"Leaving a Red Brick House"

 

"It's a good house," the second brother said to the first while they were standing outside their younger sibling's home of rich, red brick. "Better than anything I could ever build."

"Hey, you don't have to tell me about the value of a good house," the first brother said. He glanced two lots over, at the pile of blown thatch that had once been his. 

The second brother turned to him. "So why don't you want to stay?" he asked.

"In there?" The red house sat in front of them, kindly and squat.

"With us," said the second brother. "As one of us."

The first brother squealed. "Oh, come on. 'One of us'? Really? You're talking like some girl's going to come kiss me into a prince or something." He sighed. "We've been through this. It's just--you know, after everything that's happened, I've been wondering what I've been doing with my life. Why all of this--" he pointed with a hoof at the brick house "--matters. No offense. But maybe it's time for something more spiritual, I guess."

"It's 'cause you're getting old," said the second brother.

The first brother raised an eyebrow, then snorted a laugh. "Yeah, well, losing a house sure makes you feel old," he said. "But you should know that. Shit, you're just as much a geezer as I am, in that case."

"Just a few years away from my own existential crisis," the second brother agreed. "Still don't see myself picking a religion where they butcher me, though."

The first brother saw the second glancing back at his loins and became confused and suspicious. Then he remembered. "Right, the circumcision thing," he said with a shrug. "Eh, it could be worse. Overall, I feel pretty safe with them."

"Yeah, I guess I can see that." The second brother nudged the first with his forehead and began trotting toward the brick house. "I think it's just slop in the trough tonight, but what do you say? One more dinner where you don't have to worry about keeping kosher?"

The first brother stared at his youngest sibling's home. The home was family; it represented everything he had ever known, the sum of his life story as it so far had been written. But what was he without a home? He didn't yet have the answer. He knew only that there were a people who had gone homeless for forty years and were still around today. The rabbi wasn't expecting him for a few days anyway; everyone knew how long a trip it was to the temple. So, "Sure," the first brother said the second, and they went to join the third brother for a meal of scraps, their last together before the first brother left to begin his journey through the study of the Torah. He tried to imagine the taste of milk and honey the entire time he ate.

"Board Games"

 

He lifted the lid of the old cardboard box, with its splitting corners and the artwork decorating it faded to a thin yellow. Inside, there were the game board and the game pieces, but there were also pieces of his childhood that had been stored away, for some reason, here: class pictures from grade school and candy wrappers. Handwritten notes from a friend.

"How did you play this game, Dad?" his daughter asked. She cast a frown at one of his green plastic soldiers as she took it from the box.

"You know," he said slowly, "I'm not really sure. I'll have to see what I can remember." In the corner of the tray, next to where the dice rested, he saw two of his baby teeth.

"To Go"

 

Harriet was putting away the dishes when, suddenly, her teenage daughter, Elena, appeared next to her, holding a box.

"Oh, hi, hon," Harriet said, closing the cabinet door. "I didn't even hear you come in. Did you have a good night out?"

Elena looked as if she had just seen a car crash. She stared ahead for a few seconds before her eyes shifted toward Harriet. "Night?" she asked quietly. "How long have I been gone?"

Harriet crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Well, Chris came to pick you up around six, so, yeah. That long. You okay?"

"You still remember who I am? Quick: which bedroom is mine?"

"Second one on the right, the one painted green like you've had it for the last three years. Ellie, you're scaring me."

With one hasty leap of a step Elena stumbled into Harriet and, still holding the box, wrapped her arms around her. "I love you, Mom," she said. "I'm sorry for scaring you."

"Please don't let this be drugs," Harriet whispered into Elena's shoulder.

"What?"

"I said," said Harriet, stepping back, "I miss you giving me hugs." She nodded at the plain white box. "What do you got there? Leftovers?"

Elena glanced down as if the box had just appeared in her hands, the way she had appeared in the kitchen moments before. "Oh," she said. "Yeah, I guess. In a way. Just something from where we went." With a resolute nod, she smiled and held the box outward. "I want you to have it, Mom."

"Oh, honey, we just ate dinner not too long ago."

"No, not like that," Elena said. "Just--whenever you need something different." She passed the box to Harriet, who raised an eyebrow and placed it on the counter. Elena smiled at her again. "I'm going to go take a shower," she said.

"Just let me know if you need anything," Harriet said. She watched Elena climb the stairs. She knew she wouldn't have many more chances to watch where Elena went. The box on the counter was small and simple and begging for Harriet to open it. So she did. And her eyes went wide. She could barely begin to imagine how far her daughter had gone.

"The Witch"

 

Someone had placed a hat on top of her head. It tipped forward like a downed horse and covered most of her face, but it wasn't enough to ward off the vultures, which the boys knew waited low in the trees just some distance from this one, their hunger drawing them long and lean, like shadows, as the sun fell.

A few of the boys could just reach the hat's brim. "Go on, lift it," said Bryon.

"No way," said Louis.

"Chicken. You're chicken."

"I sure am," Louis announced. "Go ahead and show us how it's done, since you're so brave."

Bryon drew circles in the dust with the tips of his toes. "It's disrespectful," he said finally. "I just wanted to see if the body was still here."

"Disrespectful, nothing. She was a witch."

"That's just a story. She murdered someone is all. Ain't no such thing as witches."

"Then take off the hat."

"You do it."

"You."

While the others squabbled, a boy named Henry, tall and quiet, approached the hanged corpse. He raised his hand toward the hat, and everyone stopped. His fingers were so close.

Then the wind gusted. The vultures' shapes grew in the trees. And the boys turned and ran, each one of them suddenly believing in magic. 

"Safe"

In case the picture is hard to see, these are being sold as "Safe Tunes" headphones.

"I'm sorry, my lord," said the wizard to his evil overseer, "but they've proven too powerful. Never again shall children catch wind of the faint whispers of sex and hints at medicinal pleasure that music offers. No, they shall heed their parents' orders and grow up to be respectable citizens who pursue careers in health care, or perhaps business administration."

"Not necessarily." The overseer stroked his beard with fingers as gaunt as bone. "Dip the pacifiers in antibacterial coating," he instructed.

"The one laced with arsenic? Yes, my lord," the wizard said, disappearing with a flourish of his robe into his chamber to summon the spirits of mass production.

"The Common Path"

 

"I saw a piece like this at an art exhibit last year," Ada said to her grandmother as they walked. "Some artist dumped snow all over a space inside and had people walk a path across most of it, except at one point a set of footprints veered away from the main path."

"And what was the message of that one? Wait, let me guess," said Mrs. Alvarez. "The melting snow represented all the money the museum was pissing away on stuff it called 'modern art.' Eh?" She bared her dentures in a smile. "Am I right?"

Ada patted her shoulder. "It was the artist suggesting that it doesn't matter whether or not you do something different from everyone else--we all fade and die in the end."

Mrs. Alvarez frowned, trying to shoo away the thought with a wave of her hand. "Ah, you always remember the ones who break away from the crowd," she said. "Did I ever tell you about Jack Derany, from summer camp? We took quite a few of our own hikes apart from the group, if you know what I mean." And Ada's eyes widened and the snow crunched under her boots as the two continued down a path traveled by many people before, the one along which people learn that their family members are human after all.