The truth is out there.

He touches the soft, worn scrap of cloth, fingertip tracing delicate pink rosebuds. Remembering...

A little girl's nearly hedonistic delight in flannel, warm from the dryer on a cold winter night. The smell of fabric softener, shampoo and clean, soft skin snuggled beside him on the couch, teasing, giggling. Inspiring irritation and affection in equal measure.


A shallow grave, the dark earth catching beneath his fingernails and filling his nostrils with rich dampness. Flannel, rotted and tattered, no longer able to warm a pile of rough-smooth bones that had once waited impatiently for the tooth fairy.

Fifteen hearts, fifteen graves, fifteen little girls never coming home.

One unknown.

Is enlightenment truly better than ignorance? Hope is a seductive yet dangerous shadow he can't seem to shake.

The truth is out there.

Sometimes that's where he wants it to remain.

Return to Stories Page | Return to Main Page