The ghost was gone. The crumpled plane ticket and the crabs were gone too. The two of us were alone now; the house was empty once again.
Things had returned to normal.
* * *
That was last night.
Today Luisa’s plane crashed into the ocean, like I knew it would.
It went down somewhere off the coast of California around 4pm. Two-hundred and fourteen lives are expected to be lost. They’re still looking for survivors, but I have no hope twisting in the winds of my imagination. I know in my heart she’s lost.
When I heard the news I didn’t cry; I didn’t say a word. And tonight I’m here, lying alone in my bed for the first time in years. I can’t sleep; I can’t think straight. I keep waiting for her to visit me again.
I need to apologize; I know I do. I should’ve tried harder to keep my promise.
I should have tried harder to make her stay home.
* * *
JONATHAN VS. THE PERFECT TEN
Jonathan Weakley stood at the edge of the Pit like a proud father, looking down at his latest monstrosity. This time it was a wolf spider. The time before that it was a scorpion. Guessing the spider’s weight, he put the number in the ballpark of 750 pounds. The scorpion he presumed to be half that.
Ninety percent of the town came to watch the event, same the time before. But everyone knew today’s experience was going to be different, very different.
Scary different.
Some were excited, some nervous, and many had a hard time grasping the realities of what they were about to witness. These people––and there was more than a few of them––were juggling terror and disgust with equal portions of shame and wonder.
The other ten percent––the missing ten––were God’s People.
God’s People were the town’s Bible pounding naturalists, easily appalled by Jon’s labors. They had been storming Monk Town hall two or three times a week, saying Jon was a wicked sinner, a madman; the devil’s henchman.
On the other side of the fence, Jon thought God’s People were oppressing technology, the future, science, and everything evolution had to offer. This sightless religion-monger minority didn’t offer new ideas or add to society. They just told people what they did wrong, while acting like progression was a sin and inventiveness was against the law.
With the town’s population being 730 people, knowing who had your back and who didn’t was easy.
Jonathan knew.
He knew who was trying to supersede his genius: God’s People.
* * *
Jon charged a flat rate of one dollar a head to patrons, and the fee came with weeklong viewing rights. It was expensive; no one could argue that. But Jonathan knew what he was doing and what hands to grease.
$650.00. That’s what came through the door, same as last time and the time before. $650.00 meant six-hundred-and-fifty people paid and seven didn’t. The seven included himself, his brother Ted (who sold tickets), Mayor Monk, Sheriff Wellston, Deputy Gorman, Bernie Gorman (who published the Monk Town press), and old Bill Watt who had been hired to work the cages.
That left seventy-three people boycotting the event. Seventy-three in a town of seven-hundred-and-thirty––that was ten percent.
A perfect ten.
It was almost funny.
* * *
One man alone ran Monk Town: August Monk.
August was the mayor and the muscle. He could shake hands in the morning, murder in the afternoon, and kiss babies in the evening. Not to suggest that he was a tyrant. No, that would be misleading.
Mayor Monk was a family man before his wife and son past away. He had kind eyes, a nice smile, and wasn’t afraid to laugh. But he kept a mental detachment from his work––his peacekeeping––as he liked to call it. He had a simple philosophy: cause trouble in my town and you’ll swing from the gallows pole. If you don’t like it, live somewhere else.
He didn’t care about explanations. Screw around; meet your maker.
The people in town respected August for that.
He thought it was funny what people found admiration in.
Months before Jon’s first creature unveiling (the first was a two-hundred-and-ninety pound rat with pink bubble eyes that were the size of a fist and thirty-inch whiskers) Jonathan made a point of having a sit-down with Monk. He shared his thoughts with the man, hoping to gain the town’s support.
He said, “Well sir, I’m going to charge fifty cents a head and I expect to pull in sixty townspeople. That’s $30.00. Now listen here while I tell you something, and feel free to look me in