Beware of Dog Park by Shaymaa Abusalih

In the friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while all pretend to sleep, there was a girl by the name of Lee. Lee Harper was a seventeen year old, five-foot-something with curly, cropped hair and a perpetual look of boredom stained on her face. Her eyes, though a beautiful shade of brown drooped with disinterest and very rarely were those little pink lips pinned up in a smile. She wasn't happy. She was a teenager and it was required by city law that no teenager should be in any way satisfied with their existence.

Today school got out early in honor of a town meeting that only a select few of the city's folk were allowed to attend. After dropping off her standard issue scholastic firearm, Lee walked down the street by herself, as always, and started to make her way home.

Her hands were tucked around the straps of her backpack and her pace, a steady bob. Around her neck, glossy and red as candied apples, was a pair of radio headphones. From a side view, her face was almost entirely concealed behind them. Her face was quite small, along with the rest of her, the headphones, quite opposite to this. They had belonged to the former lawn maintenance man for the high school's football field. Former, because there had been a nasty accident of some sort. A complete accident. One that could never involve any sort of tampering with lawn maintenance equipment that would eventually lead to a death so gruesome that nothing would be left of the maintenance man but a pair of bright red radio headphones that would later be auctioned off after the funeral in a citywide raffle. No, nothing like that.

Lee was fully aware of the fact that what she had around her neck was all that remained of a man who had more hair on his stomach than his head and didn't seem to mind one bit. She owed a lot to Mr. Weatherly and whoever it was that may or may not have replaced a few of the more vital parts of his lawn mower engine with rubber bands and saltwater taffy. Without these headphones she'd be without the one thing that actually managed to bring a bit of joy in her life. The afternoon radio talk show. She listened to it religiously, the voice on the other end drifting warm and low into her.

Lee checked her cell phone for the time and ducked into the headphones, turning the knob two twists forward. She waited for the static to clear and could just make out the slightest whisper of what she remembered to be Mr. Weatherly's usually working hum before the theme tune began to play and that sensuous voice began to weave a pattern of delicate wonder behind her eyes.

"Hello listeners. To start things off I've been asked to read this brief notice…"

Some people have religion, others funny, little, colored pills. Lee had the radio. While many kids her age spent their time plotting elaborate schemes or make their daily sacrifices to unknown forces that they would later forget about, Lee walked and walked and walked and did nothing else but listen to the radio. Well, she did do other things.

For example, she stopped and stared.

Sitting in the middle of a grass lot was a towering wall of smooth, obsidian brick. Everything was still and dying around it, a strange sort of heat that wasn't quite pleasant emanating from it. Lee plucked one headphone from her ear and listened a moment to the whispers seeping out of the walls. She felt the slightest urge tugging her towards it when the voice on the radio pulled her back.

"…They would like to remind everyone that dogs are not allowed in the dog park. People are not allowed in the dog park…"

So, slowly, she stepped away from it and back onto the sidewalk, placing the headphone over her ear again.

She didn't know where she'd be without Cecil – the man on the radio. There was something in his voice that rang with honesty. Honesty could be dangerous in a town like this. She liked that about him.

When she got home she expected the house to be empty. Even if it wasn't, there still wouldn't be anyone there to greet her.

Lee had lived with her grandma Josie for most of her life. She was sure there was a time when she might have lived with someone else – a mother or a father or maybe even both – but as hard as she tried, she couldn't remember. She only knew that there was something in her mind she had forgotten. She wondered if people felt the same way about her. That they knew she was there but just couldn't remember.

Lee Harper with her cool haircut and decent tastes was never the center of attention. She never could be. No one ever remembered her. And every day when she came home from school grandma Josie would sit in her chair in front of the television never even knowing she was there.

It was a lonely life for Lee and she never really could understand why no one bothered to notice or even remember her. Maybe she had done something wrong. Maybe she was defective. Or maybe she simply. Just. Wasn't. There.

She went upstairs to have her homework over and done with. Her grandmother mentioned once or twice on the radio already but she could never really pay much attention to her show with unfinished homework nagging away in the back of her mind. So, she dropped her backpack on the floor of her room, reached into the top drawer of her dresser for her slingshot and leaned out of the window to shoot a vulture with a crooked neck out of the sky. She recorded the approximate angle of the shot, the distance from the window to the target and at what pitch the sound the vulture's body made when hitting the asphalt. It took a moment to collect itself, squawked at nothing and flew off, lopsidedly into the dessert sky.

Now, she could listen in peace.

To many people in the city of Nightvale, Lee would have been considered strange, that is, if anyone paid any mind to her. And it wasn't her tastes, her sense of style, her looks, at all. It was the thousands upon thousands of thoughts that churned constantly inside that small, auburn head. She thought constantly about the things that no one really seemed to notice or concern themselves about. And if there ever was the slightest bit of doubt, the tiniest spark of panic, there Cecil was, putting troubled, thoughtless minds to rest with the sound of his voice. This however, never worked on Lee. As hard as she tried to lose herself in that lovely voice, she always managed to find herself again. There were times when she truly believed that Cecil was secretly putting thoughts into her head while he made everyone else's melt away. It was another confusing thing for Lee. Another thing to think about. It was exhausting, thinking, but she found there was nothing else in the world that she could do any better.

In contrast to her cluttered mind, Lee's room was rather empty. A few pieces of clothing were lying about the wooden panel floors, an antique lamp slouched in the corner. Her closet was an open mouth with not much to say other than, "You probably shouldn't own so many winter clothes. You are in the desert after all". To which she would reply, "I like my sweaters just fine. Thank you very much."

That is, if she ever really cared to say anything. She was capable of speaking and spoke on occasion – usually to herself and when no one was around.

"Come to think of it," she muttered to herself. "I haven't made any sort of contact with anyone before."

If she had, she probably wouldn't have remembered. It was the same as all those other things – it was there, but what was it?

Just as the exclusive town meeting was being announced, the front door opened downstairs. Crouching low, Lee crept into the hallway, peeking down at her grandmother through the banisters as she bustled in.

Grandma Josie must have been beautiful at some point. That is, until time slammed its palm down on top of her head, squatting her like a child would with a block of clay. She was layered and lumpy like a poorly baked round cake. Her hair was a collection of silver springs and, as always, she wore a beaded sweater that seemed a little too small. In one, veiny, wrinkled hand, she held what was left of her salt-free corn muffins and in the other, fanned out for counting, was a good bit of money. There was an immense look of pleasure on her worn old face as she stowed the cash away inside her dress. She then waited a moment by the door, adjusting her pink, oval glasses before looking out into the street and tapping her foot impatiently.

"Well, are you coming in or not?" she asked the space in front of her. "Am I going to have to wait all day?"

For a moment, Lee didn't understand but then, the most remarkable thing happened. The angels that had no business being there or even existing, stepped into the house. One after the other, glowing with the soft, lazy glow of a child's nightlight. Each of them, tall, thin and round-headed, silently collected in the foyer. With arched backs, they loomed over her grandmother with what Lee guessed to be patient stares, considering that there was no telling what their faces looked like past the bluish-gray beams emanating from every inch of them.

Lee had never been so absorbed in anything so terrifying. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the figures until they drifted after her grandmother, who seemed extremely comfortable in their presence, and into the next room. The light of the television flickered on the ground, shadows sliding to and fro. Lee retreated back into her room.

There she stayed for the rest of the day, spread across her bed and staring up at the ceiling as she listened on.

Yes, it was a lonely life. But Lee had Cecil. She had the humming of his good voice. She had the stories he told of the people who did not see her. She had his warnings and though she never had much use for them, she figured it was the thought that counted. And above all, she had his goodnights and goodbyes. They were the last thing she heard before going to bed. The last thing she'd want to hear if she were never to wake.

It was a plain life. Empty. Without meaning. For Lee, at least. To be honest, what kind of story would this be if it was only about a girl in a place like this? Some stories need their slow beginnings, their droning introductions and meaningless passages. Real stories don't truly begin without these useless things. Beginnings are what tomorrows are for. And tomorrows are never too far away.