “Your daughter… pretty little… Sarah. Sarah.. Right?”

The grin returned in full force. “She goes to Ethan Elementary… Walks down sixth street to your house… third one on the right… yeah? Yeah.”

The putrid feeling of evil exuded from this man.

His last thought as he reached for the cuff key, was of his darling Sarah.

Grabbing the wrist of the perp he reached out with the key, twisting it and freeing the suspect. He could feel the heat building in his hand, his fingers numbing. He dropped the key onto the floor next to the evil little man.

Retrieving the key the perp unlocked the other wrist, then tossed the key onto the table grinning, he turned to Morris.

The suspects eyes grew wide and the color drained from his face.

The deep growl from Morris cut through the boy as urine flowed to the floor, “And that… is exactly why you’re here!” Morris’s dagger toothed grin spread, splitting the dark red leathery skin of the Detective’s face. The ivory horns practically glowing…

Out across the sea, the beam of light sweeps, searching… guiding… waiting for someone to see.

The rain pelts the windows, hammering in sheets and droves.

The storm rages.

His coffee… different… a slight hint of salt and iron.

He had emptied the last of his bottled water yesterday, so he was using water from the tap.

His chair, comfortable, in fact… more comfortable than he could remember.

The rain rolled across the glass in waves, like people at a ball game, or a concert perhaps.

It slid across, methodical then pelted the glass unevenly for a while, only to once again roll across.

The tea kettle started squealing, loud, but with varying pitch as the ancient stove elements heated, then cooled in slow succession.

Struggling, he worked his way out of the overstuffed chair, and stood.

A sip of coffee. Good… real good… warm and slightly metallic.

Another quick sip, ill timed with his breath, caused him to cough… the warm coffee spewed across the room.

He looked around in mild disgust as he headed for the stairs in search of a towel.

A towel… and to turn that incessant squeal off.

He followed the spiral staircase, feeling a bit unsteady, he grasped the handrail and longed for the comfort of the chair.

In the kitchen, he felt his way through the darkness to the stove.

The window outlined in flashes of light through and around the shutters and curtains occasionally lighting the scene.

He turned off the stove, and reached for a towel.

The rain murmured outside, the light outside the window, somehow was steady and bright.

He looked down at the coffee cup in his hand as he brought it up for a sip.

As he shifted the curtain and flung the shutters wide, he coughed again, spewing coffee.

Something slammed into his chest and he coughed again, then filled his lungs with air as he looked out…

…into the face of the paramedic, now dripping with blood as his cough sprayed him again.

“Welcome back,” the paramedic grinned in satisfaction.