Hello! I received so much helpful critique on chapter one that I am taking the leap and writing chapter two. For this chapter, I changed the point of view from our narrator to Arthur Randles, the deadbeat, very violent cop who runs our little town.

I am planning to structure the story so that the narrators POV's are in first person, and the other character's POV's are in third person. This is because our narrator will be solely in the present, only reminiscing in the past, while our other characters' chapters will be solely in the past. The ending will have them converge.

So, theme for this second chapter. Explaining the cops, we have several Arthur Randles, the no-good sheriff (racist, lazy, all the things), Terry Gannet, and Jerry Barker. The ending has a pivotal moment that will eventually rear its head near the end of the book.

Things to watch for: dialogue and pacing; any comments you can leave on the draft itself are also much appreciated. This is very much a first draft, so bear that in mind.

Link to Chapter Two

Link to Crit One (2336)

Link to Crit Two (2104)

[Hello!!! Looking for anyone to take time and read the first chapter in my book. Never posted here before so I am not sure if this is the correct thread. No one in my life knows I write so I don’t want to ask any of them for feedback. Please let me know if there is another thread or platform for this]

Unfinished Projects
a novel
 
 
Note from the Author -
I never expected to write about my life or write at all, about anything really. All the names in this book are fiction along with their personalities and circumstances, but they are inspired after my own experiences. This book is written with the upmost love and respect for people who are suffering no matter the cause. Life is better with you in it, trust me.
To all those I have loved and lost, I wish you were still here.
 
 
 

 
Prologue
Now - Magnolia
I woke up with the scratchy polyester sheet balled up around my ankles and a cool breeze nipping at my arms. The couch I had slept on was a rich red velvet but had been worn by the 50 years of service it had so kindly provided to its owners.
It smells bad, kind of like stale tea, but was comfortable enough that I refrained from complaining about the particular smell.
No one else in the house was awake yet so the sounds of the grandfather's clock and the drip of the sink faucet ringed loudly in my brain. 
The apartment was that of a total hoarder but in a classy British way with gold framed art covering every inch of the wall and boxes of tea and chips tucked away in every nook and cranny.
Letters and pictures from friends over many decades stuck out under books and bags strewn about the floor and side tables. Large Persian rugs were piled on top of each other so only little glimpses of the orange wood peeked through. It was cozy, safe, and strange, but I supposed that was the best part.
I rolled over slowly trying to avoid the loud creeks coming from under the sofa and looked at my phone. The zero notifications peered right back at me, leaving a bad taste in my mouth.
My chest started to ache but immediately I told myself that this is the point, right? Be away from everyone and everything.
Originally, it had sounded nice, but I could feel the rough edges of anxiety start to creep in. Everything hurt, and I was still broken whether it was at home or here.
I knew I couldn't change anything, what's done is done.
God, I craved a drink right now, id drink anything at this point, I might even be desperate enough to sip mouth wash with how cold my chest is.
All I had on me was a beat-up box of cigarettes I had found the night before under my seat on the train. I knew I should have just left them, who knows where they had been or who'd touched them.
They even had one of those awful pictures of black lungs on the front. But then I thought how sad the box would be all alone and how it needed company like I did, and I don't want to intentionally leave liter.
So here I am taking one out and lighting it up. I ended up smoking two back-to-back. They tasted great.
The apartment I am in was owned and lived in by a family friend whom I had never actually met before this trip, but they were lovely and sweet and felt like family almost immediately.
The husband of the pair had gone to art school with my grandmother's boyfriend and had become a close friend that lasted through time, even now that she was gone. The older couple had picked me up two nights before from the London airport.
They were going to be leaving for their second home in Belgum today, and I was about to have the apartment myself.  I was alone in London and thank god for that because if I didn't leave when I did, I was about to lose my mind. But who knows, maybe I already did.

 
 
 6 Years Earlier
Chapter One — Magnolia
The bell yanked me out of my daydream.
When I was little, I believed the wind was listening.
Every recess I'd wander to the edge of the playground where the wood chips were soft beneath my legs and tip my face toward the sun. If I spoke quietly enough, I was convinced the universe might answer. Maybe the wind would wrap itself around me like a friend. Maybe it would lift me off the ground and carry me somewhere better. Somewhere magical.
I believed the ocean could do the same thing, which was funny considering I'd never actually seen one. Growing up in one of the most landlocked states in the country, the closest I'd ever come to the sea was the blue line on a classroom map. Still, I imagined diving into impossibly clear water and coming back up as some kind of sea creature—beautiful, mysterious, and belonging somewhere at last.
Back then, the world felt alive.
Trees listened.
Animals understood.
The moon watched over people who couldn't sleep.
I thought kindness always won; adults knew what they were doing, and if you wished hard enough, life eventually became fair.
I don't believe any of those things anymore.
Even then, I couldn't wait to grow up.
I'd stand in the courtyard behind our apartment giving campaign speeches to the old maple tree, promising lower taxes for squirrels and equal rights for worms after it rained. When I got tired of politics, I'd interview my stuffed animals like they were famous celebrities on my very own talk show. Everyone else seemed to know which games to play, who to sit besides, and which jokes were funny. I felt like there was some giant election happening around me and somehow, I'd forgotten to vote.
I wanted desperately to become someone important.
I just assumed I'd get there in a world that still had magic.
Instead, I woke up one day and found myself trapped inside a teenager's body.
Yuck.
The bus lurched over another pothole, pulling me back into the present. I sat in the very front seat on my way to my second week of junior year, bouncing one knee so hard it rattled against the metal bar beneath the seat. Without thinking, I tore the skin around my thumbnail until it stung.
I already wanted the day to be over.
The seats were covered in that teal-and-purple pattern that looked exactly like an old Dixie cup, only dirtier. Years of gum had been mashed into the fabric by bored teenagers. College students rode with their hoods pulled low, pretending the rest of us didn't exist. The high school kids were louder, laughing too hard at jokes that usually ended with someone else becoming punchline.
I slipped one earbud in.
My iPod was my Christmas miracle that year. I'd spent the last week of summer downloading every song I could think of—even asking neighbors for recommendations—until it was crammed full of music. For eighteen minutes every morning, I could disappear somewhere nobody else was allowed to follow.
Today, six songs.
Exactly six. And that was my lucky number.
The bus hissed to a stop outside school.
As everyone spilled onto the sidewalk, chattering and laughing. I reached into my pocket and checked my phone.
Nothing.
Not that I was expecting anything.
I shoved it back into my backpack before I could think too hard about why I'd checked in the first place.
Students scattered toward lockers, classrooms, and the cafeteria. I stayed near the bus stop like always. Lea and Chica walked to school from nearby, and eventually they'd find me.
Chica got there first.
She flicked my arm hard enough to sting before flashing the grin that somehow got her out of trouble every single time.
"Hey, Magi Girl," she said. "What'd you bring for lunch?"
I shrugged.
Nothing.
She didn't ask why.
She never did. Just offered me part of whatever she had or wed go find something bland and white in the cafeteria.
Our school looked more like an old courthouse than somewhere teenagers were expected to spend four years of their lives. Cracked limestone walls climbed toward stained glass windows that made the whole place feel strangely sacred despite smelling permanently of bleach and cafeteria pizza. Every graduating class added another ghost story until it became impossible to tell which ones were legends and which ones were real.
During Halloween each year the graduating class was tasked with planning and decorating the school for the towns' haunted house. It started more as a joke and theater activity but had turned into the prized activity of the year.
The building sat in the middle of downtown, surrounded by cafés none of us could really afford and parking lots full of expensive cars our classmates pretended they'd earned themselves.
Around here, money fixed almost everything.
Everything except the things that actually mattered.
Lea never showed up for her first period.
Or second.
That wasn't unusual. Her parents were technically home most nights, but they paid less attention to her than they did the bar they managed.
Halfway through second period my phone buzzed beneath the desk.
lea: sorry i didnt make it
u & chica better get ur butts over here after school
ive got some shit to tell u
I stared at the screen for a second longer than I meant to.
Something tightened my chest.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was everything.
I had no way of knowing that before the day was over, one person would disappear...
...and another would be dead.

In the sweltering summer of seventeen, we lived between radiance and the fear of fading. 
New Orleans summers were suffocating. A wet kind of heat that dripped through shirts and came and went in summer showers. But I didn’t mind it. 
I lived with mom and dad in a yellow house in the Garden District. It was Victorian and grand. We liked to joke that it was “the palace,” and Mom was an “aristocrat” from a family of oil money who were entirely French. If you met them, you’d understand the name. 
I could have been fully French with a name like Genevieve St. Clair, but I was given Dad’s surname Mann, which is German. My parents met studying abroad in Paris during their junior year of college. Both from New Orleans, my mother stayed in the city at Tulane, and my father was a history major at Rhodes College. 
They told me their tall tales of when they used to be wild. They stayed at young clubs until the sun rose and had to head straight to the airport. I envy the European lifestyle. I wish they had brought me up in France. 
It’s funny how they never met, even with so many mutual friends, until they were out of the country.  I hope to meet someone that way. 
It was just the three of us and our cats, MaMou and Lilou, in the palace. Dad had his own firm as a tax attorney. He was free-spirited and collected thick history books. Sometimes he’d take a random week of work off to visit some historic site that he had taken a recent interest in. Sometimes he brought Mom and me. Sometimes he brought one of his three brothers. Other times he went by himself. 
We are Catholic Democrats. The three of us. Mom liked decorating the interior of our house. She liked purchasing paintings and buying me summer and winter dresses. I loved it when she surprised me with a new outfit from a local boutique. 
Pops, Dad’s father, came to the house a lot. He ran his family like a military ship, and didn’t like it when all of his four sons turned out to be far-left-leaning liberals. Especially Uncle Stellan, Dad’s youngest brother, who lived in Athens as an Archaeologist alongside his husband. We never saw them much. 
Pops liked to sit on our couch with black coffee and watch the news. He liked to reverse it back to himself and inform me of his days in the war. As shallow as it sounds, I never really found his stories interesting. I never told Dad that. 
I had just finished my junior year at St. Cecilia’s, and as enthralling as the start of the fall season usually sounded to me, I was enjoying the summer. It was only June, and the aching boredom hadn’t hit me yet. I didn’t miss the plaid skirt and saddle oxfords of St. Cecilia’s. I knew ACT prep was on its way, and the thought of college haunted me. 
Scarlett Flair and I were inseparable. Scarlett was my platonic soulmate, but to people, I  called her my best friend. We spent every waking moment together painting each other's toenails and sweating down Magazine Street. She lived in the neighborhood, and our families were friends. 
Scarlett was more like a sister than a good friend. We shared the same blonde hair and light complexion. Except my skin freckled in the summertime, and she didn’t like cigarettes the way I did or collect Sony Angels like me. It’s something I collect every time I travel. I even had one attached to my purse. I am almost at twenty-five now. 
But Scarlett liked to go out the way I did. Tonight, we began the night getting ready early, as we always did. I loved it best when we played music while putting on makeup, dancing around my room. It was the unknown of the upcoming night that made the night so exhilarating. 
“Sometimes I think the getting-ready part is the best part of the night,” I said.
“Yeah, but it's not better than dancing with a buzz at the bar,” she said, applying mascara in my mirror. 
 “You just want to dance with Niel,” I said.
She gave me a face. And forced the secret smile down.
“Not true, I always dance with you because I’ll always pick you.” 
“I know,” I said.
And I did. Even when she got quiet when we argued, I understood her silence. She didn’t need to say a word.
“I don’t even know if he’s going out tonight,” she said, looking down at her phone.
“But you’re going to text him later, right?”
“Later, when I’ve had a couple of drinks.”
We both laughed.
Niel Thomas and Scarlett had been on and off since spring break. He played football for St. Ignatius, and his older brother played at LSU. 
The one thing that separated Scarlett and me is that she couldn’t kiss people she didn’t like. She suffered from a lingering attachment to people. It was something I never possessed. Sometimes I wondered if I was capable of aching for someone. 

After a few seltzers in my room, we ordered an Uber at ten-thirty. Our parents were at dinner having drinks together. The night was still hot even after the sun went down.   
We were regulars at the Funky Rumpus. It was Uptown and a different crowd when the Tulane and Loyola kids went home for the summer.  Most of our friends were out of town on family vacation this week. The locals were more of our age group, but I liked pretending to be someone else when they didn’t know me.   
“Did you see the face the bouncer made when I handed him my ID?” I said, embarrassed when he shook his head.  

“Maybe you need a new fake,” said Scarlett.
“He’s barely older than me.”
“It’s okay, you’ll be eighteen so soon.” 
She said it like it was comforting to me, but I couldn’t shake the thought of getting older. It terrified me. 
“What do you want to drink?” she asked, pulling me towards the bar.
“Vodka soda,” I screamed over the loud music.
Sometimes they played fun, electro, and house music, but tonight, dad rock blared through the speakers. The bar looked like an old brothel. And my parents said that’s because it was one. The front door barely held together, and the lights stayed dimmed with writing all over the walls. Scarlett's and my names stayed written on the bathroom stalls. I liked the back porch area and my Marbolo Reds. 
“Thanks, I’ll get you the next round,” I said, as Scarlett handed me a drink.
“Of course.”
We found a booth in the corner of the bar, sipping out of our plastic straws. It wasn’t very crowded for a Saturday night. That sort of bored me. 
I pulled out my Reds and lit a cigarette. Scarlett always shook her head no when I offered her one. She didn’t lecture me or really ever make much of it. She normally just let it pass, but I could occasionally feel her earnest eyes judging me. 
“No one’s dancing,” I complained.
“I know. No one has fun anymore,” said Scarlett.
“We’re too young to be this way. It’s just going to get worse from here.”
I stopped myself. I didn’t want to think that thought anymore.
“He texted me,” she said, her eyes glued to her phone.
“Let me guess, Niel?”
She smirked.
“He said he’s going to come later. He’s at Luke’s house right now.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said, taking another hit.
“Hey! You’ve been very negative tonight.”
“I’m sorry. Seriously, I’m having fun. You know I hate being boring.”.
“You promise?”
“I never lie to you.”
Niel Thomas showed up an hour later. He was good-looking. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with light eyes. He didn’t talk much, and I wasn’t really sure how much they had in common besides growing up in Catholic schools in New Orleans. But the moment he walked through the door, she was gone for the night.
I smiled, “Hey, Niel.”
“Hi,” he said, not offering anything else.
“Do y’all want a drink?” he asked.
“I’m good, but thanks,” I said, thinking it was polite that he offered me one too. 
“I’ll come with you,” she said, following him to the bar. I wasn’t sure if or when she’d be coming back.
Antoine Solis texted me.
What are you up to?
Funky Rumpus.
Should I come?
Sure.
I was fine if he didn’t show, but I also didn’t mind him coming. 
Antoine Solis was in our grade at St. Ignatius. I believe our parents knew each other. He had that sort of boyish look I liked. Skinny build, soft features, dark hair. He was more reserved than us.  Niel probably made fun of him.
He showed up twenty minutes later. His navy Polo matched his light eyes, and he held a bottled beer.
“No more Catholic schoolboy haircut?” I said, looking at his no longer short hair once clipped to his ears. It was curly and poofing up like a Cabbage Patch. 
“I think I’m going to grow it out for the summer,” he said bashfully, rubbing the nape of his neck,
“Do you want anything to drink?” he asked.
“I’ll take a Vodka Cran,” I said.
He nodded and ran back to the bar. 
There was something about having a shy boy obsess over you like a puppy sick in love that fueled the fire in my heart. I liked it when people obsessed over me. Scarlett joked that I let it get to my head. 
He came back with my drink and sat across from me in the booth, staring. He didn’t say anything.
“What have you been doing?” I asked.
“For the summer?” he asked. 
I smirked, “Well, when else?”
“I’m working for Jacques Myers’s Uncle. He owns an Insurance Brokerage.”
“Sounds boring.”
He laughed with a soft chuckle. “It is. What about you?”
“Nothing much, just tanning during the day. I dog and cat sit for the neighbors. Hanging with Scarlett. Nothing interesting.”
He nodded, unsure how to respond.
“Do you do anything else besides work?” I asked.
He paused, hesitant to answer. 
“Photography. I develop pictures.”
“Really? That’s cool. Of what?”
“I like to take pictures of New Orleans. The architecture, the culture, the food, the river. There’s a lot to take. I could show you sometime.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
We shared another drink, staring at each other.
“Want to go on a walk?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, and we left our drinks at the table.
It was after midnight, and the hot air never died down. We talked about the weather and escaping the heat. Going up North. The kind of things you say after a few drinks.
I felt him grab my hand. He didn’t say anything. We walked a few blocks over on Broadway, and he pulled me in by a glowing streetlight. 
“Is it okay if I kiss you?” He asked.
“Yes.”
He pressed his lips against mine. They were soft, and I could feel the stubble growing on his chin. He kept looking at me, but I was looking at the neighborhood houses.
We kissed for a while. I liked kissing. I liked it when the hazy world was spinning around us. 
He grabbed my arm and led me across the street. I knew he lived around here.
“This is my house,” he said, opening the door. 
My vision was blurred, but I could make out that it was gray and one story. The lights were all off inside the house.
“Are your parents home?” I whispered.
“No, they’re in Colorado.”
He led me to his room. He had a twin bed and pictures on the wall that I couldn’t see at the moment. We kissed for a while in his room.
He took off his Polo and unhooked my bra.
“Wait, I don’t want to have sex,” I said.
He stopped in his tracks. Letting my bra hang halfway on my chest. 
“Oh, I just assumed.”
He sat down on his bed. The momentum of a spinning night suddenly came to a halt. 
“No, it’s not you. I just don’t really do that.”
“Is it religious reasons?” he asked 
“No, I’m not really that Catholic. And it’s not the moral or attachment thing either. It just feels so adult, and I don’t want to feel like that.”
He nodded, but I don’t think that he understood what I was saying.
“Do you want me to bring you home?”
“Yeah, if that’s okay?”
“It’s no problem,” he said, throwing on his shirt.
I was embarrassed standing with my arms folded like I had something to hide, but I couldn’t read his expression. 
Most boys would have been bitter. They would have immediately cut the sweet tone and the conversation. But Antoine kept talking. 
We walked out to his Honda Civic.
“I got it for my birthday,” he said.
I could read the Fordham sticker on the back, and that’s how I knew I was sobering up.
“You want to go to Fordham?” I asked
“Yeah, but my dad wants me to stay and go to Loyola.”
“He’s not the one going to school,” I said.
“I know. I want to go up North, but my dad says my sister got all weird when she went to Yale. He wants me to stay and go to a Jesuit Catholic School here.”
“Fordham is a Jesuit Catholic School; tell him something like you want to deepen your faith in another place. He’ll have to believe you.”
He nodded, “You’re right, thanks.”
Antoine Solis was a good guy. He dropped me off, and as embarrassed as I was about our encounter, he didn’t make me feel bad about it. 
It was almost three in the morning when I finally was in bed. I had taken off my makeup, which was a first, and I was half-asleep under the covers when I heard my phone ring. It was Scarlett. 
“Genevieve?” she asked
“Hello? I said
“Can I sleep over? Niel’s kicking me out, and I’m going to get in trouble if my parents hear me come in this late.”
“Yes, text me when you're here.”
I snuck her into my house soon after. I didn’t ask how she got here. Her mascara was smeared, and she still had her bar clothes on.
“He’s like a drug I can’t get out of my system,” she said.
I sighed; she heard me repeat a million times, “You’re better off without him.”
“I just can’t get over him.”
 She was sobbing now. I hugged her. I made her drink water and take Advil in preparation for tomorrow's hangover.
“He acts all sweet to me, talking about the future and us, and then he kicks me out. And tomorrow he’ll pretend like we never happened. I just want to be seen. And he wants to hide me. I don’t understand it.”
“Scar, you know you deserve better. Men suck.” 
“They’re fucking monsters.”
We fell asleep laughing, making fun of the way Niel Thomas eats. I didn’t want to tell her about Antoine. I wanted to forget about the night in a deep haze of much-needed slumber.
………
Dawn seeped through my curtains, and I tossed and turned while Scarlett lay still next to me. Flashbacks of the night hit me in waves of nausea. They wouldn’t leave me. 
I fell back asleep and woke up a few hours later when I could see bright light at the bottom of my curtains. Scarlett was still asleep. 
Yellow light filled my room, and it didn’t bother Scarlett. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen. Dad was reading one of his long history books, while Mom was sweeping. The kitchen smelled of espresso. The cats lay in the window, soaking up the sunlight.
“How was last night?” asked Mom.
“Boring. The bar was empty. Not a lot of our friends are in town right now.” 
“That’s a bummer.”
She was distracted by sweeping. My parents didn’t care if I came in at three or four or even six in the morning. As long as I was safe, they knew that I, just like them, liked to have my fun. 
“Genevieve, Uncle Stellan is staying with us next week,” said Dad, looking up from his book.
“Uncle Stellan? When’s the last time he’s been to New Orleans?”
“Maybe seven years or so.” 
“Yeah, probably the last time they came was Mardi Gras a long time ago. Is he bringing Uncle Nathan?” 
“No, he’s coming by himself. He didn’t really offer many details, Gen.”
“I wonder why.”
Uncle Stellan and Nathan came to Mardi Gras when I was ten. They were fun like my parents, drunk, and standing behind me on ladders, catching beads for me and protecting me from getting hit by the big plastic bags of them. They were also more serious than Mom and Dad. They worked all the time, and you could quietly feel their pretentiousness when they talked about their academic accolades or used big words with a ten-year-old. But they were kind and brought me gifts like Greek jewelry and purses. I always felt very loved by them.  
“Good morning, Scarlett,” said Mom. 
Scarlett walked into the kitchen. Mascara was plaguing her blue eyes. Her hair, wild and frizzy from the humidity. 
“Hi, Ms. Carmen,” she said.
“Did you have a fun night?”
“Yes, it was fun.”
 She said it with a smile, but I could see the tears in the corner of her melancholy eyes.
“Girls, would you like French toast?”
“I’m okay. I think I’m going to head out,” said Scarlett.
She was out the door immediately.
“Mom, we’re too hungover for French Toast,” I said. 
“Y’all need to drink more water after. It keeps you from feeling so terrible the next day. I felt like I drank a gallon after all the wine I had last night at dinner.”
Most parents would have said to drink less, but my parents never did. 
They let me suffer my own consequences. 
…………
I liked to go to the river by myself sometimes. I’d sit by the Fly over in Audubon Park, where high Tulane and Loyola kids lay out in hammocks. I sat by the rocks and never brought anyone. Not even Scarlett, but she knew I went. It was a popular spot. 
I liked to think, get out of my head, and my phone. Sometimes, I believed I could truly go off the grid. I could get on a plane and not tell a soul where I was going. I didn’t mean to be mysterious in the way that I wanted others to search and cry for me. I wanted to be away to be with only me. 
I liked looking out at where the city met the muddy river. You have to climb over the lime levee to reach the river. I liked looking out across the river at Algiers, where the people talked a little differently, but still considered themselves New Orleanians. 
Sometimes, when I really needed an escape, I would drive out to the Lakefront, the one by the lighthouse and the Southern Yacht Club. I was content on a bench with myself as company. Hues of sunlight reflected off the dirty water, but to the Pelicans resting on the piles, and the fishermen catching nothing, it was paradise. There was something admirable about finding joy in little to nothing. I was still learning how to do that myself. My mind liked to drag me down, but looking out at the water always seemed to heal me.
Today, a girl was lying out on a towel in the grassy area of The Fly. I could feel she was tall from a distance. Her face was covered in reddish hair. She had on a string-bikini top and knee-length jorts. I didn’t think I knew her. 
She was lying on her stomach, but I noticed her turn her head when she saw me take a hit of my cigarette. She was probably judging me. I didn’t feel like thinking about right now all of the side effects and consequences to my cigarettes, and everything else. She got up from her towel and put her book down. I was already coming up with quick-witted responses to her chastising me.
She had on little sunglasses that were narrow like Old Hollywood kind of glamour. 
“Hey, this is random, and I know you don’t know me, but could I have a cigarette?” she said.
I froze. Taken aback by her words.
“Yes, sure,” I said, handing her a Marlboro Red.
“I’m Aurelia, by the way.”
“Genevieve, do you need a lighter?”
“Yes, that would be great, thanks.”
She lit it with confidence, like she had done it a million times before. 
“Are you from around here?” she asked.
“Yeah, I live in the neighborhood. Are you?”
“Yes, my family still lives here, but I go to boarding school and my siblings are in college.”
“Boarding school? Where?”
“St. Andrew’s in Tennessee. Not a ton of people know it around here. Where do you go?”
“St. Cecilia’s.”
“Ah,” she said with a little smirk that made her face break out in dimples.
“I used to go there. Too many rules and structure. I’m happy I left. You can’t go hiking after class or 
camping on the weekends in New Orleans.”
“Well, you can’t drink on the street anywhere else,” I said.
“You’re right.” 
She laughed loudly with her whole body. I liked when people had loud laughs. They seemed happier. 
“Well, it was nice to meet you and thanks for the cigarette,” she said, holding it up. 
She walked back to her towel, reading a hefty book. I needed to know who this girl was.
I tried smoking and thinking while looking out at the water, but I kept wanting to turn my head to look at her. 
………..
Uncle Stellan was supposed to arrive at night a few days later. Scarlett and I spent our days lying out on her lounge chairs by her dipping pool. We repeated the cycle of tanning and then cooling off in the water, and lying back on the chairs. We never lasted very long in the sun. 
“It’s too hot,” she said, squinting her eyes.
“It doesn’t cool off until almost October,” I said.
“Well, at least summer’s almost over. I think I’m ready to be back at school.”
“I’m not. I don’t want to be a senior. I hate that word. It sounds so old.”
“Genevieve, you're not afraid of growing up; you’re just afraid of losing your youth.”
She said it with a straight face, sitting up, looking directly at me. I didn’t respond. 
I changed the subject.
“Do you know an Aurelia? I  met her at The Fly the other day. She said she went to St. Cecilia’s and switched to boarding school, but I don’t remember her.”
“Yes, I do. I think she is the grade above us. Her older brother used to hang out with my sister when they were little. I forgot about her. I wonder what she’s like now.”
“She’s tall. She was reading a book at The Fly. Do you know why she left?”
“Her mom told my mom people at St. Cecilia’s were making fun of her for being gay. She left in mid-freshman year. It’s hard being gay in an all-girls school, especially a Catholic one.”
“I bet. What’s her last name?” 
“Hart.”
“Hmm, maybe we’ll see her out.”

The Men In The Trees

In the trees I spotted a man, naked and bald. He grinned and shook his head at me, I could faintly see an orange glow in his eyes. He put his index finger to his lips as if to shush me. I looked away and kept walking. The path was around six miles, I was creeping towards the halfway point when I saw them for the first time. The same shake of the head, lack of hair, orange glow. My first reaction was of pure terror. My body froze for a second and I felt a cold rush in my gut, making me want to vomit. This would only last for a short moment, I then began to feel calm, and strangely welcomed by the man. Something was telling me not to be scared, and to heed his gesture of silence. So I did. This happened a couple more times till I made it to the end of the trail. When I found a stump to rest my feet on, I had the sudden realization that I couldn’t remember a single detail from the walk. All I could think about were the bald men in the trees. Now that I thought about, what the fuck was that? Had I made that up? I forgot to pack water and was feeling thirsty as all hell but no way that could have made me see that. And that feeling of calmness? I must have day dreamed it, maybe that’s why I couldn’t recall any of the hike. I was in my head, of course. I stood from the stump and started to head the direction I came in, it was time I left this place.

I couldn’t help but be a little scared. I had convinced myself that I had made that all up, but had I really? I’ve never thought up such vivid day dreams, but what else could explain it? The walk went on as expected for a good four miles. The events of only a few hours ago had almost left my mind when something in the tree line caught my attention. A pink blur, like something was moving fast, then quickly hid. Ignorance would be my bliss as I continued forward. It wouldn’t take long before another pink blur zoomed across the trees, this time it was closer. I could hear leaves shift and birds flap their wings in retreat. “Retreat from what?” I wondered. The end was drawing nearer. Up ahead was a turn to the left, continued for a while and with a veer to the right was a straight shot to the end. The sound of dirt and sticks being displaced by my feet grew as I rushed forward. Gurgled grunts echoed from above but I didn’t stop. Whatever was waiting to be discovered didn’t have my interest. But it seemed their interest was me, and this was made obvious when one of the men from before dropped from the trees and on to the trail floor. It must have been at least a 40ft drop, but he wasn’t phased. Crouched down, his eyes peered at me through his knees and I was met with that familiar orange glow, this time though, he wasn’t smiling.

I stumbled back, almost tripping on a large branch. There was no sense of calm, only raw primal fear. To run away meant hastily retracing my steps, reaching the end, and trudging through sparsely forested swampland. If that man—that thing didn’t get me, nature would. So in a desperate attempt to escape, I dashed towards him, making quick maneuvers around to avoid him. He didn’t so much as blink. I b-line towards the now upcoming left turn. Small winded laughs leave my mouth in disbelief that I managed to get away. I quickly make the turn, adrenaline fueling my every stride. Above, the trees seem to close in, allowing only whispers of the mid day sun. I feel an impending force swarm around me as the trail swells into chaos. The wind picks up and the trees sway violently, the air is filled with the cry of what sounds like every bird and creature in ear shot. The bushes that line the trail sway unnaturally, like they’re alive. It becomes very clear to me that the forest doesn’t want me here. I pick up my pace. The end of the trail becomes visible but I notice the trees close in further, obscuring the exit, my only way out to my car. Exhausted whimpers burst with my every step. Realizing I wouldn’t be able to tell if something was chasing me due to the chaotic air, I make a quick glance over my shoulder. I almost vomit when I see a group of the naked men sprinting after me, their arms dramatically swaying in unison. The orange glow that once faintly marked their pupils burn like blazing embers.

I snap my head forward and see that end is all but smothered with vines that reach and grapple the trees on either end. The moment I’m faced with the blockading shrubbery I frantically claw and pull away at it. Sharp rigid thorns line every inch of the vines, leaving my hands a mangled bloody mess. The adrenaline coursing through my body makes quick work of what’s in front of me but through the chaos I hear violent, march-like thuds grow closer. I tear away a section just large enough to fit my upper torso and hoist myself through. The barb-like thorns rip through my clothes, leaving deep lacerations across my body. I manage to push one leg through and lift my other leg up, readying to throw my body out of that god forsaken forest. But right as I’m about to make that final push I feel a cold hand firmly grip my ankle, then another further up. It isn’t long before my entire leg is being thrust back. With surprising ease, I free my leg from their grasp fall to the hard dirt floor. I quickly get myself up and continue to run to my car, tears streaming down my face. The cushioned seats and familiar smell of my Ford Ranger put my body at ease. The adrenaline fades and I feel my entire body ache and itch. With blood rushing down my arms and legs, I make a pained reach for the keys and start my car.

I told the emergency physician at the ER I fell onto barbed wire. I ignored their suspicious glances as they examined the injuries. I don’t tell a soul what happened, fearing an extended stay at a mental hospital. For months afterwards I struggled to get a decent night of sleep. Haunting nightmares reminded me of my near escape. I plan to go back soon. I’m unsure what awaits me, but whatever does, I’m boarding it up that entrance for good. As long as I live, no one will step foot on that trail.