"Sometimes on Those Summer Nights"

 

Sometimes on those summer nights, among all the shouts from the neighbors playing bag toss games in their driveways and the songs that fell in pitch as cars drove past the house, he would catch the sound of someone crying. He checked out the window a few times and once in the held-breath stillness of night even stepped barefoot on the lawn, but he never saw anybody. The only figure of any note was that of the tree, which stood in the middle of the yard, sticky with the sap that had built up inside it over the course of the spring and that was now escaping through cracks in the bark, unable to be contained any longer.

"Closing Time"

 

"It just..." The butterfly heaved and sighed. It folded its wings together and then let them lay flat above its body in defeat. "It just feels like everything's changing so fast sometimes, you know? I mean, I know change is part of life, but..."

"Sweetie," the flower said, gently, "it's almost nighttime. You know the drill. You don't have go to the underside of that tree branch..."

"...but I can't stay here," the butterfly finished. It wished so badly that it could mistake the closing of the flower's petals, the brushing of those petals against its legs, for the start of some kind of embrace.

"I Think I Met My Reaper"

 

At one point when I was close to home and almost finished with my walk, I heard the sound of twigs snapping behind me. There was no one else nearby that I could see, so I kept walking. But then I heard a voice, shaky and somewhat distant, say, "Nice night for a walk, isn't it?"

I turned around. A middle-aged man in a t-shirt and shorts was riding a bike in the deepening dark, down the street I had just crossed. He was headed south, traveling from my right to my left, and only tossed me a look as he pedaled.

"It is," I called, even as I imagined walls rising up from the ground to stand between us. "Enjoy it."

The man continued pedaling, so I started to step backwards. Then, once he was almost almost out of sight, I heard him say, "Enjoy it. You never know how long it's going to last." He was gone after that, and I was left to hope that he had been talking about the weather.

"Come Out and Play"

 

I heard what I thought might have been an empty plastic bottle rattling down the street. I thought it seemed odd, as there was no wind blowing to sweep anything along over the blacktop. Because that was the only sound echoing in what felt like an empty chamber of night, I stood and looked out the window. That was when I saw the ghost, a blue flame burning in the image of a boy; on the sidewalk by his feet was a white styrofoam cup. He saw me staring at him from where I stood on the second floor. "It's been a lousy day," he said, as clearly as if he were right next to me. "You want to come out and play?" He kicked the cup with a foot lit by ghostfire. The rattling sound could have been the sound of bones. I didn't offer him an answer, because I knew I had no choice.