PART 1 - Lonlier Than Hell By N. 

1. 

 “It’s lonelier than hell up there,” Grandpa said, his half-gone Camel stuck between his 
hairless, wrinkled fingers. “But it’s a nice enough place.” 
  “Why doesn’t it have a name?” I asked. I brought the rim of my tea glass up to my 
mouth, but didn’t take a sip. My eyes were fixed on Granpa’s, and Granpa’s eyes were 
fixed on the early June horizon. 
  “It don’t need one. When you mention it, everyone knows what you’re talking about. 
You don’t need to name it.” 
  “Why does everyone know about it?” 
  “Because they just do. Like everybody knows how to walk, to breathe. They just do.” 
  We were sitting on the front porch, I on my favorite lawn chair, Grandpa on my Aunt’s 
ancient red porch swing. The day’s heat was finally dying away, and the air smelt fresh. 
The sun was eager to disappear behind the mountains, for the moon to take its place. 
  Grandpa opened his mouth, considered, closed it. 
  “Grandpa? What?” 
  “Nothin’. I was going to tell you something, but it slipped my damn mind. Don’t get 
old, for God’s sake.” 
  “My dad said getting old is inevitable.” 
  Grandpa snorted. He took a long drag from his camel. Smoke poured out of his nostrils. 
  “Your dad’s right.” 
  “What does inevitable mean?” 
  “It’s unavoidable. You know what else is unavoidable?” 
  “What?” 
  “Dyin’. I’ll be doing that very shortly.” 
  Suddenly, my mouth felt dry. I brought the glass to my lips again. I chugged. Tea ran 
down my chin, and I wiped it off with my shirt sleeve. 
  “But don’t you worry about that kind of stuff,” he went on. “You’re too young. You 
don’t understand much about it, and to tell you the truth, neither do I.” 

2.

  The next day, which was a Saturday, I told my friend Misty about Grandpa’s story. She 
listened with great interest, as if her life depended on it. 
  “He said it was lonely?” she asked when she was sure that I was finished. 
  “Yeah. But he said it was nice.” 
  “How can a place be lonely and nice at the same time?” 
  I thought about it, then shrugged. I was only ten, remember. Misty would’ve been nine. 
Our minds couldn’t digest Grandpa’s story, but we enjoyed it nevertheless. 

---

  I’d like to tell you about Misty. We have plenty of time. 
  She was a sweetheart. I loved her very much, and I’m almost certain that she loved me 
back. We were inseparable. She clung to my side, laughed at my jokes and stories, even 
put up with my homework problems. Pallet Town assumed we were lovers. Hell, even 
Grandpa referenced it once. “Don’t sit there and tell me she’s not your little girlfriend, 
Ash, because I’d bet money on it. I aint a fool.”
  I smiled. I didn’t reply. I was thinking about Misty. 
  Even at nine, she was a beauty queen. She had reddish, shoulder length hair and these 
indescribable eyes. I made her laugh because I loved looking at her smile. 
  I miss her like hell. I know she’s out there, but I don’t have the courage to look. 
Grandpa would’ve laughed at this, laughed his ass off. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Ash. 
That’s faggot romantic crap. If you want her, find her. End of story.” 
  Easier said than done, Pap. 

3. 

  Misty and I spent the rest of that humid Saturday together. The Pallet Town public park 
was in walking distance from our front doors, and because of the heat, it was nearly 
deserted. 
  “Come on,” she said, grabbing my hand. “No one’s there.” 
  She led me to a gigantic, crooked oak tree. From the lowest, thickest branch hung two 
tire swings. Misty chose the newest-looking tire. I was stuck with the oldest-looking.  
  “I sometimes came down here after school. Remember that time when Brent Dellerd 
called me a fat pig to my face and I ran home, crying?” 
  “Yeah, I do” I didn’t, but I wanted the story to continue.
  “I came up here and then I felt better. It has been my hang out place ever since.” 
  “I don’t have a hang out place.” 
  “You do now.” 
  We laughed. A few minutes later, we returned to the subject of Grandpa’s infamous 
story. 
  “So why doesn’t it have a name?” Misty asked. 
  “He said that it doesn’t need a name.” 
  “I don’t get it. Everything needs a name.” 
  “I guess Grandpa’s place doesn’t need one.” 
  “Your Grandpa’s weird, Ash. No offense.” 
  I smiled, and she smiled back. It stretched from one ear to the other. Her eyes shrunk to 
slits. 
  “Everyone says that,” I said, “but I love him a lot. I don’t want him to die.” 
  “I don’t want him to die, either.” An awkward pause, then: “I don’t want you to die.” 
  Dying is inevitable. That’s what my dad said, but was it the truth? Was Grandpa’s story 
true? I dropped my gaze onto my sneakers, keeping a rhythmic pace on my swing. Misty 
sat still, awaiting my reply, which was: “I’ll try not to. 

---

  It was 8:34 p.m. by the time we reached our subdivision. Misty’s parents were sitting on 
their front porch, drinking beers and smoking Camels. They waved at me, and I waved 
back. 
  “Where were you guys?” Misty’s mother asked. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know 
that Misty had received most of her looks from her mother. 
  “The park,” Misty said, walking up the wooden steps. “I showed Ash my hang out 
place.” 
  “Oh, that’s nice. What did you think?” 
  At first, I didn’t realize that the question was directed at me. I was hypnotized my 
Misty’s beauty, her perfection. 
  “Ash?” 
  “Oh, uh- I thought it was awesome.” 
  “Awesome?” Misty’s father snorted and took a sip from his beer can. “I think it’s more 
than awesome.” 
  “But that’s no excuse to stay there past seven.” 
  “Sorry,” Misty said. She was grinning at me from behind her mother’s shoulder. 
  “See you tomorrow, guys,” I said, and left. 
  That night I dreamt of Misty’s smile, and our hang out place, and her sly, guilty grin. 
“You better keep the secret,” that grin seemed to say to me. What secret? Our secret. 

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Part 2 is on its way! 

Until next time…

KilgoreTrout