CHAPTER 1

Snow. Flakes, moths drawn to muddy yellow cones. Light desperately seeking the two lane road before them, never-ending. Wispy white snakes slithered away before the tires of the red compact. Hunched over the steering wheel, Christopher Graves pressed his face as close to the windshield as possible, trying to differentiate snow blanketed path from white chaos. After nearly two hours of continual squinting, he had a headache. Tiny men with tinier pickaxes chipped away at the back of his eyes. Glancing at the in-dash, 8:13PM painfully blazed back.

"8:13, and a forty minute drive turns into a two hour battle for survival." He declared to the tiny men and no one else.

Why do I put up with this? It's the same thing over and over again. Why? Because, he told himself, you can't say no. One day something big will show up and they'll call your name. Keep thinking that Chris, and you'll keep making these back-page trips until one day you get more readership in the obituary section!

At 29, Chris had worked at the Weekly for three years as a junior journalist. As the only junior at the small paper, he was charged with the inglorious responsibility of writing the "Of Interest…" column, located on the very last page of the Weekly, behind the classifieds, comics, recipe of the week and add space. Chris' boss, Dieter P. Bishop, had a superiority complex. After 35 years in the business, Bishop was of the opinion that he could do whatever his shriveled little black heart desired. Unfortunately for Chris, this meant ridicule and unwarranted criticism of every piece of work he produced. Bishop found it particularly agreeable to make Chris' job as miserable as possible. In three years, Chris had not received a single positive response from Dieter concerning anything he had done. On several occasions, other positions had come available, but Dieter turned a blind eye to Chris, regardless of the fact that Chris had more experience than every person that filled the vacancy. More than once he had considered leaving the Weekly, but jobs were nearly impossible to come by, and he was grateful that he even had one.

The scrape-thud, scrape-thud of the windshield wipers as they struggled under the weight of crusted ice, filled the car, numbing Chris to everything around him. The small cellphone on the seat next to him came to life, casting a blue haze through the small interior. Playing a cheery, slightly tropic tune, the cell had the gall to remind him that sunny, south Florida did not in fact lay just outside the car door.

"This is Chris." Flipping open the cell, a high pitched whine assaulted his ear.

"Chris, its Dieter, your boss."

"I know." Chris audibly sighed, swerving left of center to avoid a small glacier of ice that materialized in the headlights.

"Do I sense hostility? You had better be grateful that you have a job, Mr. Graves. Nevertheless, don't screw this up! Do you have the address I left for you?"

"Of course, 52 Greengrove Boulevard in South Cahill. You didn't tell me who I am interviewing. I wasn't able to prepare any notes or do any research." Research was the only part of Chris' job that he took pride in. The travelling was tiresome, the people-of-interest uninteresting, and his boss infuriating. Being one hundred percent prepared, having a complete understanding of his assignment was all he had to look forward to.

"Research is overrated, Graves. I never did an ounce of research in my career and look at me. I'm more successful than people like you could ever imagine. I'm living the life, Chris. But you wouldn't understand what that's like. I'm important, loved and admired by thousands! People want to be just like me. I'm fair, honest and respectable, right Chris?"

"Of course sir, and more." Snow was beginning to stick to the road, forcing him to slow down to twenty five.

"Of course and more. Now listen, I don't think you realize how lucky you are. You are en route to interview the most interesting person I know, besides me of course. My Aunt Lovie. Now I warn you, don't screw this up! My aunt raised me from infancy, after my parents were murdered in a drive-by shooting outside our home. It's a miracle that I didn't die with them. My aunt was good enough to raise me even though she had no children herself. She didn't have much, but she raised me to be what I am today."

"But I thought you were dumped by your parents because they were dru…"

"Stop! They were killed by punks on a high!" Bishop attempted to compose himself. "You are to interview my aunt about me and how I have succeeded through such adversity. I have already called ahead and explained everything to her. So when you get there just shut up and write down everything she says and bring it to me. I will go through your notes and…edit anything that may be…untrue." Bishop spat.

"So why not just interview her on the phone?" Chris hissed in anger as his journey through the white cacophony materialized into pointlessness.

"You and your simple mind wouldn't grasp the importance of this. For this reason, I do the thinking and you do the driving. Now get there and get it done. Mess this up and you'll find an empty desk in the morning." Click. The sweet sound of the dead line began to slowly leach the tension out of his bone white grip on the steering wheel.

Through the darkness and snow, a rectangular sign appeared on the side of the road. Chris slowed the car to a sliding stop and wiped at the foggy window with his jacket sleeve. The sign was dented and turned slightly towards the road, sideswiped no doubt by a careless driver. Most of the reflective green sign was crusted with snow and salt, sprayed by a plow many hours prior.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, unlocking his door, Chris got out of his comfort zone and crunched his way around the front of his car. Shielding his face from the sting of ice particles, Chris tried to brush the caked snow away for a better look at the lettering. Stuck solid, the snow would not refuse its death grip. Backing away, snow now covering his head and shoulders, the headlights illuminated the sign. The letter "S", a four foot space covered with snow and "ILL" were all that was visible.

"South Cahill" Chris muttered in a plume of smoke quickly blown away like a ghost searching for a new haunt. Shuffling back to the sign looking more like a snowman, Chris hammered below the "ILL" with his fist. A chunk of snow to the right silently fell to the ground revealing an arrow pointing right and the number six. Beating on the sign several more times did nothing but remind him that he was not wearing gloves. Hurrying around the front of his car again he entered and cranked up the defrost to HIGH.

The wind whipped against the side of the small car, rocking it slightly. Snow swirled across the window and in front of the lights. The storm howled. Tires spinning, he pulled back onto the interstate.

"Well, at least things can only get better from here." He tried convincing the tiny men behind his eyes.

If he could only believe himself.