I wipe the bike grease on my hands into an old rag and give the wheels a good spin, checking the connection of the new chain. Content with my work, I flip the bike back on its two wheels and grab my usual things: pocket knife, flashlight, some waterproof matches, and a compact coil of rope. I stuff it all into a small bag and put my headphones in, gliding out of my garage and into the night.  There’s never any destination in mind when I set out on these nightly rides. I tend to go wherever the streetlights guide me. I head out onto Moon Wake Avenue, hang a left down Somber Glow Street, and ride past the Big Dipper Diner. I can see the waitresses through the windows, talking while wiping down counters and tables. It always looks warm and inviting but I never stop in.  Switching gears, I head down to Melancholy Crossway, with its row homes and narrow street with cars lining each sidewalk. I see a “Road Closed” sign in the distance. They must be doing construction down the way, so instead I make the right onto Nocturne Passage.  This neighborhood is full of interesting colors; flood lamps and porch lights cast greens through car canopies and blues on wood siding from their aged fluorescent bulbs. I know which ones are on sensors, so I race the lights and try to pass undetected. It’s a game I like to play, but rarely ever win. And unfortunately I don’t. Like always. One of these nights I will… I pass the house with the blue police box shaped mailbox, which means I’m heading onto Omensong Bend. Many times I forget just how many people stay up late in this neighborhood. They must enjoy the peace and quiet the night provides. After all the years of riding these streets, I know all their routines. If you think of it, the night is just as alive as the day, but in a more calm way. I wave to the pizza guy coming home from a late night delivery, and slow down when I pass the local cop’s house. He’s usually leaving for his shift around this time of night. Across the street, there’s a kid sitting on his front porch surrounded by books and papers. He occasionally wears an After Dark Community College shirt, so I always assume he’s busy cramming for the next test. I also notice some of the more…stranger…things that most people don't see. At least, I assume they don’t see it because they never talk about it. Like the old woman who wears a robe walking all thirteen of her cats on leashes. There's a group of five cloaked, dark blue figures, they walk in total sync chanting in languages that I never understand.​ Oh - and a mannequin of a woman dressed like some 60’s housewife that appears randomly around town. I even notice odd graffiti that pops up around here and there, but I’ve never found the person who makes it.  The clicking of the bike chain helps me keep in time with my mind.  I’m not sure why, but when I’m on my bike, I feel like my thoughts flow easier.  Maybe it’s the constant flow of fresh air, helping me process my thoughts that at one point seem complicated; but it’s as if my wheels unravel the knots as I weave through these empty streets.  I never feel comfortable staying in one place for long. There’s something about being contained that never suits me. Jobs are hard to keep; friends and relationships are even harder. Something deep inside always tells me to run, as if the emergency escape door is always at my back. I can’t stay still or the fear of being stuck consumes me. So, I take to the streets with my fellow night owls to keep me company, the feeling of stars overhead, and my tires beneath me.  This is an odd town. Sometimes things don’t make sense, but that gives me more of a reason to go out and see all the things there are to see. Eventually, the streetlights start shutting off one by one and daylight starts taking over, turning my comfortable night into a new, unknown day; my signal to head home and sleep till the streetlights turn on again.

An Excerpt from Tales of The After Dark  It’s one of those winter nights when there’s not a single cloud in the sky. The moon is so bright that everything looks like a blueish midday in September, or an inverted photograph of a perfect summer day. Our shadows, darker than pitch, follow along like childish tricksters dancing and weaving on the uneven construction site ground.  I smell the cheap wood filter cigars we bought from the gas station as my one friend breaks the plastic seal. He passes one to each of us as we walk throughout the half built cement structures.  My other friend trips on a deep construction truck tire track of frozen solid mud and crushes his cigar. “Just distracted by pulling off my glove,” he says, trying to be cool. We wander around the open space, taking in the monstrous machines scattered about this vacant, desolate wasteland we once called home. Their metal bits ting and clang, moving in the occasional winter breeze as we try to chart out the things that used to be here.  “Over there was the outdoor obstacle course,” my one friend says, pointing over to where a trailer now sits. He pivots to the right, “And right there, the small amphitheater the local Boy Scouts built. You can see the lights from the movie theater from here.” “And somewhere over here is where we graffitied that old wooden bridge!” My other friend shouts. It’s hard to imagine that just a few months ago, this area was entirely covered in trees. Old trees – ones that grew around giant metal gears from the farmhouses this part of town used to be known for. Now it’ll just become a stripmall full of overpriced things, restaurants that will come and go, and executives misjudging the needs and wants of the people who live here.  I can hear the busy highway in the distance now without the trees blocking all the sounds –  sounds of a life that we would come here to escape. My one friend pulls out his deck of cards and I crack open our bottle of “booze on a budget” as he starts dealing. With an occasional swear under our breath – which didn’t keep the cold out of our worn gloves and hats – we play this game he learned from overseas (the name of which I swear he makes up every time we play.) With construction buckets as seating, and a table made of scrap wood we talk, but never speak of why we were here, sitting in the cold.  It felt that we had to spend this one last night here, as if to see an old friend off; to ease it into the next phase of existence. It may look different – covered in concrete and scaffolds – but to us, it will always be a second home. Even though our woods lost the battle with local mayors and bulldozers, it always comes back to the routine – cigars, cards, and cheap drinks at the same spot in the woods. When all else fails, we always find ourselves back here in this spot; somewhere no one can find us, but we always have each other.  After tonight, I feel like things will be different.  The sky slowly starts to change color as the shadows of the machines and half-built structures start to lighten up, signaling us that the early work crew will be here soon. We take one last look across this plane of transition, and head back to our individual lives, as we leave a part of our youth behind. A construction worker will show up to work to find our final offerings to the land – a deck of cards, an empty bottle and a half-smoked box of cheap cigars.

A shiver runs through me, though I’m not sure if it’s from the cold drizzle or the unease settling in my chest. The fresh carving is just as smooth, just as impossibly precise as the first.  Who are you? I take a step back and scan the trees, searching for any signs of life – or any more hidden messages. The forest offers no answers, only the same dull November stillness and the same silence, save for the occasional rustling of leaves. Beau and Freya, usually keen to sniff out anything unusual, seem unbothered. Freya even wags her tail, oblivious to my growing dread.  How are they doing this?  I get the dogs settled in, and immediately grab a folding chair, my notepad, and pens, hurrying back to the line of trees.  I am not leaving here till I find out who’s responsible. There’s no possible way that I’ll miss the culprit behind the carvings. Hours pass. I feel the sun come out, helping to combat the cold. Ikeep trying to work on my novel, but I’m not getting much done. Every creaking tree branch or rustling blade of tall grass pulls my attention away from my work. I let out a sign, and slump back in my seat.  This is ridiculous, I think with a sigh. I roll my eyes and right as they land on the first tree to my right, I see a new carving. I do a double take in disbelief, but there it is – another deeply carved message.  How long was it there? How could it have appeared without a soul or a sound? It’s as if the tree willed it into existence! “This isn’t possible,” I whisper to myself as I read the newest message: DOGS?   A question. As if the tree recognises Beau and Freya. As if it knows what they are. As if it’s seen them.  Panic takes over, and I throw myself out of the chair and charge deeper into the woods.  “Who are you?” I yell, “What do you want?” Turning every which way, I frantically try to see if any responses are appearing. I stop, dizzied, and take a deep breath. I turn to look back, and see: HERE That wasn’t there a second ago.  I slowly walk closer to it, inspecting the bark of the newly vandalized oak. I let out a panicked shout as I search for another tree to reply. “Who’s here?”  WE We?  “There’s more of you?” I stutter out, as another response appears directly below the last: MORE “How many more?” MANY   “Where are you? How are you even doing this?” My eyes are drawn a bit deeper into the woods to a much bigger, much older tree. The trunk itself is about three average trees wide, worn grey bark and covered in knots. The knots on the tree start to morph, phasing into rune-like symbols and eventually settling into a language my eyes can recognize: EVERYWHERE My eyes open wide. My body freezes. “Everywhere?” I ask, my breath growing heavy.  A twig snaps, triggering my flight or fight response. I hurry back down the usual trail to my house without even looking back. The dogs are walking in figure eights, confused, frantic – but I’m worse.  We sit on the floor of my living room, still in direct sight of the patio door. I stare at the woods, holding Freya in one arm and Beau in the other. From here it looks like any other day, but beyond those trees there are things I cannot comprehend.  Who do I call? How do I explain this to someone? Would anyone even believe me?  The adrenaline dies and rational thought slowly returns.  At least here I’m safe from the trees. I look around the house, thankful to feel my pulse and breathing returning to normal. Eventually I muster enough energy to stand up and latch the door shut. I turn to check the time on my clock, when I notice something out of place in my peripheral vision. Right above the patio door, just where the wall meets the ceiling, I see etched into the wood grain: INSIDE

I trace each letter with my index finger. The carving is deep and pretty high up — it wouldn’t have been easy for anyone to carve this, especially in the short amount of time while we were out. And then to leave without a trace… I hate it when my peace is disrupted. Wearily, I look around the woods. I cup my hands and call out, “Hey! This isn’t funny! Whoever did this better show themselves!”  My shouts are met with nothing but a muffled echo, some spooked crows, and my dogs’ anxious stirrings. Beau and Freya begin pulling harder with their leashes to go in, so I head down the yard, trying to keep an eye on the woods as best as I can.  I am a novel writer by trade and Luckily my office desk faces a window overlooking the backyard, with a great view of the trees. While I work I watch to see if anyone returns. No sign of life except the usual herd of deer and a few wild turkeys. I eventually give up and go on with my day, trying to distract myself with usual chores and work.  The next morning I wake up, brew my morning coffee, get the dogs ready, and set out like normal. It’s overcast with some drizzle, and a chill in the air. When we get to the treeline, I freeze.  I forgot about the odd carving.  I had hoped that it was all a strange dream, but when I walked around the tree, there it was. The cold, dead Hello. I looked around, and didn’t see any new trails in the leaves. Nothing.  Hesitantly, the dogs and I carry on with our morning routine.  At the clearing, Freya runs off only to find our neighbor Farmer Grant. I call him over and walk to meet him halfway.  “Mornin’. You seen anyone near my property line lately? Or anything out of the ordinary?” “Nothing that I’ve noticed,” Farmer Grant replies, rubbing Freya’s head. “There is a possum running around that I’d like to take out, but nothing to lose sleep over.” I hadn’t thought this far ahead, and scrambled to make up a reason for my odd questions. I managed to babble something about seeing a bear with mange. I didn’t want to worry him or make him think I’m incapable of taking care of Beau and Freya – he loves these dogs just as much as I do, but I can tell he heard the concern in my voice.  “If I see anything I’ll give a holler.” We pass all the usual landmarks on our way back home, but when we approached the last leg of our walk, I change to a more cautious pace. I’m hesitant to cross that border of my yard into the woods – it’s like there’s something waiting for me. I survey the area as we slowly walk up to the Hello carving. Another odd spot had appeared while we were gone, on a different nearby tree. This time, the carving says… Who are you?

The crisp, smokey smell of cold mixes with earthy decaying leaves and rises up with every step. The woods are shades of stale gray and dull brown after October's vibrant hues fade, it takes more effort to find the color in early November. An orange streak of sunrise peers through branches, scattering the coming daylight through prismatic frost, coating the ground.  Every morning I take the dogs out into the woods behind my house. We walk as far as we can – till my morning coffee gets cold – and then we mosey on back.  Beau and Freya, my two German Shorthaired Pointers are as happy as children at recess in these woods. Every empty hollow log, deer trail, and rabbit rustling in a bush is a new adventure. Beau has a full, light milk-chocolate coat; his sister Freya has a deep brown upper half transitioning midway down her back into a creamy white with Beau’s same milk-chocolate brown spots. A real beauty if I do say so myself!  We pass by all the usual landmarks – the old dilapidated shed; what used to be an old tree house, now in shambles on the ground; the small crick where the broken rope swing hangs – and reach our familiar clearing at the edge of the woods, right where our property line ends and our neighbor’s farmland begins. Luckily, our neighbor is who I bought the pups off of, so he doesn't mind if either one wanders too far onto his property. If either one gets away, I know every rock, stick, and blade of grass in these woods – they can’t be hard to find.  This is where I let the kids off their leashes and throw their ball – or stick – for a while andjust . . . breathe. I love my space and my peace, and wouldn’t trade it for anything. It was difficult dealing with the loneliness, moving this far out in the boonies.  Until I got these two, that is.  And now, I couldn’t imagine life without them and our morning walks.  A calm, cool mist rolls in from the rising temperatures while silhouettes of floppy ears and wagging tails dance through the sun’s warm, yellow beams. It’s truly beautiful here. It’s hard to leave, but there’s work to be done, and luckily we can do it all again tomorrow.  With a quick whistle and a couple pats on my thigh, the two come bounding back, ready to head home.  As we near the end of the woods we come to a familiar tree – a tree which has always been there – standing in the last row, right where the woods end and my backyard begins. But, I notice something out of place – as if someone had carved a round spot into it while I was away. I scan the woods behind me, and check for any obvious signs of someone in my house. There doesn’t seem to be a soul around. The dogs don’t seem bothered by it. They’re tugging on their leashes knowing that we are so close to home, but I can’t fight this feeling that someone is out here in my woods. I walk up closer to the tree.  No trail or sign of anyone walking through - not a broken twig or bothered pile of leaves;  not even a single wood chip on the ground. But this isn’t possible.  About 6 feet up this tree, the bark was just…missing. A single word was deeply engraved, that  said…  HELLO.

The Souvenir Shop Owner “It’s a bittersweet sound, the last bell jingle of the night – my final customer leaving for the evening. I follow after them to the door and flip my sign to ‘Closed’, as I do every night; sweep the floors, count the register, and tidy up for tomorrow. “I always find myself lingering at the light switch, though. I like to always take one last long look at my little shop.   “If someone were to ask me what my job is, I would say I sell memories. I can not seem to phrase it in any other way. This town is a bit strange, as you might’ve already noticed, and I've been around for many years, and I'm sure you already noticed it's a bit strange around here. Odd occurrences happen here that most people turn a blind eye to, but sometimes – if you pay attention – you might discover something amazing!  “Now, like I said, as a seasoned veteran of The After Dark, I’ve sort of developed a knack for finding these amazing things and I sell them in my shop. It's like they . . . call to me. Sometimes even sing! But most of the time, if I am meant to find them, then I will. “And here they sit. On my shelves, amongst other knick-knacks and tchotchkes. They might not seem like much, but when you take one home and listen carefully to it, you might hear their songs. Then, and only then, you'll see just how amazing this place can be. “Welcome to The After Dark. It's about time you found yourself.”

There's a man walking up my street. Even with the hood of his light gray hoodie shrouding his identity, I can still see the terror on his face. He keeps looking back behind him, with a demeanor I can only describe as someone trying to swallow their fear.    I watch through my curtains, trying to see who must be following him.    A mugger? No, not in this town. Or, is he the mugger? A thief? Arsonist?   The man is getting closer and closer, yet he doesn't even look in my direction, distracted by whoever it is that's following him. He passes through the orange glow of the streetlight directly across the street from my house. I wait as he slowly fades out of sight into the darker end of the street. No one else comes after him. I wait half an hour hoping to see who it could've been – or what it could've been – but nothing ever comes.   Oddly enough, it happens again a week later. Same time, same scenario. The same man, walking as if something is following him. That same gray hoodie looks a bit more . . . tattered. But this time he looks even more scared.    I watch and wait again, yet no one ever comes.   Just when I thought things couldn't get more strange, the man shows up again, a week later on the same day, at the same time. His clothes seem to be even more ripped. He looks thinner and, somehow, even more afraid. He walks a little slower than before. Eventually, he fades into nothing, and not a soul is left in sight.   I’m not the type of person who follows the neighborhood drama, but I did check in with The Neighborhood Watch. They said they haven’t heard or seen anyone that fits that description, but they’ll keep an eye out.    It became a routine for me, watching this mysterious man every week. I asked people in town, but no one’s ever said they've seen him – my one and only neighbor has never seen him either. But every week I see him walking past, looking more and more torn up, more exhausted, and even more scared then the time before. One night, like always, I’m camping out by my window, and right on time he appears. This time he looks ragged – clothes ripped and shredded, revealing his chest and arms. A streak of blood runs down his forehead, the wound obscured by his hood. I trace the line of blood with my eyes as it travels down the right side of his face, over his eye, and onto the pavement.    He was sweaty, his skin dirty, and he walked slowly, shakily with a limp. This time, I can hear him huffing and puffing, mumbling and wheezing. The fear in his eyes is immensely and instantly palpable. I shoot over and throw open the door.   “Hey! Are you okay?"    The man keeps his eyes on the invisible force. He hobbles into the night. And nothing follows.  The next week I waited impatiently with 911 at the ready, but when the man's usual time rolled around, no one came. I sat in silence, afraid to even take a breath.    Suddenly, I saw movement. A large oval shadow moved along the sidewalk without anyone around to cast it, moving like a shark underwater. Wherever it went, the ground vibrated like a small earthquake. It came close to the pool of light cast from the streetlight above. The shadow morphed around the light and kept on going.

My vision is blurry and the air feels heavy in my lungs, like breathing in a thick mist. I wait for my vision to clear, and I see a ceiling fan above me, frozen in place. I feel around, sensing worn fabric, and notice my head is resting on a pillow.    I’m lying in a bed. Yes, a bed – a familiar bed.    I look down and see pale white feet – my feet – attached to long, skinny white legs – my legs.   I sit up, pulling my covers away, and realize I’m wearing a nightgown.     It looks just like the one I wore when I was a child.    I look around and see a child's bedroom, bespeckled with dolls and toys, collages of friends, and trinkets from middle school.  The walls have posters and picture frames of people's faces I know and bands that I long outgrew. There’s a heavy layer of dust on the night table next to me, extending to a small vanity next to the window. The vanity mirror is foggy, but in the reflection I still see . . . me. Or what I can make out as me – long dark hair and fair white skin.    My eyes travel along the vanity to the windowsill where two jars sit half-filled with leaves, grass, and twigs. Each has a strip of masking tape and, written in Sharpie marker, a name scrawled in familiar penmanship – my handwriting.  I know the names before my eyes trace the letters – mine on one, and my brother’s poorly scribbled on the other.  We used to compete to see who could catch the most fireflies in their jar before mom called us in to wash up for bed.   “But why am I here?” I whisper out loud as if someone can hear me, “I haven't been home in so many years.”   The walls have an odd deep, cool-bluish glow.  Eerie, yet oddly comforting.  I sit up and turn, putting my feet on the cold wooden floor.  I feel like I have sea legs, stumbling across the room to the door. I peer into the hallway.    The rest of the house is dark.  I quietly check the bedrooms.  No one home, but everything exactly the same as it was the day I left. David’s room with his dinosaurs and astronauts littering the walls and floor. My parents’ bedroom still has the smell of mom’s hand lotion.    “Everything is the same. But why am I here? And How?” I whisper again to myself, as I head down the stairs.  My muscle memory kicks in so I miss all the loud, creaky wooden steps – the way David and I used to sneak downstairs to rewatch cartoons after everyone went to bed.  I walk through the kitchen with the same bland, peeling wallpaper – and the oven clock still stuck at 3 am like it always was – and slide open the patio door into the backyard. The air feels lighter outside. The moon is full and the sky is full of stars. The colors of the sky and the world around me seem more saturated than usual, yet everything is accounted for – my dad’s old grill, the bucket full of yard toys, the old swing set standing by the fence.   I slowly walk out to the middle of the yard to the bald patch of grass where the home plate for kickball used to live. I scan the property, and remember the nights David and I used to camp out where the lawn met the trees; all those summer nights playing flashlight tag with Emily, Taylor, Mason, and Andrew. The memories overwhelm me as tears of joy well up in my eyes.  A childish gleam of excitement washes over me, and I run, jump, and twirl – dancing through the yard, I kick up sparkles of moonlight reflecting in fresh dew as wet grass clings to my bare feet.    With a sob of joy and a sniffle, “I’m home,” I say aloud to my imaginary backyard audience, “I have no idea how I made it back here, but if this means I get to live in these memories, I want to stay here forever. I’m never going to leave.”

I hurried out before my manager could guilt me into staying through another shift.  We had 3 call-offs, and after wearing the hats of cook, server, and dishwasher for 14 hours, I had to leave. This has been going on for weeks. I pay rent for an apartment that I never get to see, but tonight I need to go somewhere, get some fresh air. What's another hour away from home going to hurt? I set off into the night, with nothing but my sack of dirty work clothes, and my half-empty box of smokes.  I decide to go to my secret spot overlooking the town, about a half hour’s walk from work, where the street lights can’t reach me.  A  great place to see the stars.   In passing, I see the Souvenir Shop owner pulling in his folding sidewalk sign.  I can see the words “Two for One!” smeared in teal chalk.  It looks like he had a sale, but it didn’t go as planned.  He looks up at me as I walk past.  We share the same defeated looks on our faces and give a nod of mutual understanding saying, “Hello!” but also, “I feel your pain.”    "Misplaced and Overlooked"- 2021 Suburbia slowly fades away behind me as I reach Moonwake Avenue, winding up through the hills, above and away from where the streetlights reach.  I follow the path to a clearing with an old wooden picnic bench, weathered away by the elements.  I assume kids dragged it here from the local park nearby so they can make a ruckus and smoke out of sight.  I sit on the table and run my finger along the graffiti and names engraved in the wood.  They've almost worn away, telling me that no one’s been up here for a while. I always forget how beautiful it is up here. I can see everything, all the houses with their little lights, slowly being lulled to sleep as the people in them turn out the lights one by one.  I like to imagine that all my problems are down there, too, looking small and insignificant from up here.  Makes me feel a bit better, as I stand up and stretch my arms out. I take in a deep breath of spring’s cool wind with its undertones of warmth.  The smell of new life cleanses my whole body.   I love this town.  But if I have to spend another closing shift, I’m gonna lose it!    I shake a cigarette out of my pack and strike a match against the nearby trash can.  I recognize a symbol on a pamphlet sticking out through the garbage.  I read the slogan underneath.  It made me fidgety and ponder what life would be without the restaurant; it made me think about how important my time actually was to me.    Who would I be if I weren’t always so busy with my job?   I became lost in deep thinking, finding myself etching the logo into the bench with my box cutter from work, as if my body was answering the question for me.  That night I left empty handed –  my work clothes in the trash, a half-box of cigarettes and a matchbook on the picnic table bench next to the poorly carved symbol of After Dark University.  Maybe it IS about time I found myself . . .