The Story of the Lost Traveler

“The blue Pleiades. Fearsome Antares. Northern Polaris…” Rhea motioned at the stars. 

A breath caught in my throat. The starry night was a canvas splattered with thousands of swishing stars. I excitedly pointed to Polaris against the indigo background. 

“Someday, I want to go to the deepest part of the forest.” She smiled.  

“Aren’t there stories of coyotes attacking humans?” I frowned as a chill settled over my skin. 

Our fingers interlaced each other; I counted the beats of Rhea’s pulse. Then she told me a story of a lost traveler. He had lost his family and journeyed to the deepest part of the forest we lived near. 

“Legend says people who’ve lost loved ones go there to pray for the deceased.” Rhea looked at me, her smile suddenly gone.  

“He never came back.” 

“The coyotes ate him,” I yawned. 

She shook her head. “The double mark is a place of two paths, so deep that no sound penetrates it.” She paused. “Townsfolk say the traveler is still looking for his family there. His last words were from a Robert Frost poem.”

“ ‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference,’ ” she sang. 

While she spoke, I noticed her lips moving in that ooo shape, like a great force was propelling her to speak excitedly. I thought of Rhea walking me to the forest in the mornings; her forceful strides were like a powerful princess who came to save her lost, ancient love. 

A sharp noise distracted us as Rhea jerked her head back to her phone. 

“Hello?” The other side was silent. She tapped on it. “Dad?” 

“Rhea, go home now, ” he said, “And say good night to Atticus.” 

She paused in confusion. “Dad?” 

Before Rhea could reply, her father hung up. 

“Have to go, Atticus.” She brushed leaves off her clothes and planted a kiss that smelled of citrus on my head. 

I caught her wrist and gave her a look that said don’t worry. Her stiff frame gradually relaxed.  

Then she was running, a small silhouette, with the shadows of trees dancing on her shirt. The words of the poem burned in my mind’s eye. 

That was the last time I saw her. 



I’m in my room when I hear noises. 

“Her father said they moved to Minnesota. They collected her phone…I’m so sorry. You’ve been friends for ten years and…” My mother trials off.

As she leaves, my mind traces back to that starry night two years ago: Polaris reflected in her green eyes, the moon carving her sharp cheekbones into panels of light, how she pointed out the names of plants. Where are you now? 

Often, I draw devils and angels in a palace. The angels kill all the devils, except for the elder demon and its spawn, which win against the angels. Then they devour all the girls. The girls.

I don’t believe my mother. I think Rhea will come back and teach me how to shade in these sketches. 

“Hatching consists of parallel lines,” Rhea would say. I draw parallel lines over and over, adding heavenly blades and Cupid’s arrow, but always, the monsters win.

I believe Rhea would come and slay the demons. 

But hidden within the misty trees are the demons with their fiery eyes and disease-ridden bodies that release shadowy vapors. They rise, a herculean wave that erodes the bare land and the gray graves, engulfing all the angels, until the darkened moon lights a blood-soaked path of fallen angels whose bodies deteriorate into black sand swept away by howling winds. Inside her rattling window panes, only the Queen is left. I fling my pencil at the door. Blopppp. Later, my mother comes knocking at my door because she is afraid I am hungry.

However, I only feel the bitter, wintry wind blowing my drawing of a crown falling to the ground. The demons have won again. 



I am at senior prom, holding a note from an unfamiliar girl. Alyssa. She and her boyfriend, Matt, the captain of the wrestling club I left in junior year, have chosen Stone Terrace–our local dance studio–for its legendary DJ, Smokey Pop, near the forest Rhea and I used to go to. Your eyes are gorgeous, the note reads. 

In the sea of people, fresh tides of teenagers surround me with every step I take. I detect the Varvatos deodorant on their tuxedos. Meet at the back, the note continues. I squeeze like a sardine trapped in a can through couples embracing each other. The air is thick with perspiration. Smokey Pop's deafening jazz vibrates through the crowd, and the crowd sways as if responding to some hypnotic force. Finally, I get through the throng, my heart beating in cadence to Tyrone Washington’s Land Eternity as I open the glass doors. Alyssa, standing under string lights, waves at me. 

Outside, an ocean of refreshing, cool air washes over me. A cantilever umbrella says Matt Adams, Prom King. On either side of her lay unbroken rows of black evergreen trees piercing the sullen sky like needles. Golden string lights brighten Alyssa’s face as I walk to her. She wears a bleached V-Neck with low heels. 

“I came, ” I say. I sound like a mouse. If only Rhea were here. I try to smile, but my lips curve down. I pray she does not see it.

“Sit. Matt’s giving each student a drink because he’s Prom King. Fillico? Soda?” 

“Just water.” 

Alyssa gracefully saunters to the glass doors; I see her hands waving at the bartender. A knot of dread ties around my gut. Alyssa’s boyfriend? Everyone at school knew Matt’s notorious attitude. 

Riiiiiinnnnng… 

My phone brings me back to reality. When I look, my heart lurches in my chest. 

Rhea’s father. 

I reluctantly answer it. 

“Atticus?” 

He tries sounding placid, but today that word Atticus hits differently. It activates a part of me that wants to threaten him. But I don’t. The way he says Atticus is as if he does not deserve to say it. I imagine his trembling figure, his withdrawn eyes. Atticus. I hold my breath in anticipation, and each second of silence is a shock wave that jolts my heart, merciless and ceaseless. One, two, thr—

“It’s about Rhea.” Those three words. Merciless and ceaseless. 

I envision blue faces surrounding her. Her father is in silent prayer. My mind turns an infinite number of somersaults, but they trace back to one thought. Please, God. There is mere skin on her gaunt frame; a slight breeze can unsettle her. 

“And her mouth… Atticus… It opens up and just says—love.” 

Then I imagine it closing. Forever. Never can I hear Rhea point out the names of plants or stars. 

“Cancer,” his voice breaks like glass. “Stage four.” 

I release a breath. 

Cancer. Stage four. 

“Atticus? God, I shouldn’t be calling—” 

Alyssa’s note drops from my sweaty palms. My demons have won again. 



Bitter. Alyssa’s water tastes bitter. Love. That word tastes bitter and foreign too, like salty orange peels. I don’t like its taste and accidentally bite on my gums. Metal fills my mouth. I spit out the water and it makes a sickening plopp. Alyssa snaps her head back like a striking cobra. 

A heavy thud from the glass doors forces my eyes to look ahead. A tall figure emerges from the chaos inside, walking towards us. His hair looks like a wild bush, bobbing left to right as I make out a flannel suit several sizes too small for his large frame. The knot in my gut becomes tighter. Matt. 

A shadow looms over me. I pretend to be fascinated by his dress shoes. “You just spit my girl’s water? That spit’s so nasty I heard standing by the door.” Matt spat. I cannot look at him. 

“What a wuss.” He sneers at me. “Alyssa, go inside. A pretty girl like you gets more scared when a man like me spills blood. ” 

Alyssa cowers under the umbrella and smiles weakly at me. Her heels make rapid clack noises as she disappears out of sight. I stand up slowly, my body shaking. The words are still pounding through my hot ears. 

Cancer. 

“Think my girl isn’t good enough?” Matt shoves me; I almost trip. I catch a glimpse of him. I want to punch his ugly, pudgy face. Fill his flat nose with blood. Stage four. Pull his unkempt, brown hair out. Cancer. Punch his potbelly. Stage four. My heart beats irregularly, and the only thing I can think of is the father’s painful words. 

“Overheard your call. Yeah, this place is bugged. You ain’t gettin’ out and whoever didn’t vote for me is gonna get it. Like you. Your girl’s a loser too.” 

“What—” I try sounding confident, but he is heads taller than me. His arms are like pillars. The what is stretched out slowly, and I stop. My face heats up. A deep rush of anger fills my heart, threatening to set it ablaze. 

Matt laughs an ugly laugh. I wish to bury him alive. My nails dig so deep they draw blood. 

“Go die with your loser.” He rolls his shoulders. 

Then I bolt. I bolt to the forest, its smell of conifer so strong I can smell it miles away. I think of the trees’ protection. The leaves are familiar; they coil around thick bark like mossy trailing ropes. 

Before I reach the clearing, I turn and give the finger to Matt’s stunned face. 



In the forest, my feet crunch on twigs. Their snapping provides a distraction to me. Trees bend down crookedly as if mocking my pain. When one creaks, fear stabs my heart as I recall Matt’s disgusted look. My breaths are a cacophony of sounds as I feel my pants brushing against something sharp. My shoes crush vegetation. I run until my throat blazes like wildfire, my breaths coming out rapidly like the sounds of a locomotive. As my heart slows, a rush of guilt threatens to cut it into little pieces. Little pieces I cannot get back or mend or stitch. Was this love? If so, then every day my heart will beat less effectively. 

Here, the thick vegetation becomes swaying wild grasses. The stars illuminate the land of silvery rose and indigo. They tell several billion-year-old stories in an infinite succession of neons and whites that flare up in the lively sky. I wonder where Rhea is. The Pleiades? Antares? Polaris? I breathe in the scent of silt and wood, periodically broken by an owl’s hoot. 

“Two roads diverged in a wood…” Two memories of childhood. 

“And I took the one less traveled by…” I pant for breath as I recall Rhea’s story of the lost traveler desperately finding his family. 

“And that has made all the difference.” A raw, aching feeling bursts inside, gripping my heart whole, squeezing it of blood. The dirt is made even darker by my hiccuping, childish sobs. 

 

Eric

NY

18 years old