Oct 062010
 
Authors: Lucas Dean Fišer

Editor’s Note: “Cracks in the Clouds” is a piece of creative non-fiction. All of the events in the story are true. This is the sixth part of an eight-part series that will run weekly in the Collegian’s Verve section.

I spoke erratically with my hands. I wanted to tell my father what they had just told me. I wanted to ask the neighbors, but they all considered the minds of my lesbian friends to be “crooked” anyway. No one would believe them. No one would believe us. I checked the clock; it read 5:30 p.m. It was getting dark.

“We haven’t said anything. The last time we tried to tell the neighbors what happened on our property at night they laughed. They don’t listen to us. They think we create these encounters in our minds. Everyone here hears the Indians at night, but no one sees the lights we see, Lucas.”

“This was the second time we’ve seen lights here,” Joan said. Turning away from the conversation, the house was unsettled. JohnLuke scratched at the back door. Mary left her bar stool at the counter and let him in.

“I better go, before it gets too dark.” I said.

“I’ll be back on Tuesday when you pick me up at the bus stop. Plus I bet it was just someone messing with you. There is this one kid I know that I ride the bus with that is a real jerk. He is a real troublemaker. He eats his boogers and lies all the time. I bet he could have started trouble. He starts trouble for everyone. I sit across from him on the bus. I want to punch his brains out every time I see him.”

The collar on my turtleneck felt tight.

They each kissed me and apologized for scaring me with their story. I pretended I wasn’t scared. I pulled my shoulders up and put my back straight.

When I opened the front door, the darkness poured through. There was barely enough light to see the ground I walked on.

When the wooden door slammed behind me, I was alone.

My shoulders dropped. My hands grabbed each other. I glanced back at the log cabin and saw the white curtains fall shut.

I stared at the cavalry station, with all its broken windows and history. The cottonwood trees hummed from the cool breeze. I walked on my toes; I didn’t want to stir anything up.

I could smell the darkness. Cold, heavy, sharp. It smelled like rust.
 
It had to be Clay. Troublemaking Clay, giving Mary and Joan a light show, giving those who will burn in hell a preview, doing his alcoholic mamma a favor.

Picking his nose and giggling. Smirking, I hate him.

I hate him. I hate him. I checked the soil around the Calvary station for boot prints, size 8, red, genuine leather boot prints. I saw none. I had 10 minutes until dark. I ran.

Holding my breath, something was there. Something was watching me. Something was not ok.

I ran. I gripped my fists. I jumped downed logs through the fields at dusk.

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