2015
One flashlight flash meant danger, two flashes meant it was safe; but she saw three flashes that night from beyond the bog. And they weren’t flashlight flashes – or at least she didn’t think they were – but it was too late. She’d already left the house, creeping through the half-remodeled kitchen and across the old porch in her new sneakers, and was off into the night.
***
1970
One flashlight flash meant danger, two flashes meant it was safe; but she saw three flashes that night from beyond the bog. She looked down at her brother’s boots, all that had come home of him, with their long laces haphazardly wrapped and tied around her ankles. Looked back at the old porch with its creaking boards. Was off into the night.
***
1931
One flash meant danger, two flashes meant it was safe; but she saw three flashes that night from beyond the bog. She waited to see if they’d come again, breathless until the fog lit up around her. She’d already left the old house behind, creeping on hard bare feet across the splintered porch boards, and was off into the night.
***
1860
One flash meant danger, two flashes meant it was safe; but she saw three flashes that night from beyond the bog. She counted under her breath until Old Joe was past, fingers wrapped around the lucky nail in her pocket, and then she was off into the night.
***
Before
One of us alone is dangerous. One alone is hungry for her sister. One alone waits. Two speak together, two have no time for you. Pass, two, and begone along the bog path. But when we three gather, come to us, sister. We are not safe; we are vengeance on your enemies.