In a sleepy town in Oregon, Felicity Nolkes would once more find herself behind the cracked counter of the twenty four hour market she worked at. Due to the absence of a coworker, she was placed on the night shift for the next few weeks. While at first Felicity did not mind the late hours, in fact, she had welcomed the prospect of hours of quiet study time; Felicity would come to dread working the night shift just within the first few days. Though, the problem wasn’t the job itself, such late hours would find few customers throughout the entire night. The problem that Felicity had was how isolated the store felt at night. She despised the way the surrounding floor to ceiling windows could hold countless unseen eyes. Felicity hated how vulnerable she felt sitting behind the counter under the faint, flickering fluorescent lights. How dull the cold linoleum floors illuminated in the early morning. For the entirety of her shift, Felicity would be a timorous wreck, she’d constantly look over her shoulder with a stomach ache of anticipation. At four in the morning, she’d finally be able to punch her off-white employee clock card. Felicity would then be subjected to listen to the deafening sound the mechanism made in the echoey emporium.  Upon leaving the store, she would cautiously walk to her car whilst checking every direction, at times even checking under her car. Before entering her silver 2009 Mercury Sable , she would shine her torch on the back seat to make sure someone couldn’t be hiding. After buckling up and locking her doors, she would exit the parking lot to start her sporadic drive around town to ensure no one could follow her. With a lurching stop, Felicity would quickly input the password to enter her flats parkade. She would collect herself for a moment after parking, then with her keys threaded through the slots of her fingers, she would swiftly run to the parkade's elevator. Immediately following her entrance of the cart, Felicity would repeatedly jam her finger into the button to close the cart's doors faster. For the entire time of the task, situations would flash in her mind of someone running through the doors before they could fully close, such thoughts only increased the shakiness of her hands. For the ride to her floor, the walk to her door, and the entrance of her flat, Felicity would find no shelter from the feeling of my eyes following her. It is unknown when I entered her apartment, she may have been bathing, or already sleeping. Regardless of when or why, I would ultimately give Dayville, Oregon an enticing Monday Headline. Five

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The house across the street always has its doors and windows open, the storm door has long fallen off and laid to rest on the porch. The poor, decrepit porch that has long wavered its body to weather and termites, it holds the rusted storm door in its hole, swaddled like an infant in a whipping tree. Beyond the stairless porch to the open threshold of this house, we are able to see the inside, dark and damp despite the airflow through the windows and doors. There is a long forgotten couch, once white but now a molded brown that sits in the lonely living room. The paper on the wall peels down and water stains decorate the place in a sporadic fashion. Through a missing wall we can look into what once was a desirable kitchen, now with missing counter tops and raccoon nested cabinets. To the left of the missing wall we see a staircase, and from a certain angle there is a picture drearily hanging from a giving wall. One can make out a woman in a dress, someone's daughter, possibly now a mother. There must have been days where she would swing open the storm door and walk into the living room. She must have stopped in the kitchen to bid her mother a good afternoon before hopping up the stairs to her room. She must have played out on the front porch when she was a child, being watched by her mother from the inside. Her and her mother must have cooked together, her and her family must have had game nights on that couch, that girl must have stormed up to her room after Friday night arguments on whose house she could go to. She had to have loved that house at one point. Even still, she must have stepped off of that porch at one time, bags in hand, while her parents said their goodbyes as their daughter went to make a life for herself. She must have never returned. Her life, her dream trumped her past. Felicity never went back to her parents, perhaps my influence on her life were the inevitable repercussions of her past indiscretions. Still, as the match hit the floor, I knew what I had done. The flames reflected in my eyes like a coruscating caravel captivating me by the beauty. The crackling of the conflagration created  a hypnotic toll, the chimes brought my mind to a differing symphony. My dying consonance that forces my eye per Diem, requiring me to observe a once vivacious symphony revert back to a single melody. With the suffocating feeling of failure bashing into my mind along with the notion of unfettered freedom burning in front of me, my mental subsidence turned physical as my head met the cold parkway. Flecks of ash dusted over me, their touch offering a temporary but well welcomed burn. The ramifications of my decisions from the recent day had not set in, a provisional haven turned to hell were given at the sanatorium soon after my work had fizzled out. Even though they had taken me, they could not hold me, I was an intangible substance or a malevolent gas permeating the minds of every worker until I found my exit. So, on a chilly February night, a man finds himself hobbling down a cobblestone parkway, each strike of his walking stick resounding through the stone. Nothing lights the path up the worn wooden stairs, save for the single faint flickering flame encased in the glass lamp. The steps moan and wail and cry under the strain of his weight. From the top step, he reaches out a shaky hand to grasp the cold metal knob. A slow and squeaky turn follows as the knob protests the opening of the aperture, the long static door lets out a deafening howl upon the reveal of the vacant dwelling. The man makes his way to the dark corner, a dusty chair awaits him. He runs his hands over the walls as each step cracks and squeaks on the hardwood floors. An oak bookcase soon came into view, one that had once blended into the darkness from a far. He reaches out another shaky hand to touch the dusty leather backings, with one swipe a golden letter reflects in the dim light. The man places himself in the chair, awaking a cloud of dust into the surrounding air. The man traces the bright letters on the cover, ones in a vibrant gold script. Minutes pass by as he sits bewitched by the dazzling book. He thumbs the edges of the paper to open the novel with care, and through the cracks of the spine breaking, the toll of a bell can be heard. One toll, two, three, four, confusion plasters the old man's face. Dawn would be hours away, perhaps an emergency had placed itself over the town. The chimes grew louder and louder, coming with more speed and force. The strikes pounded in the man's head until he fell to the floor covering his ears, silence. Morning came as the little community woke up, kids ran alongside each other to the market, mothers in toe behind them. With a grim expression, the bell ringer climbs to his post. Nine drawn out tolls come from the tower in the foggy morning, they tell a grim story to the people of Dayville. Six. 

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It is done, it took me two years to complete but I have done it. The perfect amount of sinners, each harboring a differently-flavored transgression, each of them repented, and each of them have been forgiven. Now they are once again in his tender hands, just as they were at their beginnings. And for myself, I am forgiven. I am forgiven for liberating these lost, sickly children, they had bitten the apple but I am the one who put them back on track. I am the one who healed them, I am the one who taught them, I am the one who saved them; Your son has done the work of god, he has been kissed by the angels and his blood is changed. I’ve done what you asked me, father, and I only hope that your welcoming my visit is greater than conversations with our creator. Do not be afraid. Seven.