K. Monday. 

I stand motionless in my kitchen, positioned in front of my double-paned window. The sill is dusty, the frame is rotting, and through it I can see the murky lake and old dock nestled in my backyard. The sun is starting to rise and cast light beams that reflect and skip across the surface. The dock is completely falling apart. The moss is overgrown taking the rotted wood down to the bottom of the lake with it. Thoughts swirl in my head and the walls swell around me making the room feel smaller with each passing minute. My house is dark. I hadn’t turned the electricity on all morning and noon was quickly approaching. The faucets remain off and I can taste the sour in my mouth that my dry toothbrush was unable to scrub off. The one chair in the living room is stained from last week's coffee fiasco and I’m not going to try to use the fifteen year old explosive pot again. My homemade, room-temperature tea sits nicely in my bread-filled stomach. The herbs from my garden rest well in the back of my throat and my tongue appreciates the tang. My wrinkly hands grab the rag off the countertop to wipe down the leaking sink. I place a glass below to catch any drips that fall, I can't risk losing any of the water. Photos of my grandkids barely cling to the fridge as the sun frys the bright colors into a dull hue. The house is quiet. Empty. Dark. The jar of change on the corner table isn’t growing any larger and neither is my time here.

J.

My alarm used to wake me up every morning at seven. Now I go to bed so early that it doesn't need to. I walk down the long stairway into the kitchen where breakfast is already being cooked. I take my seat at the head of the table with Sunday’s paper and a hot cup of coffee, simultaneously scented steam from eggs and bacon enter my nose. My robe clings to my stomach but falls from my arms as I move the mug to my lips. I watch Brenda sway in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning as she goes. After getting through the front page my warm breakfast is placed before me. I sip my glass of orange juice, the tang clashes with the coffee taste left in my mouth. The cool morning fog rests in the trees after passing over the lake but my feet felt warm in their slippers. After breakfast it is time to move to the couch. I grab my readers, a cigar, and a tape about the Cold War I managed to get before it was released to the public. Thanks to my friend Mathew, who worked in the filming industry, a good history documentary wasn’t scarce in my home. I kick up my legs on the coffee table and light my cigar. I feel Brenda's eyes burn down my back as the walls around me absorb the smoke. 

K. 

Sweep, check. Water garden, check. Nap, check. Market shift, check. I tap my pen on my chin as night is nearing. The window catches my attention again. The mud looks so tasteful. I imagine the gentle lake breeze through my hair with less silence than my house contains. Birds. Frogs. The splash of the water against the pebbles. I immediately race down to the garage to gather my fishing gear. I grab my red box filled with fake worms and my dad’s old rod. It’s all I have but thankfully it's all I will need. In spring the lake is blooming. I lock the door and march down my back porch. The first step I take is into the mud. Instantly I realize I forgot my shoes but if I go back now I will trail mud across the house floor. Eventually the mud begins to pull me down so I hold onto my rod a little bit tighter. Each step is stickier than the last. Mud clings to the bottom of my feet and little rocks impale my skin. I feel it ooze between my toes as I leave footprints behind me. I finally make it down to the bank when I realize I left my coat inside. I look up at my house and see my pink zippered coat hanging off the kitchen chair. I feel the breeze picking up and the sun is almost about to set. Chills run down my spine. The walk back is short yet hardy and knowing I won't last another minute, much less a couple hours, I have to go back. My eyes follow the footprint trail that twists up to the back porch and I slowly begin to retrace it, walking to get my jacket.

J.

One hour in and I am not amused. No wonder this was on early release, it probably didn’t pass muster to be released at all. I take a yellow post-it pad off the countertop and give my review. I peel off one yellow square and stick it onto the front cover of the tape. I stand up to place it in the bin with the other tarnished films when I notice my neighbor, Kimberly. Her house has been falling apart since the day she moved in. It’s been thirteen years and with chipped paint and a sunken roof the walls still manage to stand. It’s truly an eyesore. Broken windows are boarded with wood and the lights are never on, though she never really needs them. I only see her inside when she's not gardening, fishing, or working her daily shift at the market. It’s a blessing really. At nighttime her house is so dark that I can see across the entire lake. The two windows in my living room sit on either side of the T.V. I would love to let the afternoon light in but I have to keep the window blinds halfway shut to block out her house. I toss the film into the box when suddenly I notice Kimberly walking, mud moving up her shins, only wearing a t-shirt and capri shorts. Her cheeks are rosy from the wind and her fishing rod blows on the dock. I watch her brisk walk turn into a jog, she reaches her home and opens her back porch door. Thinking she’d walk back out with shoes and a jacket I'm unsettled to find she only did one of the two. She zips up her pink coat and marches back to the lake, letting the mud climb higher onto her legs. She sits down on the edge of the dock, wearing the same coat she had from the first day she moved in. 

K.

I feel the breeze press against my face, the cold staining my cheeks pink. I put my second catch of the day into my basket satisfied with my work. I open the doors to my house, grab a damp washcloth from the sink and wipe the mud that trails my legs. I gently place the fish basket on the counter and grab logs from the tree I axed last week. I sit outside on the cold metal chair beside my firepit. Scraping the pieces of wood against each other I plunge the ones that catch spark into the pit. I watch the smaller logs light bigger pieces of wood and this week's newspaper. I sear my fish over the flame. First the dried blood burns then the scales. I take it off the pan and cut what I have to eat, resentful in the taste. 

J. Tuesday. 

John Paul for president? I flip through this Tuesday's paper completely outraged. 

“This is a scandal! Fraud even!”

The last thing this country needs is more government. We already have enough people complaining and I am not going to elect more. I slam the paper next to my omelet. 

“Brenda!” I holler from the dining room. “I’m leaving!” 

I whip my coat from the mudroom hanger, slipping my shoes on both feet. I stuff my hands into my pockets to hide my clenched fists. I walk with pace. Quick, but steady. I almost make it to the dock when I realize what I am walking in. I look down at my newly shined shoes. 

“Oh for god's sake. Curse this world! Curse today! And to hell with John Paul!” 

I pick up a nearby stick and scrape off the mud as best I can. I start my walk back from the dock when I see Kimberly abruptly look up from watering her plants. Her legs are clean of mud and she politely smiles as I walk past. I put my head down and say nothing. Despite my current circumstance I know she was only kind because she wanted something. Kind people always want something. 

K.

James' screams truly did startle me. John Paul was great, inclusive, calm. Of course James would never cast a vote for him but the economy could use it. I look up to see the fuss only to connect eyes with Mr. Sterwall. Instinctively my lips crease into a smile but quickly shift into a slant the moment he looks away. The man has lived next to me for almost fifteen years and he still doesn’t know my name. His housemaid is the kindest soul, she brings me my paper when she goes out to the mail to grab his. James and my dock times are split evenly but I don’t think I’ve seen him on it once. The price to fix the dock is way too much for me to afford even when split by two. James’s pride couldn’t handle paying the cost on his own so instead, he bought a boat. He uses his dock time to shine and clean, I see him in front of his house every morning priding over The Queenie. The motor is always running, which scares off the birds and fish. It's a plunge to the view and truly an eyesore. 

J. 

I watched Kimberly for a longer time than usual today. Her dryer broke years ago so she hangs her pants in the backyard, jeans and sheets blowing in the wind like a soft inhale and exhale. This afternoon she ran out of laundry detergent for her wash, the bottle had been balancing upside down all week and the drip finally stopped. Her cabinets are twice as bare as usual and I see her take coins out of the large jar in the corner of her house. The tape plastered across it reads Savings. What was she saving? Thirteen nickels? The amount of coins in that jar is shrinking and so is her body. Her bones part from her muscles and I watch them bulge out of her skin. Her cheeks hollow revealing surprisingly white teeth. With a chair under her arm I watch her walk away from her laundry closet into her kitchen. The clouds are beginning to roll in accurately displaying this morning's weather predictions. I sit on my living room couch and flick on the T.V., but I don’t close the blinds. I watch as she marches out her back door and perches her chair upright on the dock. She’s wearing a thin t-shirt and yet again standing barefoot. She sits comfortably in her chair looking out onto the lake. 

“Dink.” 

“Dink.”

“Dink. Dink.” 

I look up at my darkening skylight, rain drops sprinkling and creating endless spots of water. I stand up and move into my kitchen to get a closer look at Kimberly, her blue shirt staining with dark circles and her toes curling on the dock. Had she lost her mind? What was the reason? Why was I surprised? The woman had gone mad. 

K. 

The rain blows in my face, stinging my cheeks as it drips down my chin. I throw my head back off the edge of my chair, swaying my legs and arms into the air. I want to throw my entire being into the space before me and watch as the clouds and birds take me in as their own. I want to dissolve into the water and become the drip that leaks from my kitchen spout. I want the lake to disguise my body with its mass of beauty that pounds the rocks and moves with the fish. The rain feels nice. The drops grow larger. Then larger. Bullets of water pelt me and they fall harder and harder. I stick my tongue out. Was I seven or seventy four? Did it matter? My hair is stuck to my scalp, my entire body soaked with water. I feel the drops slide down my back filling my pants and covering my skin. Twenty minutes pass and so does the storm. I fold my chair and walk up to my porch. Yesterday's sticky mud was today's flooding puddles. With each step I feel delight as my feet sink into the oozing mud. My body is heavier and wetter than when I first walked out but somehow double as free and triple as light. I stand in my dark kitchen alone with my chair and make the mistake of looking through the window, making eye contact with James. 

J. 

A wild woman. What else could anyone think? Neighbors mow their lawns. They bring in their mail and take the trash out on Thursdays. You share barbeque smoke and fences. I watch as she stands in a growing puddle, sopping wet in her kitchen. Her garden is competing with the sun, the red tomatoes bursting with bright color. Her sunflowers grow feet above my head and watermelon curls around the rocks below it. Her rose vines zip up the side of her house clinging to the rotten wood. It was a mess. A forest of food and leaves all gurgling out the sides of the box, throwing its weight at the ground and begging the bees to come by. Taunting the birds with its ripeness and greeting the gophers with awe. A zoo. A farm. The rusted watering can seems to be doing its job as the corn races for the clouds beside the weeds sprung beneath it. 

K. 

My garden eats up the fresh downpour from a couple hours ago, its leaves effortlessly green and full. I decide to wander through the jungle I created to pick and prune my favorites. I gather some old chipped pots from the car-less garage and my trusty nineteen year old hand shovel. I fold my legs under the tall plants soaring above me and begin to dig a circle around my favorite strawberry bush. I carefully remove it from its current bed, placing the little guy into his new home. As the strawberries adjust to their shorter height on the ground I cover the rest of the unfilled pot with dirt. The flowers ache with desperation as they await the sweet honey bees. I cut another circle around my lavender and sweet peas, setting them in pots like the strawberries. I take each pot carefully down to the dock lining them in a row facing the lake, close enough to the edge so there is still room to walk, but far enough so they won’t topple in. I watch as the plants blow in the breeze and soak up the sun, treating the fish to their simple smell and pastel colors. 

J. Wednesday

Last night's sleep knocked me out cold. I slept for an astonishing ten hours yet I couldn’t feel more tired. John Paul was taking the lead more and more by each passing hour and Brenda was beginning to slack off. 

“Brenda” I call from the couch, my yells drain the T.V noise. She quickly runs over with a mug in her hands apologizing for the late service.

“The slower you work the less tip you’ll receive. We’ve discussed this. I don’t need you Brenda. I snap my fingers and you’re fired. Understood?” 

She leaves without a word. I roll my eyes disgusted at the lack of pace around here. Sometimes you just have to slap someone across the face until they really hear what you're saying. I sip the coffee she brought me and as the lukewarm liquid hits my tongue I almost puke in my mouth. I spit out the bean polluted water staining the rug below me. I throw the glass at the kitchen cabinet and watch it shatter into tiny pieces, fall to the ground and spill across the kitchen. I listen to the coffee drip from the front of the cabinet as it creates fresh puddles on the floor. Brenda doesn’t scream. She doesn’t even flinch. Her face twitches. She races to grab a broom and rag to clean the mess she made. It was her fault. I bolt to the top of the stairs and when I get there I notice flowers beaming on the edge of my dock. 

“Oh for god's sake.” 

My blood boils in my veins, pumping methodically to my racing heart. I grab my jacket hanging over the stair railing and slide my feet into my slippers. I scamper out onto the porch, slamming the door behind me. I storm through the mud, and endure the wind and scorching sun. When I reach the dock I put my hands on my hips, squinting at the flower pots. I went to bed three hours early and woke up to this? A 6am monstrosity. I start with the strawberries. I kick off the dirt filled pots plunging them into the water below. I nudge the purple ones off quite easily and I’m able to do the same with the last. The leaves try to stay afloat but are soon drowned by the anchoring pots pulling them below. I watch as the pots sink to the bottom of the lake, tearing the petals and draining the colors of the plants. I brush my hands together, satisfied with my statement. I storm back up to my house, avoiding the puddles I previously stepped in. I see Kimberly in her garden. She has a glove on one hand and scissors in her other. She stands still, the sun bouncing off her forehead and mud covering her elbows. I glare at her awful yard next to her unbearable house. We don’t say a word but the way she watches me walk all the way home says enough. 

K. 

A waste of air. My neighbor is a waste of air.  I squeeze the weed I’m holding with my glove and feel anger in my toes. I close my eyes. I imagine myself as a plant, slowly losing my limbs as the rest of my body crashes to the bottom of the lake where the sun's rays no longer hit. I lay on the sandy floor of the lake covered by the cold water, darkness consuming me. I feel bad for my plants, had I not taken them away they would still feel the sun. A tear drips down my cheek and falls into the crease of my mouth overwhelming my tongue with salt. I look out at the lonely rotting dock at the bottom of my yard, now colorless. Maybe it should be empty. Maybe it doesn’t deserve flowers. Maybe they should’ve drowned in the lake. Maybe they were meant to die. Maybe they were me. 

J.

The night is quieter than normal. I can’t hear the lake from the cracked window and the wind has died down to stillness. I can't stand the quiet, more than anything I want my yard to creep into my house and run through my body ringing the bells in my brain. The emptiness of silence sits on the tips of my fingers and spreads within my body, and all I can hear is nothing. I feel the sensation of my shirt's threads move up and down on my skin as I breathe in the cold air. It stings my lungs on the way in and burns my arms with chills on the way out. Usually I would be listening to Brenda making a fuss in the kitchen cooking dinner, and cleaning dirty dishes but I hadn’t seen her since I left for a look at the dock this afternoon. My cable is out so I can’t turn on my T.V. which also means the phone isn’t working. I squint at the dusty looped cord that sits still on my coffee table. I hadn’t made a call in over a decade but then again why would I. If the cable spontaneously came back on I was certain the dial wouldn’t work, even if I tried to turn it. The carpet taunts my feet with its loud coffee stain. I beat my knee up and down. I pray the trees will rub their leaves together. I wish the birds would chirp and indulge on the noisy crickets. I plead with the clouds to make the rain fall, so I can hear the dinking on my skylight. If only the whistle of the wind would blow against my walls. I hoped the lake would rage with waves and collide with the humming grass blades so I could hear it from my house. I want the world to remind me it was still there and I was still here. 

K. Thursday

I creep out of my sheets, and linger in the kitchen for a bit. My eyes are sunken, and my face swollen from my wrinkled pillow case. My hair sits tangled in my face and intrudes on my already blurry vision. I sip sink water from my favorite glass and feel it swim through my insides sinking into my stomach. From the corner of my eye I see my growing garden, it begs me to pay it a visit. I reach to grab my pink coat but before I have a grip on it there is a knock at my front door. I look at the calendar pinned above my fridge. Thursday, June 12th? My children are flights away and my daughter only visits during late July when the lake is warm enough to hold the kids. I slowly move across the cold floor, my skin bleeding through the small holes in my socks. Clenching the door handle I open it just enough to see who is outside. A shiny sheriff's tag meets my eye. Thinking he wouldn’t be able to see me through the cracked door, I am mistaken.  I look up as his eyes lock with mine. 

“Mrs. Kimberly Greene, may I speak to you?” 

“Oh sure, sure officer do come in.” I offer, opening the door all the way. 

“Sorry sir the place is a bit of a mess, let me get the lights for you.” I attempt to plug in my twenty year old lamp only to find the bulb has gone out. Embarrassed, I pull my hair back, tucking it behind my ears hoping the red in my cheeks will soon flush out. 

“No worries Ma'am, this will be brief.” I take a seat on my couch as does he. 

“Now you and Mr. Sterwall have been neighbors for quite some time, I see. Fifteen years is no lunch in the park!” I nod along. “I regret to inform you that sadly he has passed.” My tongue feels sour. Rotten even. Then it goes numb. Fifteen years of sharing a dock and I barely recall his voice. I feel my saliva disappear and my breath becomes a shrill high pitch sound piercing my ears. If the red from my face doesn’t wash out I'm sure the instant paleness is now covering it. We were never friends but it always felt less lonely to know someone was next to me. One time both of our fire alarms went off at the same time and we both came out to our porches clutching photographs and books. Well I was at least. He held a briefcase and a blanket to keep the summer mosquitos off his neck. We looked at each other, looked for smoke, then went back inside. I didn’t see him for another week until the same thing happened. Peculiar really, I changed out the batteries and even got a new system that cost me half of my coin jar savings. We both walked out empty handed to our porches in search of the smoke but it was nowhere to be found. I watched Brenda flee the house with a cell phone to her ear as she urged the fire department to come. They got to the Sterwall estate completing the investigation and a couple moments later there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find two firemen eager to source the problem with my alarm as they said James alerted them I was having the same issue. He watched from his living room couch as the firemen fixed my system and drove off. 

“I just need you to sign these.” The officer hands me a stack of papers. I flip through the thick pile reading the first headline that states all of James' belongings were now in my possession. 

“Sir, I think this is a mistake. This is James’s will. I am Kimberly Greene, his neighbor, not wife.” I hand the stack back to the man. 

“No Ma’am, not a mistake. It's been documented for a decade that all of Mr. Sterwall’s possessions now belong to you. No changes or claims were made to the will throughout the time since and so forth I need you to sign these papers.” He hands me a pen with writing down the side that reads 911 for emergencies with the address and number to his station. I grip the pen signing my name in the blank spaces. 

“Thank you Ms. Greene. You will need to finish the process by coming to our station and mailing back the papers you will soon receive. This process is tedious but with Mr. Sterwalls networth it doesn’t seem like that will be a problem. Keep the pen.” He shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone on my couch, in the dark, listening to the sound of the water drip from the sink into my favorite glass.