You Beat All I Ever Seen

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 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction 3

Sticky Fingers 9       

Women of the Windy Hill 18

Bluebirds and Gasoline 30

Book list 38

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 Introduction

Mark Twain's timeless advice to all writers is to “write what you know,” and while the

phrase is straightforward and seemingly easy to follow, I’ve struggled throughout my years in

college to identify what I know and how I should present it on the page. It wasn’t until I was

writing a story about the Cowpens National Battlefield for my Feature Writing course that I

noticed my niche for writing natural settings, especially those in the mountainous region of the

American Southeast. By incorporating aspects of my history degree—knowledge concerning

historical events, as well as social, political, and economic relations of various eras—I have

access to creating a credible and authentic fictional world surrounded by values traditionally held

in the Bible Belt. Much of my research done for my history degree has a firm center on the

manipulation and adoption of Christian beliefs in Europe and its ultimate effect on the

foundation of American society.

You Beat All I Ever Seen represents evolving morality and its varying manifestations in

southern female narratives. While Ophelia in “Women of the Windy Hill” leaves home in search

of something more, she’s forced to recognize her roots upon the death of her grandmother.

Miriam’s drug-induced heist through Walmart in “Sticky Fingers” and the heavy emotions in a

traditionally unexcepted relationship in “Bluebirds & Gasoline” represent a religious a frame that

is almost impossible to perfectly fit into, especially for women whose fate was already

determined when Eve bit the apple.

I began this project with a set idea that I thought had the potential to gracefully pan out. I

was very mistaken. I found myself trying to write new stories to fit into a set overall theme and

narrative, and I felt trapped and limited on how to approach it. So, with about a month left in the

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semester, I decided to just write what came into my gut, and let the words naturally flow.

Instead, I planned to discover the frame after writing, editing, and revising my stories.

Despite not sticking to my original idea of the Four Horsemen, I intend for my stories to

offer a more in-depth perspective of “the end of the world” at an individual level as my

protagonists break an established moral code that is imposed by the religiosity around them.

Edwidge Danticat’s “1939” puts this idea in the context of the Haitian Revolution and the

perception of a mother’s bravery in a situation that threatens the life of her child. The

protagonist’s mother is arrested on accusations of witchcraft, supposedly flying with wings of

fire through the bloody water of the Massacre River which stood as the border between the

Dominican Republic and Haiti. Danticat beautifully lays out the years after, detailing the

protagonist visiting her mother in prison and witnessing her gradual decay, holding onto the

Madonna doll that symbolized their connection to each other and their culture. In “Women of the

Windy Hill,” similar ideas are present through the relationship between the main character and

her mother, ultimately associating the feelings she has for her mother with what she feels for the

land. After returning to her childhood home after her grandmother’s death, she and her mother

were forced to face the memories they attempted to bury in the soil.

Ambrose Bierce took his own personal experiences and what he was exposed to in the

Civil War as inspiration for many of his stories. “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” gives an

insight into this era through fictional stories depicting individuals who may have lived at that

time. Bierce does this through evoking an eerie manipulation of time and perception. In “Sticky

Fingers,” I took advice from Bierce’s use of linear time at a slower pace by focusing on small

details of what the main character is exposed to. In a way, Bierce was one of the first authors to

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explore the idea of stream of consciousness, precisely giving his readers an insight into his

protagonist’s thought process.

Much like Bierce who can be defined as a southern writer, Flannery O’Connor’s short

stories give her readers an insight into the uniqueness of life in the American south, no matter the

era. O’Connor’s Irish-Catholic upbringing in a predominantly Protestant community in Georgia

greatly impacted the stories she wrote up to her premature death. Within her stories, she

comments on the hypocritical hierarchy present within society through evoking the sense of

grotesque. In her story “The Life You Save May Be Your Own,” O’Connor represents

stereotypical southern customs with creepy, yet accurate descriptions of characters and scenes

that starkly contrast these ideas. As she opens the story, she utilizes the idea of the grotesque

when she describes Mr. Shiftlet:

He had long black slick hair that hung flat from a part in the middle to beyond the tips of

his ears on either side. His face descended in forehead for more than half its length and

ended suddenly with his features just balanced over a jutting steel-trap jaw. He seemed to

be a young man he had to look of composed dissatisfaction as if he understood life

thoroughly. (O’Connor, 145-146)

He reaffirms this image by refusing to answer the old woman’s consistent questioning

concerning his place of origin. His arc ultimately ruins a woman, already deformed in society’s

eyes, after manipulating her with care and affection. O’Connor still offers him a chance of

redemption, yet he refuses to take it. The contrasting images O’Connor creates mirrors the

expansive spectrum of experiences that the south offered in the tumultuous time of the World

Wars and the Depression. O’Connor captures the essence of the south that I hope comes through

in a modern context in You Beat All I Ever Seen.

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 Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Sexy” is a part of her collection titled Interpreter of Maladies. This

story specifically impacted how I represent and depict emotions on paper. A lot is said in the

unsaid. Much like the Iceberg Principle, a writer can keep things to themselves and under the

surface, however, based on what the writer offers above the surface, the reader can infer what’s

underneath. I used this idea in my story “Bluebirds & Gasoline,” which depicts two lovers both

morally conflicted within themselves and with one another. This story allowed me to explore

what is being said besides the words on the page.

Something that I had to overcome this semester was thinking every word I type had to be

substantial on the first go—I believed an idea must be completely broken down into intricate and

artful sentences before it could simply be recorded. I slowly started to realize as I was revising,

moving around excerpts and refining scenes, that the sentences I thought were beautifully

arranged had been pulled apart and sewed together, completely different than the sentence the

Frankenstein counterpart replaced. There is power in the simplicity of allowing what’s being

created to be authentic. Robert Olmstead captures this idea in his craft book Elements of the

Writing Craft. He begins by introducing various ways of opening a story. Olmstead’s

conciseness and straight-to-the-point lessons aided in exploring all the possibilities of hooking

readers. One that caught my eye and seemed especially beneficial to telling one of my stories

was “Opening in Crisis”. The excerpt in the reading passage is from Mona Simpson’s Anywhere

But Here. The novel begins with a two-word sentence: “We fought.” These simple words give

the reader access to “what has been happening between the narrator and her mother from the

narrator’s point of view.” As a result, the two words define the conditions of the story, as well as

create a dynamic that is authentic yet easily digestible (Olmstead 7). This idea of representing

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intricate ideas in few words allows the reader to play an integral role in their own understanding

of what the writer is trying to convey.

Putting this collection together allowed me to explore myself and my own roots growing

up in a religious-based society that I’ve come to better understand through my education. While

the distinction of church and state is constitutional, the southern population’s personal beliefs

infiltrate social expectations and, ultimately, political and economic systems. You Beat All I Ever

Seen displays the interwoven connections between church doctrine and the socially accepted

female morality, as well as its influence on the innerworkings of society.

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 Works Cited

Bierce, Ambrose. “The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” The San Francisco Examiner, 1890.

Danticat, Edwidge. “1939,” Krik? Krak! Soho Press, 1995.

O’Connor, Flannery. “The Life You Save May Be Your Own,” The Complete Stories. Farrar,

Straus and Giroux, 1971, pp. 145-156.

Olmstead, Robert. Elements of the Writing Craft. Writer’s Digest Books, 2011. Lahiri, Jhumpa.

“Sexy,” Interpreter of Maladies. Houghton Mifflin, 1999.

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 Sticky Fingers

These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children.

Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when

you get up.

Deuteronomy 6:6-7

The pill is a pink and chalky tablet, small enough to pass as a decongestant or pain

reliever. On one side, a shallow butterfly-shape set it apart from the other pills surrounding it. I

kept it face-down in my palm hidden by the two ibuprofen pills and a small white Zyrtec pill. I

threw the pills back and took a few gulps of the blue Powerade that had been in the mesh side

pocket of my backpack for days.

“You a druggie, or somethin’?” The girl in the seat behind me asked.

I turned to see a nosey freshman antagonizing me over the brown leather of my backrest,

“Mind your business, cause maybe I’m sick with something contagious,” I said, starting to cough

with increasing harshness until it was impossible to cover with my elbow or hand. I fell into the

backrest as if taken out by the ferocity of my coughs, launching droplets of my cooties toward

her.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting,” she yelled, waiting on the people around her to rally in her

defense. But, as per usual, each kid’s ears were plugged and drowning out the world around

them. Not long after she cowered back into her seat, the bus pulled into the loop of the high

school. I stepped out onto the concrete sidewalk just to the side of the various glass double doors

after almost everyone darted for vacant homeroom classrooms, or a reunion with their friends in

the cafeteria or hallways. Of course, excluding Marcy, who ran for the bathroom to wash her

face and hands of my contaminated germs.

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 I barely could get my footing before I felt the wind whip off the departing bus as it raced

to drop the middle schoolers off before their first bell rang. I had no intention to make it to

homeroom or see my non-existent friends huddled in groups blocking the hallways. I usually sat

just inside the doors, peering at the white oaks across from the bus loop. There were only a few,

but the wide, thick expanse of their branches created a canopy of shade. Just through the tunnel

created by the branches was the Home and Pharmacy entrance at the Eastpoint Walmart, marked

off by the raised cement borders of its vast parking lot. There was a Wendy’s and a Captain D’s

at the other end of the parking lot, and I could see the headlights of cars starting to fill their

drive-thrus. The sour twang of a strawberry lemonade from Wendy’s made me pucker my lips,

and the thought of the pink liquid washing over my thirsty taste buds encouraged my feet toward

the tunnel. The light poles stationed throughout the Walmart parking lot still illuminated the

almost vacant asphalt, with only two cars parked at the end of the first row closest to the Grocery

entrance.

I walked to one of the three gray wire benches that lined the store in-between its

entrances. I sat there long enough for the sun to finally come over the horizon, and the bugs that

appear like sprites begin to dance around the light poles. The light seeped through the branches

of the large oak trees that lined the perimeter of the parking lot, and the bugs started to wriggle

through the spaces created by the shaggy Spanish moss. Just as the light sparked, the arteries of

the sky appear through the branches. The illumination found its way into my veins, spreading

from the crown of my head to the tips of my chewed-down fingernails and toes. But the MDMA

distracted me from my insecurities and the prospect of a crisp lemonade. Droplets of

perspiration descended the curvature of my spine, and I pulled the cotton of my t-shirt taut

against my back to catch them, not worried about the giant wet spot they’d create. I suddenly

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felt light floating through the automatic doors, escaping the growing humidity that came with the

sun’s ascension.

The sun’s light is amplified by the glass of the bright breezeway, the highlighter yellow

of a manager’s vest stings as it pierces my growing pupils. While his towering body remained

glued to his position, his eyes followed me from one edge of his black-rimmed spectacles to the

other. I could feel his eyes on the cold splotch on the small of my back as I did my best to keep

my pace.

Attempting to get used to the lights and calm the growing anxiety bubbling in the acid

of my stomach, I meander to the candles and wax melts hoping to smell the calming scent of

lavender oil. But out of the corner of my eye, the fishing rods in the hunting section stood erect,

and I blamed the sudden seeping smell of urine on them. I’m taken aback when I feel the

warmth pooling at my feet, and I snap my eyes to the seemingly light dry denim of my pants.

I swear I pissed myself.

I jerk my head up sending my headphones down my back. Their fate was guaranteed if it

weren’t for the chord tethering them to the Mp3 tucked securely in my back jean pocket. I

gather myself as gracefully as possible, backing into the hundreds of variously scented wax melts

that looked like candy bars. A package of six blocks of red velvet cupcake cracked itself open

on impact on the freshly waxed tile, yet it was still completely intact, giving a slight sense of

relief imagining the potential fate of my beloved headphones. I knelt down to retrieve it,

catching a whiff that transported me to the daycare Mom sent me to as a kid. No red velvet

cupcake that I’d ever eaten smelled like Playdoh, yet I couldn’t help but always find it

appetizing. For weeks, I came home with a yellow jar every day and only raised suspicion when

the other kids noticed the remaining three yellow jars of white dough. One phone call to my

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mom resulted in the discovery of the stash of yellow jars and multi-colored lids. Most of them

were still full of the delectable dough because I quickly learned of its inedibility one night as I

stood over the toilet for hours alone, sobbing and longing for the caring hand of my mother. My

grandmother was tasked to stay with me while my mother worked the night shift at the hospital,

yet she stayed passed out on the couch in the living room, oblivious to the sounds coming from

the bathroom at the end of the hall. The painful jolt deep in my stomach signaled the oncoming

queasiness only associated with consuming something toxic.

I jerked the package of wax far from my nose and slapped the lid shut with enough force

to send it back to the vinyl tile. I didn’t bother to pick it up. Bending over would no doubt result

in hurling, so I booked it in the opposite direction hoping to rid myself of the smell. The

increasing nausea wasn’t helped by the hot smell of rubber from the auto shop lingering in the

home section. There was a woman browsing the throw pillows, and I could feel her eyes on me

every time I’d turn my back on her. She was watching me; her cool gaze froze the sweat

continuing to soak my t-shirt.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” I immediately snapped my head up to see the felt woman

interrogating me.

Do I look like a ma’am?

“Um, yeah, oh yes ma’am, I am alright.” Her eyebrows were furrowed in concern, or

possibly more out of intrigue or confusion. I already convinced myself it was out of suspicion.

“Okay, just making sure,” she chuckled, the look of concern still present on her face.

“Oh, um, thank you. I’m good, stellar,” I said as I backed away from her throwing up

both thumbs in assurance. I wonder if she could see the salty droplets forming on my forehead,

but her eyes were already back to the various pillows when I saw the Hot Wheels display that

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capped the second aisle of the toy section. The faint smell of rubber was still present in the

atmosphere, and I took a blaring lime green Corvette from its place on the shelf adorned with

cardboard flames. There wasn’t another hanging behind it, just the single blue package that

followed the curvatures of the sleek car--the only one. I looked back over to the home section,

and the lady was no longer perusing the pillow aisle, so I held onto the Corvette. It slipped into

my jeans, and they still felt soiled.

I didn’t want to bring attention to my pissed soaked pants or the Corvette I had slipped

into my waistband. I didn’t look down at the warm wetness soaking my inner-thighs as I bee-

lined for the bathroom at the back of the electronics section.

My attention was quickly pulled to a little boy by the shelves of Playstation games,

“Daddy, can I get this,” he asked, forcing a Call of Duty: Black Ops disk case in front of his

father’s face.

“No, son. Not today.” His father said as his stoic expression refused to change. He’s not

paying his child any attention, his nose was buried in his phone. He’d look up periodically to

check the aisle number of those around them.

“Come on, please, please, please, please!” Brenden pleaded.

“I said no, Brenden.”

“Why not,” he asked, his sobs already trying to escape through his shaking words.

“Because I said no,” is the go-to excuse. I wanted my own Playdoh, and my mother

always told me no. So, I took matters into my own grubby and sticky hands. My pockets were

bulging at the seams, and the daycare told her not to bring me back.

“You’d steal my egg money and the flowers off your grandma’s grave, wouldn’t ya,” she

said but didn’t expect an answer—she already knew it. When I was young, the only thing I

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could do was look at her, my words would come out mumbled and strung together haphazardly.

And Mom would get mad if she could hear the tears.

When I was his age, I knew better than to speak. But of course, the little boy started to

cry, “But why?” Brenden continued.

“Brenden, I will take you out of this store right now,” his dad began to raise his voice, “I

said no!”

He grabbed Brenden's arm as he started to sob, thrashing to release himself from the

tightening grip of his agitated father. All eyes went to them as his father practically drug him to

the men’s bathroom just off the wall of TVs. I was mesmerized by the pattern of the slightly

delayed screens of the same commercial—it reminded me of sliding my hands down the length

of a piano. But not even a minute later, they both walked out. Brenden’s face was red and dry as

he followed a few paces behind his father, rubbing his backside to relieve the pain from the

whopping that took place in the handicap stall.

I watched them walk down the same aisle they were on mere minutes before, and the boy

acted indifferent to his previously interesting surroundings. The video game was still perched

behind the locked glass doors waiting for someone to ask the employee to open the glass case. It

longed to be inserted into a console and for each storyline to play out on the controller held by an

eager kid.

And I got hot with rage and kicked my heel into the glass, the built-up temper cracking

like veins spreading from the point of impact. I had the game firm in my grasp when I started

sprinting. I was running so fast, and the wind was gliding over my face like it would at the

beach--cool, sticky, and full of possibilities.

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 My mind couldn’t keep up with my feet, running through the toys and the home section

toward the candles and wax melts, failing to distract myself from all the distractions. An

employee in a blue vest was on my heels as the hot smell of rubber singed my nose hairs. I was

turning the corner to the refuge of lavender oil when I heard faint words muffled by my stomping

sneakers.

“I like the way this one smells Da--” Brenden started to say, interrupted by my body

slamming into his. As I frantically gathered my senses, I noticed I was on the same aisle I fell in

earlier, another wax melt package thrown halfway down the aisle after being launched from

Brenden’s hands. The rest of his sentence was replaced with more sobs as he cradled his left arm

with his right.

Brenden’s dad was already crouched by his side, examining his arm with caution to not

cause him any more pain. He seemed like he was dying, thrashing around, and refusing to be

consoled by his dad.

I struggled to convince myself he was going to be fine. His piercing shrieks cut through

my eardrums like knives. His father’s attempt at comforting words explained the worst it could

possibly be is a sprain. But from my vantage point at the opposite end of the aisle by the

incense, I convinced myself his forearm was already swelling and developing a rich plum hue

under his skin.

The shock of harming a child spread through my tendons while hearing Brenden’s

wracking breaths. Uncertainty was the only thought flowing through my mind as I speculated on

Brenden’s fate. And I convinced myself that I was to blame for his inevitable death in the

pediatric ICU, his father gripping onto his little boy’s hand while the hundreds of medical bills

sit on the dining table. And he’d hate himself for thinking about how much it costs for his young

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son to die. Each emotional facet of anger, disappointment, grief boiled down to guilt. Brenden

would pass on his sobs to his father, loosening the grip he had on his father’s calloused fingers as

he surrendered to the peace that the steady flatline offered.

For a moment, I felt envious--I spent many arduous years longing for that peace created

as the flatline dissipates into silence. But I was brought back to the cramped aisle of artificial

scents and fragrances by a sudden and labored gasp that escaped Brenden’s mouth as he

attempted to catch his breath after a particularly debilitating sob. I was shocked by the sudden

clarity. It wasn’t clear, but the mental murk was slightly less blurry.

“You’re alright, Brenden. Calm down, son, shhhh,” his father encouraged, still knelt by

his son no longer examining his wounds.

“Daddy, my arm’s broke,” Brenden yelled, eyes glossed over by the increasing pool of

tears.

“You’re fine, it’s just a scratch,” he stood from his crouched position, grabbing onto the

top of Brenden’s upper arm before standing straight up, “C’mon now, let’s go.”

Before they reached me, I pulled the Corvette from my seemingly dry pants. Brenden

was, once again, a helpless weight dragging along the smooth floor. The only attempt at

gathering myself was reaching around to make sure my mP3 survived the fall, feeling the wire of

my headphones still securely inserted in the jack. As Brenden and his dad walked by me, their

eyes didn’t turn in my direction. The blue-vested employee heaved around the corner I came a

few seconds before, struggling to make out words and catch their breath as their eyes fell on me.

The euphoria of the ecstasy faded as my carelessness caught up to me. As my brain

worked to find its equilibrium, I was thinking more rationally. Brenden and his father wouldn’t

remember this, they wouldn’t remember me. Neither would the woman looking at the

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overpriced throw pillows. But this employee would scan and memorize by face and file it with

thieves, so I was already off the aisle before they croaked, “Stop,” halfway to the humid heat still

settling outside.

❀❀❀

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 Women of the Windy Hill

Whoever brings ruin on their family will inherit only wind, and the fool will be servant to the wise.

Proverbs 11:29

She anticipated when the leaves grow back on the trees, and when they fill the spaces

where the frigid winter light shines through, building a thick foliage wall between the windy hill

and the graying asphalt road on the other side. After spring builds the wall, summer guards it,

much like the thick green border itself protects the hill from the heat radiating off the road,

scorching enough to fry an egg. On the other side, the shoulder dipped slightly before it shot up

in angle, creating a steep ridge blanketed in kudzu. Because of the perilous pavement, the hill

that led up to her white farmhouse was safe from its infiltration.

The hill itself was pasture for horses and small breeds of cattle. The twenty-five acres

Ruth managed with her mother Naomi were nowhere near big enough to house the various herds

of cattle Ruth dreamt of as a child. While her reality was much less than her ideal, she was

content with the temperate climate and fertile soil of the southeast.

Naomi stayed tucked away in her garden while Ruth dug the post holes that guided her

hog wire thread through her embroidered pastures. The smooth outside of her leather gloves

protected the skin on her hands from the splinters already erect on the worn surfaces of the

auger’s hickory handles. Her father was the reason the auger was so frequently used as he was

“a cowboy” himself, as Naomi called him.

With as many prospecting stomps as she took putting up posts, all while mixing just

enough cement to anchor the few posts she could arrange before it started to set, she forcefully

pushed the wheelbarrow from post hole to post hole, the auger tucked firmly under her left arm,

her pliers and bag of U nails tucked under the other. Her shovel stayed weighed down by the

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freshly mixed wet cement in the wheelbarrow’s bucket, destined to help secure the solid tube of

pine in its own predestined location.

The head of her shovel was a rusted metal, attached to a worn wooden rod that fit snug in

her gloved hand, the surplus fabric of the tip of her index finger sloppily kissed the tip of her

thumb. She rotated the rod using her right hand stationed at the rear as a maneuvering lever to

fold the elements together. Her mother would have been content using the small spade for what

it’s meant for--gardening. But Ruth was determined to use the land to raise animals, just as her

mother was determined to raise her greens and multi-colored blooms.

The women of the windy hill are nurturers. It became a hill of not just crops and

greenery, but to the animals of Ruth that so graciously provided in return for her commitment to

assuring their contentment. Their thumbs shone a vivid and dense green and their hearts

emanated warmth and compassion for any living thing, including the curious fat carpenter bees

that every man who somehow managed to visit the hill took a badminton racket to. She never

understood why they swung that racket around, but the bulldogs always waited patiently to feast

on the bees’ plump corpses.

Ophelia, Ruth’s daughter, pulled her harshly faded truck, worn almost white in some

areas, to the top the hill only a short distance from the face of her granny’s farmhouse. The truck

creaked into park, the driver-side door already ajar before the truck settled back on its brakes,

chorused by a final high pitch screech. Her sneakered foot came flush with the dusty earth,

sprinkling the soles of her sneakers with a thin layer of orange powder. She wasn’t fazed by the

dirt, and she even admitted to herself that the orange complemented her green Chuck Taylor All-

Stars quite well.

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 “Did you wanna stay in the house or the trailer,” Ruth asked her daughter as she heaved

one of Ophelia’s duffle bags out of the truck bed. She frantically tried to brush off the wood

shavings that stuck to its fabric left from yesterday’s haul to the stables.

“I don’t guess it matters,” Ophelia muttered, watching Ruth sling the bag over her

shoulder, knocking off the shavings that couldn’t hold on anymore, “probably the trailer, I feel

like it, uh, probably feels weird in there right now.” Ophelia gestured to the yellowing white

farmhouse eroding away from its time spent stationary. Its station was in a slight dip at the top

of one of the many rolling hills of the Piedmont, exposing the structure to sporadic wind gusts at

all hours of the day. Ophelia was surprised it was still standing without Naomi to weigh it down

and support its aching beams.

“I haven’t changed anything in your room. I reckon it’ll be nice to sleep in your own bed

for a change,” Ruth remarked. Ophelia passingly agreed and softly smiled at her mother,

feigning the desire for the restless sleep caused by the feeble springs of her aging twin mattress.

She couldn’t care less about the bumpy mattress. What she longed for were the glow-in-the-dark

stars stuck to the ceiling above her childhood bed. They were a gift from her grandma and

installed by her mom, both of whom insisted, “Ain’t nothing better than sleepin’ under the night

sky.”

She knew she wasn’t meant for this life. She was born into dog slobber and horse

manure. Her mother was very straightforward with her intention to stay on the hill, yet Ophelia,

while treating her home with admiration and respect, she always longed for more.

Ruth encouraged Ophelia to try, that she’d get the hang of things over time as long as she

did them with intent. At the ripe age of 10, Ophelia hesitantly stepped up to the left side of one

of her mother's Tennessee Walkers, bouncing side-to-side on the balls of her sneakered feet. She

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opened her mouth to speak, and nothing came out, so she cleared her throat and nervously asked,

“What’d you say his name was, again, Momma?”

“Major,” Ruth said, her eyes like a laser on any fragile points of an old, yet reliable,

saddle, “you ain’t scared, now are ya, girl?”

Ruth stood on the other side of the horse, tall enough to see clearly over the dip in

Major’s saddled back. Ophelia claimed the tip-top of the crown of her cap lined up perfectly

with the same dip, but her mother nudged the step stool closer to her daughter’s ankles, “Eh, not

quite there, yet honey,” she laughed, “And your shoes add some height, too, don’t forget that.”

“I’ve grown like three inches in the past year, Momma. Look at the wall when we go

back in. That’s a whole two inches you’re just choppin’ off!” Ophelia replied.

She was comforted by her mother’s shaded blue eyes beneath the bill of her cap, the

fabric wearing off and fringing at the edges. Her comfort was reinforced with her mother’s soft

and reassuring words, “Major’s a gentle giant. Besides, I’m gonna lead him and there’s nowhere

for him to go if he were to take off with you.”

The orange steel fence enclosed them in a small round pen, one she’d known since the

first time she rode. She’d lead her daughter around its circumference to ensure her comfort in

the saddle.

Her right hand came up to firmly grip the saddle’s horn, and her left quickly followed to

grasp the cantle at the back of the seat. She firmly shook the saddle a few times back and forth,

then reached her right index and middle fingers to check the tightness of the girth wrapped

underneath Major’s belly.

“Don’t want you riding upside down, now do we,” Ruth’s squinted blue eyes came up to

meet the younger version of her own--gray-blue like the sky before a snowstorm.

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 She got her foot in the stirrup and began to hoist herself up and over Major’s back--with

the help of the stool, of course. Her youthful and adventurous strength was apparent in the white

knuckles gripping the saddle’s horn. She struggled to find the stirrup for her right foot, fishing

for it with the toe of her dirty white Sketchers.

She had no time to get settled before Naomi swung open the storm door on the porch of

the white farmhouse. “Well, I s’wanee,” she said in a projected whisper, “what’re you doing

with that child, Ruth? She’s gone get hurt up there if you ain’t careful,” she exclaimed, sitting

on the porch steps to slip on her boots.

“What’re you talking about, Momma? She’s the one who wanted to try, I didn’t push

her,” she spewed, snapping her head up and around to look at her daughter perched on Major’s

back, an anxious, yet proud smile immediately made up the blue in her eyes.

“I’m alright, Granny,” Ophelia said, wriggling around failing to find a comfortable seat.

“You don’t have to stay up there, Ophelia,” she declared, sending a darting look to Ruth

as she rose off the steps, pushing down on her knees to aid in her ascension. She chuckled as she

slowly walked down the rest of the steps and began her trek to the shed stationed behind the

round pen.

“I think I do wanna get down, Momma,” Ophelia admitted, hoping to preserve her

mother’s feelings.

“Okay, honey. Are you sure? We haven’t even went a lap,” Ruth said.

“Yeah, I’m really uncomfy. I’m up so high,” Ophelia said, her throat starting to catch

with oncoming tears.

“Well alright, come on, down the same side you went up.”

22
 When her right foot made contact with the dusty earth, she whispered, “I’m sorry,

Momma.”

“It’s okay, maybe you’ll try another day, yeah,” Ruth asked, the light reappearing in her

eyes at the thought of a successful second attempt. Ophelia responded with no words, simply a

smile. She refused to lie to her mother, so she turned on her heels and ran to catch up with her

grandmother who was already halfway to her expansive garden.

Naomi passed down the generational middle name--Marie--to her own daughter, and

Ruth did the same. But of course, Ophelia Marie took the surname of her father even though her

conception took place two months before her father finally went to Zales. Her parents had only

been together for half a year, yet the impending arrival of a child and the debilitating pressure of

marrying with a baby on the way pushed them to elope. Depending on the subjective definition

of trying, one could say they gave it their all. The couple attempted to settle, and Ruth indeed

tried her best to nest within the months leading up to their daughter’s birth. But Ophelia’s

parents gifted her their divorce on her second birthday.

Within the first two years, the rings stayed on both of their fingers, and a double-wide

mobile home crawled behind the white farmhouse. The trailer wasn’t the most luxurious. It sat

slightly unbalanced due to the incline behind the farmhouse that tilted the trailer as if it were

dipping its toes in the pool, and the only way Ophelia could tell was when something round

started to roll starboard down the hallway that ran almost the trailer’s full length.

Their four-person, round wooden dining table sat practically in front of the long

hallway’s entrance, Ophelia’s chair consistently protruded into its threshold. She never pushed

her chair in. She was always in too much of a hurry--a habit she couldn’t shake until

reprimanded in a college art studio. Only a few things could pull her eyes away from the table’s

23
cluttered surface. Her thumbprint shimmered with graphite from rubbing at the worn-out

Strathmore sketchbook sprawled out on the table when she heard her mother hollering from the

small screened-in porch attached to the back of the farmhouse, “Ophelia!”

Even after being away from her roots for a few years, her grandmother’s death brought

Ophelia back to the dining table that she stayed glued to as a kid. Per the pattern, Ruth knew a

single iteration wouldn’t suffice in grabbing her daughter’s attention, even now. She’d always

thought time and time again that she should’ve just named her Ophelia Ophelia, then maybe she

would actually pay attention when called. But Ophelia was focused on finding the softest

graphite pencil, and she was startled when the double-wide screen door flew open, “Ophelia!”

She jolted in response, and her knee kicked the underside of the table, her hands flying up

and her pencil bag crashing to the ground. All of the chromatic green pencils spilled toward the

other end of the house, some sharpened, some dull, and some still yet to be shaved into a point.

Before the pencils pooled at the linen closet door at the bottom of the hallway, Ophelia

was up and hastily shuffling toward her mother at the door, “I’m sorry, Momma. I was, like, in a

trance or something.”

Ruth’s gaze was hard, and her voice sharp and pointed as if it was sourced from her gut

yet restricted to release through the tiny opening between her vocal cords, “I need your help,

honey. I started going through some things.”

“Oh okay, Momma.” Ophelia slipped out the storm door, holding it ajar for her mom to

exit behind its inevitable slam. She picked at each fingertip on her left hand, pulling the dirty

canvas cloth-like sheaths off her fingers. She did the same to her right hand before removing the

gloves in their entirety and revealing the years of dirt already caked under her fingernails. She

24
slipped them into the back pocket of her jeans as she followed behind Ophelia, chorused by the

slapping of her flip flops that she kept on Naomi’s back porch.

Ophelia walked through the patchy grass, knocking dust up from the dry patches of

peach-colored ground. She acknowledged how generous the weather had been in preserving her

pearlescent sneakers as she flew through the bug screen door, mocking the flies huddled around

the garden spicket waiting for the inconsistent drops to splash on the dry clay beneath it. Every

once in a while, there’d be a brave fly or two that attempt to slip in when the screen door swung

open, feeling the cool breeze seeping through the cracks of the back door of the farmhouse.

Most of the time, they were unsuccessful in keeping up with Ophelia’s pace. She had to let the

storm door slam before her mom made it to the porch to prevent the entrance of those buzzy

intruders.

She turned the knob on the second door, feeling it give away to her motion as she

slammed into its stained-glass window frame. The hues of each pane were diluted and slightly

milky, and she noticed the fog thickening with age.

Ruth stepped onto the porch, following behind Ophelia and pulling a key out of the right

pocket of her jeans. A ribbon attached to the key was vaguely identical to the pattern of colors

along the border of the window. Both were a faded rainbow square pattern, the values slightly

altered due to exposure to the elements. Ruth slipped off her flip flops, her socks indented

between her big and second toe. They entered in the kitchen. The cabinets were painted a sickly

yellow that fooled the aging Naomi with its name—bright sun—making her rush the paint mixer

at Lowes, arguing that she didn’t need to see a swatch of something she’d seen practically every

day. When they made it back to the farmhouse that day, she started to paint.

25
 One cabinet in, she described it, rather, as the color of jaundice, admitting she wanted a

color more like the legal pad she started a grocery list on. The three items—buns, Diet Cokes,

shredded cheese—were the only words written.

Straight across the kitchen is the entrance to the main hallway that stretches the house’s

entirety, finishing in an open living area and connected parlor. The walls were reels of Ruth and

Ophelia with thresholds to holiday memories and the visits Ophelia made more frequently in her

childhood. All of them were sealed, and seeing as the backdoor was bolted, Ophelia assumed

her mother locked these doors, too.

Ruth’s shuffle was slow but fixed. Ophelia was reserved and peering at her feet against

the forest green runner that highlighted their path over the original wood flooring. She noticed

the iridescence of her sneakers blatantly contrasting the rug’s faded hue in an attempt to avoid

the crash that still came from realizing she’d never see her grandmother again.

When they made it to the front door, Ophelia quickened to step in front of Ruth, pushing

out the storm door and making sure to hold it open for her mother to pass through. “Where we

going, Mom,” Ophelia asked her mother who was moving intently toward the farmhouse porch

steps to put her boots back on.

“The flower beds,” she said, sitting on the top step, forced to use the railing to assist in

her descent, “I thought we could start with the shed that’s out there, avoid the house for now.”

“Okay, yeah,” Ophelia said, crossing her arms across her chest, hugging herself as she

waited on Ruth to lace up her worn-out, “no longer steel-toed” boots. But Ruth peered puzzled

at them while pulling the fabric out from between her toes.

“I ‘bout can’t tie my own damn shoes anymore,” she said, evident that her age was

creeping first into her boney and calloused hands.

26
 “Here, Mom, I got it for you,” Ophelia started toward the steps, leaving her hands tucked

into their opposing armpits.

“No, no, no, no,” Ruth blurted in brisk succession, “I’ll just throw your Granny’s on, I

don’t think she’d mind, do you?”

Ophelia was hesitant to answer, assuming the truth meant the erasure of Naomi’s

footprint as the boot soles adapt to a different foot. She relished in the comfort of tense silence

before inevitably telling her mother, “Of course, she wouldn’t, Mom. She’d be glad they’re

getting off the porch.” She grabbed her grandmother’s dark leather boots from their place beside

the front door.

“I reckon you’re right. Thank you,” Ruth said, taking the boots from her daughter’s

offering hand, “she wouldn’t want us to hang up these boots just yet.”

The flower bed was only a short trek from the right side of the farmhouse. Propped

against the rusted wheelbarrow, a yellow potting soil bag was a beacon to their destination. The

wheelbarrow’s contents consisted of horse manure and pesky wood shavings from Ruth’s

attempt at harvesting the fertilizer from the horse stables earlier that week.

Ophelia stayed just behind Ruth as they ascended the small hill to Naomi’s raised flower

beds. The beds were made of wood slabs from old palettes that were once used to carry the

square bales of hay Ruth got to feed her horses. Naomi figured they shouldn’t go to waste, so

she turned them into something useful and built them in a semi-circle formation around a small

wooden shed, just big enough to house her few gardening tools. She’d painted each bed a

different color--the first one in view was the pink bed a few feet off the left front corner of the

shed, housing yellow and red zinnias, all growing to different heights, a few even just cresting

over the top level of soil. Looking over the bed of flowers, Ophelia thought it would overflow

27
with their big and bulbous buds, all standing slightly hunchback at waist height, their stems

struggling to support each full-grown bloom. The green bed grew herbs and purple petunias just

off the shabby shed’s plywood door. The blue wooden slabs were the perimeter of orange and

white zinnias, frequently visited by Painted Ladies and Monarchs situated just off the right side

of the shed, ensuring a steady stream of sunlight most hours of the day.

“She must’ve been out here on her last day,” Ophelia said, cradling one of the few dead

zinnias and its sullen head.

“Out here most hours of the day, every day right before,” Ruth grunted, tugging the

shed’s door up and out from where it always caught in an eroded valley created by years of

rushing rainwaters.

The acoustic creak of the door opening pulled Ophelia away from the flowers. A yellow

page ripped from the legal pad was taped to the shallow back wall, close enough to read without

touching it. Short and sweet, written in unusually large print, it read:

My girls. My loves. Promise to remember your roots and embrace the strength of your

stems.

Granny

Beneath the note on the only shelf inside the shed lay a dried magenta petunia and a red

zinnia, along with a plump, red apple, and two fat carrots--the produce set off by the corner of

the same yellow page ripped and pasted beside them that read, “for the mares.” An even smaller

piece of paper was weighed down by the apple, and she wrote Major’s name clearly and in all

capital letters. Ophelia looked to Ruth as tears pooled above her lower lashes. Ophelia couldn’t

help but see Naomi in her mother’s snowstorm eyes.

28
 Hanging from a rusted hook on the left wall was a key dangling from a vibrant rainbow

ribbon. “We talked a couple of weeks ago,” Ruth said as she reached for the key, “Me and your

granny, about what we are gonna do with this place.” Ophelia anticipated this conversation, and

despite all of the times she thought about what she would say, she couldn’t speak.

But when Ruth held the key out to Ophelia, she took it without a second thought.

❀❀❀

29
 Bluebirds & Gasoline

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor

others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

1 Corinthians 13:4-5

The sex was just physical. Nothing more. A way to fulfill an instinctual urge, not a

conduit for their souls to mingle. Zeke just wanted to get inside of her, to feel a worldly pleasure

that he knew he could find somewhere else, Jude just so easily came to him, her heart so

glaringly open. He knew he’d fall in if he wasn’t cautious. He hugged the edge of the cliffs and

tried to remain steady on his feet. There were many ineluctable slips, and as they continued to

see each other, it became increasingly harder to gain his balance. She still so graciously gave

him all of her, but the cliffs of her heart were crumbling under his feet.

And he warned, over and over, I have nothing left to give you, yet she didn’t listen. Even

if he was capable of desire, it could never be sustained—he told her he’s broken, and she glued

her ears shut.

The first night, he was already half a bottle in and watching porn when he told her to

come. She didn’t hide it from him—her chastity. He didn’t believe her at first. Twenty and

beautiful. How has no other man known her this way?

The jarring cold of winter was starting to settle when they met, and the night could barely

hold onto the sun’s heat from the day. Jude pulled onto the concrete pad outside of Zeke’s

garage. It was pulled to the left of the pad, leaving the gaping space for Zeke’s mother’s red

sedan that Jude would come to park behind during later visits. And rather than taking the spot,

Jude left the space, feeling comfortable with her back wheels flirting with the border between the

pad and the asphalt road of the cul-de-sac.

30
 “It just hasn’t happened,” she told him. But she wasn’t hesitant, just wary. She felt that

she’d fallen behind at the start, destined to be repulsive and abhorrent, cursed with too much love

to give. And it’s unfair—him receiving the love he doesn’t deserve, and she gets nothing in

return. Now she's empty. Her gaslight turned on a long time ago, but she still runs on fumes.

When she told him that she needed to get gas on the way home, it made him want her to

stay. And she hated to admit that she hoped he would ask her to. She explained how scared she

was of the hazy lighting at the corner store. A few streetlights mix with the oncoming morning

fog, offering no security as she pumps gas alone. Within the same range of predictability, some

creep hugs the side of the building just as the only other car in the parking lot shifts into reverse.

No witnesses. She’s gone, and he has no idea what happened. Just silence.

He encouraged her to stop and get gas beforehand, and she almost made it to the pump,

flipping on her turn signal and taking her foot off the accelerator, ready now, it seemed, to at

least pull into QuikTrip. But she just kept driving straight. He warned her of the impending

sputtering accompanied by her gasps for the last drop of fuel as she tried to make it to the

interstate.

But he still never asked her to stay. She’s a stubborn sleeper, often pulling all-nighters to

finish schoolwork or long for his skin against hers. If his parents saw her car in the driveway

pulled in behind the red sedan his mom drives to work, his mom, inconvenienced and agitated,

would sit at the island in the kitchen with her coffee and brew, just like the fresh pot of French

roast she put on earlier, as she waited for his bedroom door to open.

But he didn’t open the door. When he did much earlier that morning, the sun had yet to

flirt with the horizon, and his mom wasn’t at the island preparing to degrade and humiliate him,

and in turn, do the same to her. Jude could hear his mom call her a slut, that she was the fifth

31
one this week. Her failure of a son--notorious for pumping and dumping. But Jude was in her

car, waiting on Zeke to open the garage door a little, just enough for him to slip underneath and

join her in the backseat.

His mother’s reaction to their discovery would be, at least in Zeke’s mind, disastrous, no

matter the location. During one of their first visits, still awkward, but passionate and intent,

she’d asked him why he didn’t take her in. Less risky, he’d say. And so she went with it, even

after all of the times she was blinded by her tears on the interstate. It's a thought always on her

mind—the uncertainty of Zeke’s impending silence. And upon a confrontation with Zeke’s

mom, the notion would be confirmed for Jude, and all the loose pieces would finally come

together. The tears welled up and dared to crest over her lower lashes to flood down her cheeks.

But she couldn’t meet his eyes, hoping to avoid his gaze of indifference. And she’d leave before

he could slam the car door behind him.

At least his mom would make it to work on time.

She wouldn’t text him when she got home. She wouldn’t hear from him in the morning.

If he wanted to, he would. As she continued to spiral into isolated speculation, she noticed her

eyelids getting heavy. They finished earlier, grasping onto each other for as long as they could.

She wanted to stay that way forever.

Her windows weren’t tinted, something she felt needed to be done for a variety of

reasons. But while she saved the money, she much rather preferred to enter the sight of someone

driving by rather than Zeke’s parents. During the months of their meetings, she never admitted

to him, but she agreed with his sentiment of the potential spectators’ shameful enjoyment of

32
seeing them in the backseat. But the thought of his parents discovering them kept their meetings

there exclusively, even during the most frigid nights of winter.

The first droplets of thawing ice were starting to condense in the sky when he almost took

her in, the buds on the trees still sealed to protect themselves from the frost. He promised to

keep her warm and defrost her body as the world froze overnight. And like many nights before,

she waited to get gas after she saw him, wanting to get to him as fast as she could. She didn’t

want to be delayed, but she also dreaded how her nose burned due to the cold wind that whipped

underneath the gas station awnings. And like many nights before, she hoped he would ask her to

stay.

“You have work in the morning, in a few hours probably,” Jude said, reaching around to

the area of the seat behind her grasping for her phone.

“Yeah, but it’s only,” Zeke paused as he swiped the menu page down to cover the

YouTube video they’d been watching on his phone, “um, 2:30 in the morning.”

Jude’s lips became a slightly upturned line, failing to feign indifference, “Yeah, and you

go in at 9, so that means bedtime.”

Jude moved as if Zeke was lifting his weight off her, but he didn’t budge. After quickly

giving up in her efforts, they sat there for a second in silence, the only illumination provided by

the streetlights of Zeke’s idyllic suburban neighborhood. Each house appeared eerily similar in

structure, one practically stacked on top of another. The ghostly fog began to settle, and through

the random doodles sketched into the misty condensation of the back seat passenger window,

Zeke acknowledged the manicured lawn--his handiwork--and the shimmering droplets of dew

that froze before they had the opportunity to return to the clouds.

33
 “You gotta go,” he gently says, stroking the hair that had fallen on her face back behind

her ear.

She responds with a hummed uh uh, moving her head side-to-side slightly as she grabs

him tighter.

“Come on, you need to stop and get gas, remember?” he reminded her, attempting to

nudge her head off his chest. The weak force behind his actions made no progress in getting her

up, and her cheek remained flushed against his chest, groaning and lamenting at the thought of

removing the covers.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Jude finally mumbles, relishing the last moments with her arms

wrapped around him. After a generous pause, she grabs her sweater and shorts as Zeke does the

same. Their warmth is still sealed into the car, yet slowly disintegrating as it mixes with the cool

air of early morning that’s seeping through the minuscule cracks in the doors and windows.

They lingered in the contentment they shared for as long as he could.

“Are you, um, gonna get out?” she quietly asked.

“Oh yeah, sorry--it’s gonna be cold out there,” he reached into the passenger seat to grab

his t-shirt and gray sweat shorts, and she sat watching him behind the driver’s seat as he felt

around for familiar fabric. He couldn’t help but kiss her when he saw her observing so intently.

She smiled into it.

Zeke shamelessly jogged to the crack in the garage after peering right to left for possible

bystanders. He didn’t bother to put his clothes on. She chuckled to herself watching his butt

disappear behind his garage door.

She wasn’t going to be able to make it to the interstate without filling her tank first. She

thought he had gone to sleep right as his head hit his pillow and wouldn’t wake to his phone

34
vibrating by his head. He told her he’d put it there, so he’d know when she made it home. But

she knew it’d be ignored after he slipped back into a deep slumber.

She knew the red square would throw him off, too—it was usually blue, signaling a text

message rather than a goofy selfie or a picture of her dogs. While topping off her tank at a well-

lit Circle K right off the interstate, Jude snapped a picture of the front of her driver’s side mirror.

It was messily decorated with white crusty bird drippings lining the reflective black coating on

the back. She sat at the pump after the nozzle clicked to look for the sticker she added to the

picture: two birds perched on a branch--one blue, the other green. Its two-second animation

features a cartoon blue bird scooting closer to a green one who leans in for a peck, a heart

appearing by its head. She spent even more time crafting her caption: “The male bluebirds at my

house are shitting on their reflections to scare off other males, like what female bluebird is

actually gonna want to get with a dude who shits himself?”

For a second, she chuckled at her own words, but before she could take another breath,

she regretted it, thinking of how she could’ve worded it differently. She contemplated the

thought of him reading into the lovebirds and convinced herself that’s what he’d do. He would

think she still wanted more. She wanted the heart to appear by their heads. And while she

wanted it, she desperately tried to convince herself she didn’t need it.

When she made it home without eliciting an eruption of barks from her family’s pack of

rescues, she went to message him to let him know and saw her last message remained unopened.

He didn’t wake up.

I made it home.

35
 I don’t know if I can do this anymore, just seeing you in the middle of the night.

You only like me in the dark.

I’m not asking you to shit on yourself or on others, or to claim me as yours.

I admit I want you all the time, but you only want me some of the time.

And I'm just tired.

The triangle beside Zeke’s name was full for a minute before he opened it. And for

another minute, the triangle stayed empty, sending her straight to the extreme—that’s what he

wanted to hear, he’s rid of me now.

She didn’t want to be a burden for him. In fact, it’s everything she tried to avoid. But it

was impossible for her to avoid it. They both thought they were unfixable. She was never

touched as he touches her. She was never kissed as he kisses her. But he can’t love her. In fact,

he believed he was incapable of loving her. The desire steeping inside of her for the past two

decades finally found an outlet, but he couldn’t reciprocate no matter how long she kept directing

it towards him.

He admitted all the roads that lead to him are dark and dreary, patterned with potholes

and worsened by frequent precipitation. She always tried to avoid each divot as best as she

could, but it was inevitable she’d hit at least one, apologizing to her windshield as if he was on

the other side of it. While he never intended to use her, she didn’t heed his warnings, and he

continued to erode her away. The whole situation was a collision course—either she hits him

36
straight on or she swerves to avoid him. She could run him over and leave him behind. It was

mutually assured destruction—ignoring the inevitable can only last so long.

❀❀❀

37
 Book List

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Baker, Annie. The Flick. Playwrights Horizon, 2013.

Bardugo, Leigh. Six of Crows. Henry Holt & Co., 2015.

Baxter, Charles. Burning Down the House. Graywolf Press, 1997.

Bierce, Ambrose. “The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” The San Francisco Examiner, 1890.

Checkoway, Julie. Creating Fiction. Story Press, 2001.

Danticat, Edwidge. Krik? Krak!. Soho Press, 1995.

Diaz, Kristoffer. The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity. Victory Gardens Theater, 2009.

Friedman, Bonnie. Writing Past Dark. HarperCollins Publishers, 2020.

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. “The Yellow Wall-Paper,” The New England Magazine, 1892.

Golding, William. Lord of the Flies. Faber and Faber, 1954.

Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. J.B. Lippincott, 1937.

Lahiri, Jhumpa. Interpreter of Maladies. Houghton Mifflin, 1999.

Lockhart, E. We Were Liars. Delacorte Press, 2018.

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Niven, Jennifer. All the Bright Places. Ember, 2015.

O’Connor, Flannery. The Complete Stories. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1971.

Olmstead, Robert. Elements of the Writing Craft. Writer’s Digest Books, 2011.

Paulsen, Gary. Hatchet. Macmillan, 1986.

Shakespeare, William. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Thomas Fisher, 1600.

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones, 1818.

Zusak, Markus. The Book Thief. Picador, 2005.

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