8:27 A.M.

Bananas for breakfast today. I saw Mom unwrap the last one, so I know if I ruin this one, I won’t have to eat banana and Mom will have to let me have cereal. I also want a bath. So I rub the banana in my hair, and what’s left, I feed to the dog. Result: One spanking, five minutes in the corner, and no breakfast.

9:43 A.M.

Mom is feeding the baby. I run over, grab the baby’s head, and pull it away from Mom to see where the baby’s food comes from. Two minutes in the corner, plus I get to listen to the baby scream for seven more minutes on top of that. Today is not going well for me...

9:52 A.M.

I guess Mom does not like it when I spank the baby for screaming. Two more minutes in the corner.

10:18 A.M.

Baby is taking a nap. Mom is reading on the couch. She doesn’t see me pull over the chair and get the shiny things off the bookshelf. She does hear them when they make smashing noises on the floor, though. I get my second spanking of the day, plus five minutes in the corner. Except Mom forgets to tell me when my time is up, so I end up spending eight minutes instead. No fair.

11:12 A.M.

I ask Mom if I can have an egg. She says wait for lunch. I decide to help her fix lunch. Then I try an experiment. I learn that eggs do not bounce, and that the wallpaper is peeling in the corner in the kitchen. I also learn that when you try to pick off the pieces that are curling away from the wall, you get extra time in the corner. That, and Mom’s face turns really, really red when you show her how big of a piece you can pull away.

12:03 P.M.

The dog likes hotdogs better than I do. Mom doesn’t believe me when I tell her that he stole them from my plate. I’m going to have to teach the dog to stand up on his hind legs by the table so she’ll start falling for that one. I get five more minutes in the corner, and I don’t get a story before my nap.

2:14 P.M.

I think that Mom likes that baby more than she does me. He woke me up from my nap by screaming, but does she put him in the corner? Of course not!

3:38 P.M.

How was I supposed to know I’m not allowed to paint my own nails? Or the dog’s? And it only spilled a little bit! This time I not only got a spanking, but ten minutes in the corner. If she keeps this up I’m going to call Grandma and tell on her!

3:57 P.M.

Mom does not have good manners. I tried to change the baby’s diaper for her, and she turned white, then red, and then yelled at me so loud I’m sure the neighbors heard it. She didn’t even say, “Thank you,“ and I did everything just like she does, so I don’t know what I did wrong. I even strapped him onto the changing table before taking off his diaper. He sure is heavy! Mom muttered something about, “If I touch her, I’ll kill her,” which I think is why I didn’t get a spanking for that one. I did end up in the corner, again, though.
5:22 P.M.

Daddy’s home! When he asked Mom how her day was, she started to cry. I gave her hugs and kisses to make her feel better. Only I don’t think they worked, because she cried even harder. I’m going to have to do a better job of helping her with the baby tomorrow. But first, I’m going to go do the dishes for her while Daddy tries to make her feel better.

In the living room so well decorated and full of the makings of a home, the empty corner stood in stark contrast. In spite of the otherwise fullness of the house, the bareness of the corner compelled a visitor to look and wonder at this incongruity. An explanation was never offered, and it seemed like bad manners to ask.

It was obvious that the same attention to cleanliness and order apparent in the rest of the room didn’t apply to this corner. Masses of cobwebs near the ceiling grew dirty tails. Occasionally one would see a spider adding to the cobweb décor; unwary insects who ventured too near were caught and consumed leaving only their empty, lifeless carcass, or mysteriously disappearing altogether.

On the floor lay a collection of debris composed primarily of dust piled so deep that it defied identification of other items lying under its shroud. Although the wallpaper was the same pattern as the rest of the room, it didn’t seem as appealing, almost as if it had interpreted the inattention paid to the corner as a personal insult.

On the wall could be seen rust-colored designs of no apparent pattern. Round circles poised next to teardrops. Rorschach patterns offset solid patches. If one were to venture moving the thick layer of dust on the floor, there could be seen dried pools of the same rust paint which adorned the walls. But, no one did that. The pools remained hidden, an unseen component of the enigma of the corner.

There was additional puzzlement about the corner highlighted by two holes in the wall, not evenly defined, but instead ragged craters of destruction, exposing the wallboard behind the paper. At one time they had been starkly white, but now they were dust-filled, matching the rest of the neglected corner.

Reluctantly, Hannah stood facing the corner. For nearly ten years she had tried to ignore its presence, not willing to acknowledge the memories it awakened. But now she allowed them to wash over her in a wave of emotion. In spite of feeling like the events were taking place right now, she determined to banish them to the past in which they belonged.

The happenings of that night were sharply and painfully etched into her. A drug crazed young man breaking through the sliding glass door which lead from the room to the deck which graced the backyard of the home. The gun brandished toward Mark and her as he demanded money that the young couple did not have. A loud roar as the first bullet flashed past them to embed itself in the wall. Mark attempting to use his body and the corner to shield her and their child gently swelling her belly. Sirens announcing the arrival of police summoned by neighbors frightened by the alien sounds of the night. A second shot passing through Mark and painting the wall with his lifeblood as the police broke into the house just seconds too late.

A week of horror and pain followed. She became a widow who was forced to arrange the burial of her precious husband. Her body rejected the son conceived in love and joy. The child was too tiny to even attempt to save; she named him after his father and buried him in the same sad piece of earth. Her life changed, in an undesired but irrevocable way.

In the time between the capture and trial of her husband’s killer, her feeling changed from vengeance to compassion. After he was found guilty, she had pled unexpectedly and unsuccessfully for his life to be spared. While he was in prison appealing for his life, she had joined that cause. She had forgiven him the unforgivable, and had made him aware of this.

At 12:01 that morning his life had ended by lethal injection. Although she had the right to attend the execution, she had chosen not to do so. Although she had the right to let the events of ten years ago build a wall through which she could never pass, she had refused to do so. Instead she had chosen to let them define an unexpected corner for her to turn.

As she resolved to bravely walk in this unanticipated direction, she began to sweep the cobwebs and dust from the corner in her living room. She determined that new wallpaper would replace the stained paper of the corner, and cover the holes that she would have repaired. It would require to advice of an expert to erase the pools of dried blood on the floor. It would require courage to erase the invisible signs of her tragedy. For the first time in ten years, her smile was relaxed and beautiful.

Steven Weaver laid claim to the weirdest house in the neighborhood, most likely the state and, quite possibly the world. If it went any further than that, he didn't want to think about it.

It started when he and his family got back from vacation several months ago. They had spent eight weeks in the mountains, and while they were gone they were getting new neighbors, the Sanderson's. The Bius Construction company was handling the new build; they were the same guys that built Steve’s house. It's a small company, but the owner/head foreman, Moe, and his guys were very fast, and very good.

When the Weaver's had turned into the driveway, Arnold and Beth Sanderson were outside in the yard, playing freeze-tag with their kids. The kids were winning, and as such, Arnold called the game a draw and went to greet Steve and Sandy, and their two kids, Becky and Eric. They had all met before and were already good friends.

"Steve, welcome back! You guys need help unloading your luggage?"

"Nah, the kids'll get it. Hey, kids! Take all our stuff inside! How about you guys; are you all moved in yet?"

"Uh, yeah, but first I need to tell you something. I don't know what happened, but the back part of your house, Becky's room I believe, has been...uh...flattened off, sort of..."

"What?!"

"It had to have been the construction workers. Come on, I'll show you." With that, they walked around to the back of Steve's house.

Arriving at the back of the property, Steve saw that the corner of his house was indeed flat, by about three feet or so. It was like the whole corner had been sheared off, but re-bricked to close it up. He could only imagine what his daughter's room looked like, then he realized Moe Bius and his guys had no way to get inside to make the modifications.

"Look, I've gotta go, but for what it's worth I didn't see them do anything to your house. I'll see you later today."

"Alright; take care, Arnold."

Inside the house, Steve heard excited voices coming from Becky's room, at the back of the house where the strange construction, or deconstruction, had been perpetrated. He ran to her room to see what was up.

When he entered the room, he had expected to see the far corner flattened off, effectively giving Becky a fifth, shorter wall.

Instead, the walls looked normal. Well, except for the very faint shimmer emanating from the corner, like the hypnotic, constantly moving reflection of water shining on a surface. Steve opened the window and leaned out, looking at the 'sheared off' corner of his house.

It just wasn't possible. The inside back wall of his daughter's room is 12' long; outside, the same section of wall out there is, apparently, 9' long.

He came back in and stepped up to the anomaly. With his family looking on, he slowly reached out with his left hand, then when it was about a foot from the corner, he snatched it back.

"What is it?" Sandy asked, having corralled the children.

"It's cold, and I felt...It started to pull on my hand, like it has its own gravitational field. Let me try something...", and with that he grabbed a piece of paper from Becky's desk, balled it up and tossed it towards the corner.

The wad of paper started to fall to the floor on the standard parabola, then its path changed direction and, with a faint flash, disappeared.

Into the corner.

"Dad! That was my 'A+' math quiz!"

"Coooool!" Of course Eric would not be shocked by this recent development.

"Steve, what are we going to do about this? Should we tell somebody?"

"Alright people, first things first” said Steve, now playing the part of the take-charge Manly Man. “Becky, you'll get another 'A+'; Eric, yes, that was very cool; Sandy, we'll have to think this through. Alright everybody, back to the den for a family meeting, and in the mean time stay out of this room."

Ultimately they decided to move Becky to the guest bedroom and convert this room to an all-purpose recycling/garbage-disposal unit. From that day forward they took no more trash bags or food scraps to the curbside trash cans.

*****

Meanwhile, somewhere in England, an exasperated Mrs. Dench, her barrister and the soon to be divorced Mr. Dench, of Apple Tree Cottage, Smarden, Kent TN27 8QE, were having a difficult time.

"I swear Carol, I'm not tossing garbage on the floor; it's coming straight out of thin air! Really, it's not me!" He was getting shrill now.

Making ominous grumbling sounds, the barrister dug deeper into his attaché case...

“You can put them on the counter, Greg,” Mrs. Jenkins said. She had stopped just inside the door and was looking through her purse. She always tipped me a couple of bucks for carrying her groceries up the stairs.

“Here’s a little something for you,” she said, handing me two dollar bills. She had no idea that I looked forward to Thursdays, for the chance to enter her apartment, the very place where She had grown up.

“Thanks, but you don’t need to do this,” I protested. I would pay you for this opportunity, my mind screamed. But I didn’t tell Mrs. Jenkins that. No, she would think that was strange, and it might scare her. I didn’t want to scare her.

“No, I insist. You’re such a nice boy.”

Such a nice boy. I felt a flicker of excitement. Mrs. Jenkins could see what everybody else seemed to miss. No wonder She was so special, with a wise mother like Mrs. Jenkins.

“I’m heading downstairs – why don’t I take your trash with me?” I innocently asked.

“That would be wonderful!” she exclaimed. I nonchalantly lifted the bag out of the trash can and was rewarded by the sight of a cream-colored envelope. I tied a loose knot in the bag.

“Thank you, Greg,” she said with a smile.

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Jenkins. Have a nice day.” I surely will, I thought.

I started down the hall, casually striding toward the garbage chute. I heard a soft thud as she closed her door, then a quiet whoosh as the deadbolt slid into place. Secure in the knowledge that she was preoccupied with her groceries, I turned around and headed back to my apartment.

I meticulously wiped down my countertop before I placed the trash bag on top. I had to be careful – I didn’t want any stray butter or jelly contaminating anything from Her. My hands shook as I opened the bag.

As I parted the black plastic, I could see the envelope, laying on top of the trash, waiting for me. I tenderly picked it up and, cradling it close to my body, took it to Her corner.

The walnut cabinet held a place of honor in the corner of my small apartment. I had spent months saving for a corner cabinet, then even longer trying to find the perfect piece. It had to be classy and elegant, like Her. So much of the modern furniture was made of pressboard, or cheap wood with thin veneers. My collection needed a much finer home than that.

Reaching into my shirt, I carefully pulled out the long gold chain that I wore around my neck and fingered the small brass key that hung on it. I didn’t have to take it off – no, I was more careful than that. The chain was the perfect length to reach the cabinet doors. And when it wasn’t in use, the little key hung right above my heart, a symbol of my adoration for Her.

After opening the doors, I flipped a small wall switch and recessed lighting flooded the cabinet. The glory of my collection was now fully revealed. I carefully held my latest addition under the lights, admiring the soft cream of the envelope, and the way that the graceful black handwriting showed the perfection of Her personality. I held it up to my nose and breathed deeply, knowing that Her hands had lovingly caressed it, just as they would some day caress me.

I turned it over and was thrilled to see that it had been sealed. No tucking in the flap or using tape or labels to close it – no, She had licked the envelope herself. I closed my eyes and imagined her tongue gently running along the edge, moistening it, leaving some of Her behind to travel to me. This definitely deserved a place of honor in my special corner.

I weighed my options, trying to find the perfect place for it. I had so many treasures, more than I could have ever imagined. I carefully moved the Starbucks cup to the side, remembering the look of pleasure on her face when the sweet nectar inside had first reached her lips. Then my eyes fell on a small piece of red. And I knew.

Taking a small pair of tweezers, I lifted the tiny fingernail fragment. I gently stroked the top, its cool smoothness sending shivers down my spine. It was so uniquely feminine, so uniquely Her.

I placed it back on the shelf, then positioned the envelope just behind it. Stepping back, I admired how the scarlet red contrasted with the cool cream of the envelope.

Sitting on the sofa, I imagined how She’d admire my corner. She’d love it.

She had to.

I’m such a nice boy.

It was easy to pick the tourists out of the crowd. Their eyes wandered, looking up at the skyscrapers, sideways at the shops and restaurants, and back over their shoulders at sights they had missed in their roaming. Tourists never looked down.

Alan Mills was no tourist. His eyes never went above shoulder height. The key to walking Chicago’s streets was watching the feet. Alan walked with his head low and his eyes lower, subconsciously matching his stride to the feet around him. His briefcase hung from his left hand, swinging at his side like a pendulum in a tight arc, never leading or lagging by more than a few inches.

Alan had been an urbanite for almost a decade now, and maintained the aura of self-importance with no effort. Today, he found it especially easy. Vice-presidents of Fortune 500 companies did not have to act important; they were important.

In his right hand, Alan carried a Cinnamon Dolce Latte. The heat was just enough to make his hand uncomfortable, but the cream-and-spice smell made the pain worthwhile. In just a few minutes, he would settle into his office on the thirtieth floor of the Chase Tower, savoring the taste of the coffee and the new leather smell of his chair. A promotion to vice president was not without its rewards. Alan smiled; life was good.

That self-satisfied smile proved to be his undoing. As he approached Madison Street, Alan’s mind wandered and he recklessly revealed his contentment. He looked up from the feet to the faces of the human river in which he traveled. And he stopped.

When a single cog within a machine fails to perform as expected, there are consequences. In stopping, Alan’s feet broke the cadence of the throng, and the disruption rippled outward into the host surrounding him. The feet nearest to his stumbled, those farther away broke tempo for a half step or scuffed the ground as if expecting it to be a half-inch lower.

Alan noticed none of this, however. His entire focus was on the ghoulish figure staring back at him from the corner. For an eternal instant, the ebon creature regarded Alan. About Alan’s height, it had a vaguely human form, but was so obviously not human that the shape was more disturbing than familiar. Its eyes were the color of fire. Alan looked like a tourist, standing at the corner of Dearborn and Madison, mouth agape, eyes bulging.

Pedestrians flowed around him like whitewater around a boulder in the river. Sharp elbows and muttered curses wore at his edges, seeking to erode the obstacle in their path. The demon endured no such discourtesy. The human current slipped around it as if it were a permanent fixture.

No one took notice of the shadowy fiend, perhaps because it had no feet. Like a viscous cloud of malevolence, it floated several inches above the pavement, gazing at Alan with a look of pure hunger. The yearning in those flaming orbs pulled at Alan like a magnet and his feet began to move again. He was drawn, against his will, toward the specter.

They stood face to face, each partially blocking a crosswalk. Alan could not speak, could not move, could hardly breathe. Black was not actually the color of the fiend. It was more a total absence of light, as if the creature destroyed all energy that touched it. The demon itself was not visible in this world, nevertheless, it presence was apparent. Alan’s latte fell to the ground, and his ankles and thighs were simultaneously disturbed by a spreading warm wetness.

Then the demon spoke. Only, it was not speech so much as thought. The demon thought at Alan, and Alan heard and understood. “Congratulations, Alan. Welcome to Mahogany Row. They mentioned you would be getting an assistant, no?”

Yes, they had told him that. Alan nodded, hoping to please the horrifying vision before him. He would have done anything at that moment to placate it. The blackness before him shimmered, and Alan had the distinct impression it was laughing, although there was no sound. Then, whether by logic, or communicated by the fiend, the horrifying truth crystallized in his mind. Alan opened his mouth to shriek, and invited the demon in.

Fifteen minutes later, Alan’s new secretary welcomed him into his new office. Throughout the morning, a constant parade of executives came to greet him. The creature that now commanded his body shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with its compatriots while Alan cowered within his own flesh, as far from his possessor as possible. While that dark spirit controlled his mind, the essence that was Alan cringed and trembled within his own feet.

I paused to look in the window, feigning interest in the cheap baubles it displayed. A face I hardly recognized stared back at me. Gone were my blonde hair and blue eyes, replaced by dark eyes and even darker hair. I quickly switched my focus to the crowd passing behind me, scanning for anything – or anyone – suspicious.

Brilliant colors swirled around me, reflecting the intense tropical sun. The conversations around me were meaningless, strange words in a strange language. I could easily translate – but for now, my mind was focused on the reflections in the glass. Searching for a pattern, a warning.

A man in a brightly patterned shirt caught my eye. At first I dismissed him, but something kept bringing me back. On the surface, he blended in with the rest of the locals. Dark hair, vivid clothing, worn sneakers. Sneakers. In this climate, the footwear of choice was open-toed sandals. Closed shoes were reserved for special occasions – weddings and funerals, not window shopping.

I could feel adrenaline pulse through my body. Now that I’d found him, I let the rest of my senses engage. A small river of sweat ran down my neck, only to evaporate under the hot sun. I could smell the dust from the street mingling with the aroma of the food cooking in the street vendors’ stalls. Words came into focus as I heard mothers chastising their children, men complaining about the crops, old women lamenting the changing world.

I casually turned from the window and started down the street, pausing now and again to admire the work of a local artisan. Sneaker Man kept pace, occasionally stopping to make a small purchase, but never letting me out of his sight.

An old woman sat in a small booth. Piles of woolen blankets surrounded her, dwarfing her shrunken figure. I fingered a blanket, admiring its fine weave. I shook it out, pretending an interest in the pattern. It measured about 5’ by 5’ – the perfect size. I glanced at Sneaker Man and caught a puzzled look on his face. Satisfied by his reaction, I pulled enough money from my pocket to cover the cost of the blanket, then a little more. I was rewarded by a toothless smile and a quick blessing.

Throwing the blanket over my arm, I picked up speed. Forced to keep up, he abandoned all pretense of shopping.

The crowds thinned as we left the central shopping district. I looked over my shoulder and made eye contact with Sneaker Man. I let a look of surprise, then fear pass over my face. I broke into a desperate run. Suddenly, I darted around a corner onto another street.

Then I waited.

I could hear the soft sound of sneakers running on dirt, following me. Now that I’d spotted him, he was moving in for the kill.

He rounded the corner with his eyes focused further down the street, searching for my fleeing figure. I stepped forward and threw the blanket over his head.

Suddenly blinded, he stumbled off balance, struggling to free his arms. A sharp blow sent him to his knees, one more and he was flat on the ground.

I stepped away and he pulled the blanket from his face – only to stare into the black mouth of my Glock .45.

“Who sent you and what do they want?” I demanded.

“No habla ingles,” he said. I repeated my question in Spanish, then French and German. I watched as his face paled. I don’t know what they had told him about me, but it obviously hadn’t been flattering.

“I do not know what you mean, senorita.”

“You were following me. Why?” I asked.

“I was concerned for you. This is not a nice place,” he whined.

“Not a nice place for you,” I agreed. I saw him look around, trying to evaluate where he found himself. What his options were.

It didn’t take long. The corner I had chosen was off the main street, surrounded by run-down factories. During the week, this area would be crawling with people and vendors. But this was Saturday afternoon, and all of the workers had fled the city. Movement down the block drew his attention, raising his hopes. I watched them fade as he realized that it was only a rat, drawn out by the lack of human noise.

“He looks hungry,” I commented idly. “Wonder if he has any family around?” I watched as Sneaker Man’s eyes widened in fear.

With my free hand, I pulled my knife from its hidden sheath. The sun sparkled off the 5 inch blade.

“I wonder if he’d like a snack…” I let my gaze drift to his fingers.

“So, who did you say sent you?” I softly asked.

Then I just listened.

The corner of William and Main has magic, some say. That corner was where your mama and I met way back. She was leanin’ against the Magnolia, lookin’ just like some paintin’ the way the creaminess of her skin flowed into the light blue of her dress, which the wind blew into the flowers of the tree.

But this story ain’t ‘bout our meetin’, this is the story of before, a story it ‘bout time you heard.

There ain’t never gonna be nothin’ on the corner of William and Main but dirt and that ol’ Magnolia. Cause under the Magnolia is what’s left of the demon, Ol’ Saggin’Bones.

Demons like crossroads, symbolic of choice. You go down to the corner of William and Main and you got choices, go straight and stop in on the minister or turn left and meet Eddie at the pub.

Long time ‘fore this was a proper town there was lots of choices that hadn’t been made and lots of places that hadn’t been built. All we had was the people, the dust, and the corner of Main and William just waitin’ for you to come ‘round and choose.

One day the ol’ demon Saggin’Bones take notice of this here crossroads and decided to make himself big with his master. He was gonna come up and take our souls, bring ‘em down and say “Lookie here boss, I done good, now give me more power,” cause demons think they can bargain with the devil.

Course, plenty o’ people think that too.

Ol Saggin’Bones, he didn’t have the power to make wishes come true, he worked with emotions. Human emotions are volatile, always at a crossroads – do you go straight to love, or turn left to hate? Love and hate is the biggest crossroads. So that’s what this demon offered.

“Got a woman ya’ fancy? I make her think you the only man she can love. Any woman, just make one itsy-bitsy promise, just that little ol’ scrap of a thing you call a soul, ain’t worth the bread a good woman makes anyways” he’d say.

Hate was a seller too. “You mad at your brother?” Ol’ Saggin’Bones would ask, “Just make his girl hate him. Nothin’ dies faster than that which is hated.”

And people’d do it.

Problem with love and hate is if that’s all you got, you go crazy. These here guys would be happy that first week ‘cause the woman o’ there dreams looked only at them. Then that woman couldn’t part from them, they’d pull their hair and follow ‘em cryin’ and moanin’ that they’d die if they were apart. Then they’d kill them men and themselves so they could be together in hell.

Same with da’ hatin’. Just cause a girl hate her guy, doesn’t mean the hatin’ dies when he does. Soon enough the town was in a tizzy with people hatin’ and lovin’ and killin’ for both and all those souls went straight down to Lucifer himself.

Then your ma came strollin’ into town. A slight breeze stirred the ribbons in her sunbonnet and ruffled her soft blue dress. Her hair was loose and bounced upon her shoulders, shinin’ like heaven’s gold. In her hand was a shovel and at her waist a deerskin pouch. Not that I saw, but I heard.

She walked to the corner of Main and William and Ol’ Saggin’Bones asked what she wanted.

Your ma had heard of the town, and Ol’ Saggin’Bones, and other things too. She heard from the wind that her future was here, if’n only Ol’ Saggin’Bones were gone.

So she looked at him and said, “Leave now.”

That demon just laughed.

She replied, “Mr., you gots a choice. You go back to hell, or you die.”

That got Ol’ Saggin’Bones laughing so hard the ground shook.

She walked over to Ol’ Saggin’Bones and swung that shovel, cleaving his head from his body. He shrieked, his headless body wiggling and tryin’ to claw her. She took some powder from her pouch and threw it at the demon. Flames sprouted and burned him straight to ash. She daintily dug a whole, not more’n a foot deep, and placed in every last ash. Then she grabbed a seed from her pouch, placed it in the center of Ol’ Saggin’Bones, and covered it all back up. Next she done prick her finger and let three ruby drops land on the earth, which greedily sucked it down and up sprang the Magnolia.

It sprouted mighty fast, and within five minutes stood just as it does today. When she was done, she leaned up against that Magnolia and sucked at her finger.

And that was what happened before I rode into town, saw your mama on the corner, and fell in love- real love.

“Think…think!”

Jack was rushing madly through the bleak corridors. Still drowsy and not knowing where he was, he frantically tried to take in as much as possible of what was going on around him. Where was he, and how did he get here?

Dim lights and nonspecific tiles made everything look the same. The slippery floor did not improve his situation. In his rush he fell and skidded into the corridor’s corner. A sharp pain shot through right arm.

“Aagh!”

He looked down, only to see the intravenous needle, now almost totally submerged in his arm. He yanked it out and threw it to the side. He was quite bloodied up, but had no idea he had got that way. The first thought he can remember was bursting through a white door and falling into a corridor.

He tried to stand, but dizziness forced him to stay seated. He shook his head violently, trying to make the dizziness dissipate. He laid his head against the wall. The corner was uncomfortable, but it would have to do. He looked up at the wall in front of him. There was a blood streak on it, ending at the corner. It struck him!

“Oh god! I’m running in circles!”

Before he had fully realized that, deafening alarms went off and red lights on the walls sprang to life with ominous vigor, flickering as if they were all beating with the same evil heart.

He stumbled up and headed ungainly for the end of the corridor. There was an elevator.

Before he could reach the end, two voices broke though the alarm’s clamor and got his attention.

“He couldn’t have got far! He was supposed to still be sedated!”

He was next to a door. He grabbed the handle and forced himself toward the door with all his might.

Nothing.

Either he was weaker than he thought, or the door stronger. The impact dropped him to his knees, but he was up in a blundering flash, lumbering for the opposite door.

They were getting close.

He tried the same tactic with this door… Success!

He silently closed the door behind him. It was dark inside this room. He backed away from the door, only to plunge over what might have been a box. He crept backwards until he hit the wall. He then slid to his side until he got to the farthest corner from the door.

“Check everywhere. I want him found!”

Jack sat in the corner. His heart was beating in his ears and he tried to slow his heavy breathing down. He felt as safe in that corner, as could be allowed for someone in his situation. For now.

His head was pounding, aching so much it made him squint. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He listened intently for a while.

He must have fallen asleep, because the alarms had ceased and his headache was gone. He felt much better, and started on his new plan.

This all seemed strangely familiar.

Someone tried the door across from this room. He looked up, listening. He stared at the door. His eyes had by now gotten used to the darkness. An intense anxiety rose in him. He knew his door was next.

He pushed himself back in the corner, waiting.

The footsteps were coming closer, approaching this door.

A hand seized the handle and it slowly moved downwards. He cowered into the corner as far as he could.

The door swung open slowly, with the light swarming in, as it opened more. It was too bright! He couldn’t see anything!

“There he is! Seize him!”

His corner bade him farewell as he was plucked from it. He struggled ferociously!

The two doctors watched attentively as Jack struggled violently in the corner of his cell.

“Luckily the walls are thickly padded; otherwise he would have hurt himself badly.”

“What is wrong with him?”

“He suffers severe anxiety attacks, coupled with extremely intense hallucinations. We have failed to cure him for more than seven years now… Oh well (shrugging), have you had lunch yet?”

In the Richards household there was no jury of unbiased peers, appeals, or due process. Every crime, from misdemeanor food violations to felony biting, had the same punishment. Being the rebellious middle child, my trips to the naughty corner were frequent, but being the creative child I found ways to amuse myself while sentenced to that 90-degree prison.

It has been proven by sporting events and Greek college life that nudity is one of our most primitive forms of amusement. Before my imagination had fully developed at age six I was sentenced to the naughty corner for throwing crayons. Even at that age I was an angst-ridden child. As a simple protest to my punishment I felt it necessary to disrobe completely, do a little dance, and join all of my relations just tucking into their mashed potatoes during Thanksgiving dinner. Surprisingly, that didn’t stop my mother from putting me in the naughty corner several more times.

My sister, the overachiever, was sparingly reprimanded and almost never did anything deserving of cornering. Even if she did, she was immediately exonerated due those adorably innocent looking curly blonde locks I was so envious of. She was on the prom committee and had decided to place the fundraiser candy on the naughty bench, which had been recently expanded due to my aging and the growth of the family. Well, it just so happened that night I was very eager to try out my newly perfected moonwalk. The best way to showcase my talents, I concluded, was to extemporize a performance on the kitchen table during dinner. Not being the most coordinated of all children, my left heel knocked over the milk, and I was sentenced to the naughty corner.

I was trying to go legit, really trying, but placing 25 Hershey Bars in front of an already mischievous child is like telling a kleptomaniac there are no security cameras in a department store. I was hungry too, having been dismissed from the dinner table so abruptly. As I devoured M&M packet after M&M packet I vowed I would pay her back somehow someday. After all I was trying to go legit. I got away with that one, and the class treasurer got blamed for not paying for candy bars. I’ll fess up one day.

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. The youngest little Richards emulated me every chance she got, much to the dismay of our mother. She also had a fondness for putting dandelions in her ears, which to this day we cannot explain, but I digress. There came a point at which my mother could scarcely open her mother before Em would heave a heavy sigh, pick up her blanket and trod to the corner, even times when she had done nothing wrong. The only instance I can remember her remotely deserving the corner came about two years ago. Em’s bowels never have been quite right, and that has caused her embarrassment and stomach pains along the years. Well, Em had become so attached to the naughty corner she now enjoyed playing dolls there. The thing is Em always felt the urge to go so he didn’t feel it necessary to stop her playing to use the bathroom. We didn’t know at the time, but more often then not she just went on the spot and kept playing. The following week I noticed a rather pungent aroma emitting from the naughty corner. So the family and I searched and searched for the source. Our answer finally came when my dad announced his hand had hit something soft and turned an oddly pale green hue. We had found the gifts of excrement she had been leaving under the naughty chair’s upholstery. That corner is now affectionately known by a different name.

As I look back on those times I spent staring at the red Waverly wallpaper, I realize that some of my greatest schemes and intellectual discoveries were created while I was supposed to be contemplating my offense. Next time you hear about some one realizing a great invention, or the discovery of the century think about all the naughty corner time that got them there, and what they could’ve possibly done to deserve it. Also, in case you were wondering, while serving one particularly boring sentence in the naughty corner in fourth grade I used the Pythagorean theorem to measure the hypotenuse of the naughty corner. It’s about 22 feet.

Corner. Stare. Ignore.

Each time Kim opened her mouth, I found my gaze directed immediately to the nearest corner of the room. I would stare at it with a blank look on my face, my mouth hanging open, and “what the heck, what in the world, what is she talking about” going through my mind.

Kim was a good friend, but she would articulate sentences that seemed to be made up of random words strung together with no meaning. Today was no exception. She burst into my bedroom at five o’clock in the morning to tell me an amazing story. “Last night it was raining. I like rain.” She paused, stared at the corner of my bedroom, then continued. “I like not-rain, too. They’re both so wonderful.” It was now my turn to stare blankly at a corner.

Kim continued talking while my mind began to wander. Looking at that corner, I wondered who had lived in this room before me. Was it a cute college girl with light brown hair and highlights or a murderer? I pondered this thought for a moment as Kim continued her pointless story. I adjusted my gaze to Kim’s pretty face and tried to listen to her. “…then he took my hand and we walked outside in the rain. I told you I liked rain. That’s why I like rain, you know. But I like not-rain, too.” she said. I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought about snapping at her; “get to the point!” But I didn’t. I looked back up at the corner of my room and my mind began to wander once again.

I noticed a tiny crack running from the corner of my ceiling and down the wall about an inch. I began to imagine that the crack was a spider’s web. The web of an eight-legged little guy named Stan who lived for the sole pleasure of coming home to a nice fly. Stan would hide in the corner until a fly got stuck in his little web then he would scurry out of the shadows and suck the little bug’s blood. Yummy! Then I realized that no fly could get caught in a web that was just a crack in the corner of the room.

At that, I began to feel a bit paranoid. If the crack’s not the part of the web that catches flies, there must be a bigger web somewhere for Stan, the corner-dwelling creature. I reminded myself that spiders are little, and realized that the “bigger web” could very well be somewhere in the room. I frantically searched each corner of the room while Kim rambled on. There was not a web in sight. After twelve minutes of pondering this problem, I realized that there most certainly must be some horrific, giant spider web in the closet (where else could it be?) and now all of my clothes are full of spider eggs (I forgot Stan was a boy spider). Although I didn’t mind spiders before, the thought of walking around with a colony of those creepy-crawlers growing under the collar of my shirt was not appealing in the least.

I screamed, “Kim! Stop talking! You’ll scare the spiders out of the closet! They’ll take over the corners of my room. Then what will I stare at while you torment me with your meaningless words?”

I suddenly realized what I had said, but it was too late. Kim jumped out of my chair, stomped her foot with tears on her cheeks, and turned abruptly to walk out the door. But, alas, she didn’t make it. She smacked into the corner of my room, hit her head, and fell to the floor. I didn’t know what to do, so I shrugged it off, lay down in my bed, and proceeded to stare at the corner of my room as I drifted to sleep.