Ultra-Violet Horoscopes

Romance in D-Minor

A scar ran along Will's nose that gave him a rugged appeal. Because his dark hair, teal eyes, and amused lips grabbed the attention, it wasn't noticeable at first. His deep seated confidence would obscure it. But soon you'd notice something a tick off and only then would the scar announce itself.

People would turn his cheek and say "oh, yeah. How'd you get that?"

"Juggling accident," he'd say. It had been his fault really. He'd gotten proficient at five devil sticks and wanted a riskier challenge. During training one day, a knife tumbled out of control and sliced a one-inch gash along his left nostril.

Sometimes, it happened during a drunken sword fight. Once it happened while hypnotizing a Rottweiler.

Each explanation was nonsense. Only his mother knew that it had happened during his first love.

There was an abandoned church on Chestnut Street then, belonging to the First Presbyterian congregation. It stood between the Bryson's house and the Welch building. As Wheelerville grew, the congregation outgrew its pews and built a splashy new clapboard on Main, one with its own lot so folks didn't have to park a couple block away.

The forsaken church on Chestnut Street became a shell.

It became a hollowed out reminder of America's pioneer past, when the train station was an actual stop and not an empty relic of America's romance with itself. The church's red brick spoke of God's unchanging nature. The white trim around doors windows and eaves said modest but proud. Stained glass windows depicted a kaleidoscope of Christian heritage that culminated in the resurrection. The steeple rose eighty-feet towards heaven and was topped by a cross, so you knew which god the First Presbyterians worshipped.

Inside, a gutted interior said "nothing to see here," save a decaying altar, inadequate for even the simplest rituals. The one protest to such desolation was, oddly, a piano situated obliquely to the far corner. To Will and his friends — Bright, Greg and Kenny — the instrument was an afterthought. Occasionally, they'd enter the church through a side door, and since none of them played the piano, no one ventured in its direction.

Except that Thursday.

Kenny had brought a super ball. They'd whip it against the wall so it ricocheted, and whoever nabbed it got a point. Will didn't get lots of points, but it was a blast. The game ended when he banged into the piano and rolled on the floor, rubbing his head until the pain receded. Being level with the floor, he noticed a trail leading from the instrument that ended behind the altar.

The piano bench bore two clear spots too. There was even evidence that someone had even been playing the keys. The dusty gray film was erased in ovals of white.

"Look at this," Will remarked.

Bright said it was a mouse. The bench marks didn't faze them, either. Kenny said the door was unlocked and anyone could come in and play that thing.

"Nobody comes in here and plays it," Greg reminded them. He looked at Will. "You think aliens are living behind the altar?"

Will wasn't in the mood. Pursuing it would start a game of one-upmanship that he had no energy for, even though he was good at it.

"Forget about it," Kenny said. Being sixteen, they were dabbling in adulthood and that meant vices. He broke out a pack of Camels. Will feigned inhaling because he didn't need the habit — instead he'd hold the smoke in his mouth a fair time before exhaling.

Rather than a compulsive addiction, it made smoking a contemplative effort.

Will looked around the circle at three guys he'd known since Kindergarten. Back then, Bright was a borderline chubby kid who smiled a lot and always wanted "in." He was still borderline chubby, but now he was six-feet tall, smart and confident. Lately, he'd been wanting to bet football games.