Matt Hults - Husk

“I have to show you something,” he said eagerly. “Follow me.” He took her by the hand, beaming like her little brother on Christmas morning. He led her across the grass, to where his gym bag waited on the table he’d been sitting at.

She regarded him with a quizzical gaze. “I take it we’re not going for our run today?”

“Yeah, sure we can. But you have to see this first.”

He stopped in front of the table and looked her in the eyes. She gazed back raptly, knowing his were the only set of eyes she could ever look into and find the level of trust and devotion she needed to get on with a normal life after their experiences at the churchyard.

“I went back,” he said, not having to specify a location.

Mallory gaped at him, blinking. Her mouth fumbled to make the words that would express her shock.

“It’s okay,” he rushed on. “In fact, it’s better than okay. It’s amazing.”

“But why would you want to go back there?” she asked. “That cemetery…”

“It’s changed.”

“What?”

He opened the gym bag, exposing a vibrant bundle of wondrous flowers. Mallory gasped in amazement at the radiant nebula of colors, hues so rich and powerful her eyes seemed unable to focus on just one color.

Like the stars.

“They’re all over the place out there,” Tim said, handing her a blossom that had to be half the size of a dinner plate. “Hundreds of them. Thousands!”

“But what are they?” she asked, testing the silken petals with her fingertips.

“Something new,” he replied. “Something we’ll have to tell others about in time, but I wanted to share them with you first.”

They sat in silence, sampling the blend of exquisite aromas emanating from the blooms.

“Do you ever dream about it?” Mallory asked.

“No,” he replied. “You?”

“Not yet. Hopefully we never will.”

“I don’t think we will,” he said, gazing at the flowers. “I think they’re a promise. You know, like the rainbow, but just for us.”

She leaned up against him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“You want to go for that run now?” he asked, holding her close.

She shook her head. “Maybe we’ll just walk today.”

The kids were out; Paul and Rebecca were alone.

They sat together on the couch in Rebecca’s living room, the only light coming from the images on the television screen.

Paul remained speechless, mouth agape.

Rebecca stared with an equal look of astonishment.

“Y-you say you found this video in your trash?” Paul asked, clearing his throat.

Rebecca nodded, still staring. “I accidentally threw out the electric bill with a load of other papers, and when I went to look for it, I found this DVD at the bottom of the bag.”

They watched in silence for another minute. Gasps, moans, and seductive whispers exuded from the speakers.

Paul gestured to the women in the movie. “I’m no expert, but I’m guessing that’s not how a peace pipe is meant to be used.”

MATT HULTS lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with his wife and two children.

The people that lived in Cloven Rock considered the town’s final Monday a beautiful one, like most of the days in the recent weeks. The sun was shining; the air was clean and warm. Flowers bloomed and birds sat among the branches singing songs only birds could understand. Dogs chased master’s Frisbees and people said hello to strangers, not to suggest that thousands of tourists roamed the beachfront or the area that passed as the downtown core. That wasn’t the case; there were only a few. If you asked one of the locals why things were this way, the answer would be simple: Cloven Rock was an inclusive town, an uncomplicated town, a town that didn’t encourage a vacationer crowd even though sightseers would have flocked to it religiously. Many residents thought the town was special and they were right. It was special. It wasn’t a small place trying to be a big place. It was a town without civic uncertainty.

The Yacht Club Swimming Pool, a Cloven Rock favorite, had a full house the day before the town was lost. They also had an open door policy; if you were respectful, courteous, and didn’t pee in the pool, you were welcome anytime. Also on that day, friends sailed the calm waters of Cloven Lake and children built sandcastles on Holbrook Beach. Kids played in Easton Park while the people on the large wooden deck at the Waterfront Café enjoyed the spectacular view. The post office closed early. An ice cream store called Tabby’s Goodies was doing good business and a mile and a half up the road the men and woman working at the Cloven Rock Docks fought for, and won, a fifty-cent raise. Spirits were high at the Docks, and the personnel were getting along just fine. It wasn’t surprising. Nearly half the workforce was related and the other half was considered family.

The Cloven Rock Police Department was not at full strength when things turned ugly. One officer was on vacation, one had gone home due to an illness in the family, and two had the day off. Of the nine remaining officials, only Tony Costantino, Joel Kirkwood, and Mary O’Neill, were on duty when the reports came in. The other four were either at home or on call. Normally this wouldn’t be deemed a problem. Most locals figured a thirteen-person police force was nothing short of overkill anyhow. The Rock hadn’t had a stitch of recorded violence in six years.

The community as a whole didn’t know horror, as most tight-knit communities can understand. It knew long days, family activities, and simple living. It knew Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. It knew family.

But sadly, like all communities, Cloven Rock had its share of tragedy.

2007 was a bad year.

It was the year a local artist named George Gramme had his hands caught in his motorcycle chain while he was working on it. He suffered two broken wrists and lost four of his fingers. He also lost his artistic spirit and the means to keep that spirit alive. In the weeks following, he put his motorcycle up for sale and fell into a state of depression that changed him into a different man.

Two weeks later the town’s senior librarian, Angela Lore, died from cancer on the same day that ‘odd-job’ Martin West fell off a ladder and broke both of his legs while shingling his neighbor’s roof.

2007 was also the year a car accident claimed the lives of three teenagers.

As the story goes, a half dozen youngsters were drinking on the unnamed road surrounding Holbrook’s pond. After several hours of alcohol consumption, the six youths plunked their butts inside two vehicles. In one car, Andrew Cowles and Dean Lee, a pair of borderline delinquents, drove home without incident and arrived safely. The second car, loaded with four of the sweetest kids you’d ever meet, weren’t so lucky. Two brothers, Guy and Henri Lemont, along with May Lewis and Lizzy Backstrom, the youngest of the crew, decided it would be a good idea to take a quick jaunt to Hoppers Gas on the 9 thline. But on the way to Hoppers something stepped onto the road causing Guy to swerve left and lose control of the vehicle.

As luck would have it, Stanley Rosenstein, a foreman at the Docks and an all-around good guy, pulled his truck from his driveway the same moment Guy changed lanes.

Guy didn’t see the truck in time. The car clipped Stanley’s front bumper, veered off the road, rolled three times, and slammed into a large maple tree, roof first. The two brothers, Guy and Henri, were killed instantly. May Lewis spent nine days in critical condition before she passed away while her parents and grandparents watched. Lizzy Backstrom escaped with a broken back, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, two broken legs, and wide assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises. Most figured she was lucky to be alive. A few figured she was unlucky to be alive. Once she was able to speak she said a bear stepped in front of the car and Guy swerved to miss it. There weren’t many bears in Cloven Rock so the statement generated a cluster of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. She pushed the inquisition aside, saying, “It might not have been a bear but wasn’t a deer either. I don’t know what it was.”