Category: Fiction

Photo/Writing Prompt: Below

Nina began lying down between the rose bushes on a sunny day in her eleventh summer of life. Mother planted them at precise, equal distances from each other, spaced for their greatest benefit. She explained the science to Nina once but Nina admittedly did not listen.

It was difficult to explain why she’d done it the first time. She had a fight with her older sister who, at fourteen, thought she knew everything and Nina knew nothing. “You’re still a child,” was the accusation thrown over her sister’s shoulder as she’d sauntered out of the room. Nina had wondered what was wrong with still being a child then tried to return to her reading. Her eyes wandered distractedly from the page to the window behind the sofa, and to the flower beds outside the window. Setting the book aside and turning herself around, she rose to her knees. Nina propped her chin on the back of the sofa. Her long, blond hair fell in curtains against each of her cheeks.

The rose bushes were excessive in their blooms this summer. They seemed to be showing off, lording it over the lesser flowers in the beds across the aisle of plush green grass. Nina’s gaze lowered to the soil covering the roots of those bushes. Her mind’s eye saw how perfectly she might fit in that space between and without another thought she dashed out of the room, down the hall, and out onto the back patio. Outside on the sun warmed bricks, she kicked off the black shoes she still wore since lunch with her grandparents. This called for bare feet.

She was right. She fit perfectly on the patch between the pink roses and the yellow ones. Nina pressed her back against the dirt, trying to feel the life beneath her, the hidden roots responsible for the vibrant petals gathered into sculpted blooms above her face. Suddenly she thought she did feel them. A throb, a pulse pushed against her in return and Nina let a gasp escape before she realized it was the vibrations of Daddy’s car pulling into the driveway.

It didn’t matter though. She knew it was all there. She remembered Mother digging up two bushes once. Nina had sat on the grass and watched. Mother explained about the roots, about how much they mattered. Nina listened that time, wondering all the while over their ugliness. Such ugliness to produce such beauty. It was entirely incongruous in Nina’s mind. She’d learned that word four days ago and this was her first opportunity to use it.

Nina laid like that for an hour. She felt the sun start to burn her bare feet. She heard her mother and father’s banal chatter over what was for dinner, what tomorrow’s weather might be, and whether grandma seemed more or less confused today. She felt Freckles, their gray, long haired cat, paw at her legs where they extended out on the soft grass. Nina thought a hundred thoughts, remembered a dozen memories, and not a single other soul knew of it. It was the finest hour of her life.

Photo/Writing Prompt: Black & White
*Disclaimer: The title is not the actual location of this picture. It’s a fictitious address for the purpose of the story.

The solitary lamp post at the end of the dirt drive was encompassed by wildflowers. They stood tall and bristly with names unknown to Tate.

Tate stopped at the edge of the road, a narrow two lane stretch of countryside cracked pavement. He fixed his green eyes on the dirt path in front of him. Plenty wide enough for a car yet not a trace of tracks upon it. No divots typical of gravel driveways from the repeated passing of the same vehicle day after day. Nor were there any fresh disturbances of the dust and pebbles to signify recent activity.

He stepped sideways to the crooked mailbox. The rusted door creaked as it was opened just enough to see inside. Empty. He checked the blue numbers painted on its side again.

3001.

Yes, that was the address he was given and this was the only Marley Road in the county, or any of the neighboring counties. He’d checked.

Tate rubbed the scruff that grew over his cheeks and chin in the last two days. He had packed his bag in a hurry and his razor was forgotten.

A breeze wafted through the trees, rustling the leaves like the sound of a dozen whispering children. The wildflowers’ heady scents rose to his nostrils. The early sunshine was warm already and Tate wiped away the bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

His eyes kept returning to the lamp post. It was lit.

Someone is here, it announced.

A solemn, proud butler at the entrance to his master’s home. Can I help you, sir?

Yes, someone is here and by God, I certainly hope you can help me.

Tate nearly answered aloud before laughing at himself.

Elections; earthquakes and hurricanes; Afghanistan and Iraq. Tate had covered them all and much more. He’d followed each story wherever it led, to whomever it led, until his pen was satisfied. None had tortured his nerves like this one.

27 years. That’s how long he’d followed this story. 27 years of questions, theories, interviews, leads – some adding a piece to the puzzle, some detouring him from the right path.

27 years to bring him here. 3001 Marley Road, Black Mills, Wisconsin. A lamp post and a dirt drive and a house beyond the trees, in which, if he finally had it right, Tate would find the brown haired girl he watched being kidnapped when he was 7 years old.