Chase Shustack

drive back to my home was uneventful i laid in the back shivering and aching while my mother and father rambled in between quiet sobs up front their grown son confused and dazed while they tried to maintain some form of normalcy to bury all this unpleasantness behind them in the back seat i looked up seeing the sun crest over the rolling tree line like a great column of fire

catching the tips of the trees on fire and breaking apart the last remnants of the night, cleaving apart purple clouds with streaks of baby blue and crimson.

The silhouettes of birds glided on their bellies across the emerald green lush that spread for miles and miles like a well-trimmed lawn, with the air sweetly smelling of the last of the late blooming flowers and fresh dew that hung in the warm, gentle wind.

God, I thought to myself, what a beautiful sight.

If I could kill to keep this sight, I would too.

I stumbled out of the car up toward the door of my home.

My mother said something to me, or at least I believe she did.

I didn't hear what she said anyway.

I passed my car, parked just where I left it, and walked into my living room.

The Polaroids and the VHS tape were nowhere in sight.

Everything looked exactly as I had left it.

No signs that anyone had been in my house.

No signs it had been ransacked.

And nothing that would indicate anything unusual had ever been seen here.

But as my tired, aching body fell shaking and cold onto the couch, I noticed something sitting innocently on my coffee table.

A small sticky note, no bigger than the kind you'd wear on your shirt or jacket.

Every day is a gift, Alan.

America needs you.

Thanks for tuning in.

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