by Steven Chevalia

Created on: July 10, 2009

The garden gate was open, swinging in the wind as a fresh Autumn breeze picked up and hurled dieing leaves through the open passage. Ken sighed as he shut it. The latch was lose and kept slipping every time the wind blew on the door. He made sure it latch, but two seconds later the latch released and the gate swung open again.

"Need to replace that, now." Ken's parents had never told him how hard maintaining a house was. He had grown up in North-Western Illinois and had experienced the luxury of cleaning ladies from the time he was two until he moved out for college, vowing to never return. He hadn't returned, but he had gotten close. Each time he thought about it flashes of images he was able to keep on the tip of his mind raced around his head. He scratched his black beard as he mused aloud, "suppose it isn't all bad."

The images didn't make sense to him. They were bits and pieces of old information that no longer mattered. He would be able to make it through on his own. He wouldn't go back. He had blocked, to the best of his ability, what had happened there but he knew nothing good would come of going back.

He heard the gate creak open again but the image that flashed through his mind was of a black boot stepping on the middle stair of an entry stairway. He didn't remember the incident, or even why it flashed through his mind. No one had entered his house with boots for the two years he had it. The snow got bad up in Michigan, but his friends and him always kept their shoes on and refused to conform with society by putting on their boots.

Ken shut the gate again and went to his back door. He went inside and poured himself a glass of water. The breeze outside was cool, but he felt dehydrated. As if he had been working. Sweat was on his brow. Not a lot, but he wiped it away with an annoyed flick of the wrist. The sweat flew from his forehead and landed on the kitchen counter. He noticed the wet spot where it lay.

Ken sighed, again, and pulled out a paper towel roll. He wiped up the perspiration and threw the towel away. An image flashed through his mind of a hand with a black glove on it doing the same. Why was the towel red?

Ken shook his head, clearing the nonsensical image from his mind. He looked at his phone, considered calling his parents, but decided not to. He went back outside, closing the back door behind him. His yard was impeccable. There were no sticks or twigs lying in the grass and it was obvious to see that someone had mowed not too long

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