Harold jumped up and ran outside. The screen door slammed behind him as Bruce Springsteen music played from the clouds. The stars, hidden by the grunt of daylight, were there in the pointed universe. He made his way across the warm grass of the yard. He opened the gate on the white picket fence and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked both ways, and each way was the same—a long, straight and tree-lined street that was quiet. The homes were large. The trees were large, bushy like broccoli, and the air smelled like clean skin. Now he had to choose: Left to the lake or right toward the forbidden frosty forest burning foil green now in the late aspects of summer.
Harold chose the heart of the forest. He was scared but he forged forward. On the way, he tried to shake the image of his mother on the table with that awful Ted on top of her. He turned toward the curb and threw up in the street. When he looked up he saw an old glowing white woman standing in the picture window of a grandma house painted the color of marshmallow circus peanuts. Her hair was silvery gray, her expression demure and judgmental. Harold stared at her a long while. Then she suddenly smiled and held up a tray of cookies. She motioned with her head for young Harold to come to the door. For some reason his heart pounded. Then the old woman held up a glass of pure white milk. Her smile got even bigger, but it was unsettling. The boy wanted to run but his legs were like cement and it was like how it is when a dreamer tries to run in a dream.
That’s when the old lady stepped out onto the stoop and called for him. “Boy,” she said. “Come here boy. I have some wonderful treats for you. And I’m so lonely. Won’t you please come in and keep an old lady company for just a while?”
Harold turned his head side to side. The world suddenly seemed completely empty. A breeze made his hair dance. “Okay,” he said, and he walked toward the house and followed the old woman inside.
Her house smelled funny. Antiseptic. Surgery. It was overly neat and clean. There was old-time music playing. Music from a different era, dimension. He followed her into a room with large windows and old furniture.
“Have a seat and I’ll be right back,” the woman said as she put the tray and jug of milk down upon a low table in front of a flowery couch.
Young Harold sank into a cushion. He looked up and saw a clock on the wall, but it had an extra number: 13 where the 12 usually goes.
When she returned she was shockingly holding a large trapezoidal blade with a handle. “Do you like machetes?” she asked the boy. She whipped it through the air, and it sang a dead song. “I myself love machetes.” She flattened her feet to the floor and made a fighting stance. “Yee ha!” she cried out, and once again she whipped the blade through the air.
Harold was terrified and started to get up to leave.
“Wait!” the old woman cried out. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go home,” he answered. “My mother will be worried.”
The woman relaxed her stance and smiled at Harold. “No she won’t,” she said. “Your mother hates you. Sit back down and have some milk and cookies. And then maybe you can take a nap. I have a very comfortable bed right upstairs.” She pointed toward the ceiling with a crooked finger.
Harold looked at the machete flicking in her other hand. He sat back down. She set a gaze upon him with sparkling silver-blue eyes. “Enjoy now,” she said with a nod of her glowing head. “Eat as much as you want.”
Harold opened his eyes and saw a white ceiling. The room was too warm, but the bed was soft. He got up from the bed and went to the one window in the room and looked out. There, down in the front yard, the old woman was trimming bushes with her prized machete. She suddenly stopped and then turned her head to look up at Harold as if she sensed him there. The boy ducked away and went to the bedroom door to get out. It was locked from the outside. He pounded on the door. “Let me out of here!” he yelled. He went back to the window and looked out again. This time the old woman was no longer there.
Then there was the sound of unlocking and the door swung open. The old woman stepped in. She was sweaty from the late summer sun. The blade of her machete had green on it. “Don’t pound on the door,” she said. “You might break it. Just settle down and take it easy.”
“Why did you lock me in here?” Harold wanted to know.
“It’s for your own safety. The world out there is a very dangerous place for a young boy such as yourself.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Home? You have no home. Haven’t you heard?” She motioned toward a small radio sitting upon a small table. It’s all over the news. Your home burned down, and your mother and her lover died.”
“What? No! You’re lying. This is some sort of psychological torture.”
Once again she motioned to the radio. “Turn it on and listen.”
Harold did as she said. A voice came through and explained in horrifying detail how indeed his house did burn to the ground and that the woman who lived there and a strange man had been trapped and died inside.
Harold began to cry. “No,” he said. “It can’t be true.”
“Of course it’s true,” the old woman told him. “It’s a truth radio. Everything that comes out of it is the honest truth, regardless of how harsh it may be.”
Harold’s eyes went to the window. “I want to smash through that glass and jump,” Harold said. “I have nothing to live for now.”
The woman chuckled. “Funny how life can drastically change in a mere fraction of a second.”
My new book is now available for purchase: The Apocalypse Pipe. Available in both e-book ($2.99) and print ($14.99) editions! Thanks for reading and supporting independent writers.
CEREAL AFTER SEX 
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