The creek was narrow, you could quickly step over it, and it barely had water in it. It lay undisturbed behind the house, down the hill, and through the trees. Pieces of a motorcycle lay through it, including the mandatory piece that jutted out of it. The water that did flow had a crimson color to it. Those two facts–the crimson water and the crashed motorcycle–led to the tale and title of “Bloody River”.
Of course, it wasn’t a river at all. As I said, it was a creek. But why was the water reddish? Where did the motorcycle come from?
“You think the bones are under the ground?” Libby’s voice echoed my own thoughts. I glanced at the slithering ripples again. Yeah, I could definitely see how there might be bones buried there.
“Bloody River,” I whispered.
“Huh?” Libby asked.
“Bloody River,” I repeated. “Don’t you know the story?”
She didn’t and I didn’t either. But I wouldn’t let her know that. I mean, it looked like blood so why shouldn’t it be called ‘Bloody River’? Yes, yes–it’s not a river. We’ve established that. But it sounded better. ‘Bloody Creek’ sounded like a British insult. I stared at my best friend, eyes wide to set the mood, before I slowly began.
“Before any of us lived here, before it was even a neighborhood, this ground was a cemetery. The whole place was miles of tombstones. And at the corner of it, over there,” I pointed to her house, “was a freshly dug grave where a girl, a teenager, was to be buried. She had died in a motorcycle accident near the cemetary. The night before her funeral, her boyfriend rode back to her future gravesite to visit what would be his future home. You see, it was his fault Misty died. He had been driving too fast and as he rounded a curve his motorcycle toppled. Misty wasn’t wearing a helmet. She flew off the back and head first into the rocks below. He blamed himself, naturally–it was his fault.” I stopped here to take a deep breath and Libby inquired, “ What do you mean, he went to visit his future home?”
“I was getting there. Okay. Like I said, he blamed himself. He sat by her gravesite and cried. He had come knowing he would take his life that night. ‘It’s time to beat death at his own game,’ he said, referring to his motorcycle. He revved it up, drove it down that hill,” I pointed behind us, “and slammed into the river nose first. Back then it was a river much deeper than this. He broke his neck and died instantly.” I paused.
“The next day they found his body laying carefully at the front of the grave, his hands folded like he was praying. No one knew what to think. Another thing they didn’t know was that he, through death, was praying for Misty’s forgiveness.”
Libby and I wiped tears from our eyes during the true/fictional story, depending on whose view you took.
“How did he get there?” she asked.
“No one knows for sure,” I replied. “Some people think angels brought him. They say five men couldn’t budge him. Only after Misty was safely in her rest did his praying hands fall. They buried him right beside her. They didn’t need a mortician or anything, because he had drained all of his blood into the river. No one knows how, but it still flows today. It always will. It was his sign to Misty that he drained his life for her for eternity. Bloody River.”
Libby glanced at the wreckage. “The motorcycle?”
“Left here to show that love will glide over death.”
Elizabeth sighed and plopped down beside Bloody River. Suddenly getting over into the next neighborhood by jumping over the creek as we had planned, and done so many times before, wasn’t important. I sat down beside her, taken in myself by the story.
“I guess his bones aren’t under there then,” she remarked. I shook my head no.
“What was his name?”
“Midnight.”
“Midnight and Misty,” she marvelled. “That’s pretty. How did you know about all this?”
I peered at her, smiling. “Why do you think they call twelve a.m. ‘midnight’, and dew ‘misty’? It wasn’t always this way. It’s an old love story passed down, explaining why we call the darkness yet turn of day ‘midnight’, and why when dew settles in the air we say ‘it’s misty out’. They occasionally come together, Midnight boldly embracing Misty, Misty blanketing Midnight with her forgiveness.”
Libby mouthed “wow” and stood to walk home, still in awe that the great love story explaining ‘midnight’ and ‘misty’ had taken place right where we lived. And I, even though I knew, couldn’t help but stare in amazement that night as I watched the darkness of midnight overshadow the misty dew that loomed over our neighborhood, and remembering the love Midnight must’ve had to leave his blood there for her, and protect her till the end of time.
Short Stories
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