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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “I wrote this in the dark” Down in the Dirt, v207 (5/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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A Deepest Crush
Todd K. Denick
Katja, a chestnut-eyed angel, stands in the middle of the Ermreuther Synagogue. It would take three stairs to ascend to her; it would take three to descend to young men who stood in attention outside, staring in through the windows. They would use the rough, sandstone faŤade to scale the wall, the texture holding them in place to peek in a window. It was a special treat when Katja would ascend the stairs leading to a circular stage. There, she would be on full display. Each one of them loved her for a different reason. Alexander loved her more. When he saw her, his stomach cramped and legs fell numb. The necessity to fall at her feet and place his hands upon her was so overwhelming, so intense, that a cold sweat broke out across his back – feverish and weak, his body temperature would drop.
Katja paid them very little mind. Devout, confident and in love, she enjoyed the feel of being sought after, but she was spoken for. Emmanuel, a handsome young man had captured her heart many years ago. He was kind and gentle, loving her intently and intensely every day since the day they met. Her marriage continued to keep her happy, regardless of the ill will and rumors spread by many young men. In their private conversations, they dismissed her marriage.
Climbing down from the walls, their face prints left on the window pane. The boys ran off, away from the village in the direction of a long, sloping hill covered in apple trees. A thin gravel road ran east to west, where they would stop, hunch over and catch their breath, remove their socks and shoes and cool off in the creek. They would tease each other. Alexander would become a target of their jeers when he would remain quiet, stuck in some kind of deep meditation that the other boys couldn’t understand. They would push each other, splash cold creek water in each other’s faces before running off in opposite directions and afternoon chores. A few steps from his house, Alexander would stop and calm himself; taking deep breaths and wiping the sweat from his forehead, pushing it back onto his scalp, making himself and his hair presentable, before entering.
Alexander heard the distinct, dry coughs of his sister. She had been sick for months and showed no sign of improvement. The illness washed her face clean of any color and her fingers and toes contorted like twisted tree limbs. Every time a dry cough over took her body, she crippled a little more. Alexander’s Mother had said her prayers and had some sense of peace. Alexander’s father wandered around the inner courtyard of their house, looking anything to do. He wasn’t ready to let go of his daughter.
Alexander placed a scented strip of cloth over his nose and mouth before entering his sister’s room. The window remained closed and shuttered against any chill entering the room. The air was stagnant and warm and barely moved when he walked to her bedside. He hadn’t said his goodbyes yet, just spending time looking into her chestnut eyes and watching her golden curls dry, become brittle and fall in clumps from her head. Soon, she would be bald. Soon, she would be dead.
Today, when he pets her hand by flickering candlelight, she reminded him of the woman that he peered on through the windows of the synagogue. He marveled at what remained of his sister’s beauty. Even as it faded moment by moment, he longed to love her like he hadn’t when he was younger, when she was vibrant, alive, and living.
Alexander was old enough to understand the inequity of fairness, but it did nothing to either control or hide his aggression. He would have to catch himself before he threw plates against the walls out of frustration, or take one of the kitchen chairs, smashing it into kindling before placing their remains into a fire. He wouldn’t let the mismanagement of his anger control him, nor would he show that kind of weakness in front of his sister.
Outside of the door that led into the kitchen, overlooking the marketplace and large residence, he found some calm in the gentle wind passing through stands of birch trees, and the long, silken leaves from the stalks of corn singing a soft lullaby, accompanying the breeze. Alexander closed his eyes and dreamt of Katja. Her eyes, the ways she hovered through the room to ascend the pulpit. Outside, in the Fall breeze under a chestnut tree, he had an idea. Taking a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, he quickly sketched Katja as she descended the three stairs. Draped in a long white dress, she appeared to float above a gathering.
On the other side, he wrote in his finest script:
To my deepest crush,
How can I tell you when I can’t find the words right now?
The letter, and accompanying sketch, ended with a marriage proposal. Alexander, pleased with himself, was unable to deliver the proposal personally. Returning to the house he folded the sketch and declaration of love in another sheet of paper, folding the two sheets into an envelope ready for delivery.
He couldn’t sleep that evening. He lay in bed, every shadow reminded him of Katja; every slight noise sounded like a reply being slid under the door. He stuck to his blanket. He was covered in a thick layer of sweat. He pulled his cover up and over his chin; regardless of the sweat, his hands and feet were ice cold, tingled and kept him awake. He had a moment of two of regret when he thought of what the other boys would say when they heard. They would, of course, hear about his proposal. It would probably end in a fight; Alexander would win the fight, but his embarrassment would label him a loser. The other boys would just be jealous that they hadn’t taken any action first. Closing his eyes, he tried to forget them, and drew upon his memory to bring back the golden curled, chestnut eyed recollection of Katja.
Alexander eventually fell asleep and was awoken by his mother who opened his door to wake him and tell him that someone was here to see him. He could see the confusion on his mother’s face. It told him what he could have predicted.
Standing in the doorframe, Emmanuel had his hands stuck his jacket pockets. Alexander could tell that they were balled into fists. Emmanuel didn’t blink. He stared Alexander down when he entered the kitchen. Alexander shuddered when he saw the dark eyes and darker hair. He had’t taken Emmanuel into consideration when he wrote the letter. He may have been stupid, young and in what he perceived to be love, but he wouldn’t let Emmanuel have her.
“Let’s speak outside,” Emmanuel suggested. His voice was oddly friendly behind his dark features. He was slight, thin, and the same height as Alexander. Still, Alexander was terrified.
“What is this about,” Alexander’s mother asked Alexander.
“It’s nothing, Mother,” Alexander said.
Emmanuel held the door for Alexander as they went outside. Alexander stopped when he felt the chill from the morning breeze. The chestnut tree offered some protection from the wind. Alexander’s father wandered around, looking absent and lost. He carried a small hatchet and walked in their direction. He ignored the two and forced the hatchet into the tree. It rained chestnuts. Alexander’s father bent over and took a few. He didn’t mind that they were still in their husks, pointed and angular and as sharp as pin-points. He threw a few casual looks at the two young men. If he could feel the tension in the air, he didn’t show it. His mind was elsewhere. He didn’t even notice the pain as the needles from the chestnut husks dug into his skin.
“You have some explaining to do, boy.”
“Why?”
Emmanuel took a step closer to Alexander. Alexander’s breaths came in rapid gasps.
“You will apologize.”
Emmanuel took another step closer. Sweat built upon sweat and weighed Alexander down. His face began to flush, turning a ghostly white. His arms were frozen at his sides. His jaw tensed in anticipation. Emmanuel took his hands from his pockets revealing fists. His fingers tucked so tight in the palm of his hands that they already turned white. Alexander could hear Emmanuel sucking the saliva from his lips in anticipation. There wasn’t much room, but Emmanuel took what was left away with another step.
“You will and you will do it now.”
Emmanuel relaxed his fists to unbutton his jacket. He stretched, pushing his shoulders back, reforming his hands into tight, doughy balls. In the pocket of his shirt sat the letter. It was crumpled and the edges were torn. The paper he had put on the outside to make an envelope was gone. For a moment, he wondered if she agreed to his proposal. That could be the reason why Emmanuel was so angry.
“Did she say yes?” It was an innocent question, but Emmanuel’s fist against his temple gave him the answer. Alexander dropped to his knees. The needles from a chestnut husk brought a searing pain. His mind went blank, his aggression rose. The pain subsided. Emmanuel took a step back to strike again. Alexander let him. He could taste the blood, gently soothing the laceration on his tongue with his front teeth.
He let Emmanuel hit him again. There were tears, but they didn’t indicate pain. It was a moment built on frustration and anger. He could see his sister dying. He could see his mother suffer. He could see the congregation in the synagogue howl their anger towards him. He could see his buddies tease him, throwing the tart, cold water from the creek into his face. He saw his artwork and letters of love crumpled by a jealous bastard.
Emmanuel shoved him to his knees again. Using his hands to lift his body and his head, Alexander came face to face with the hatchet.
The sharp edge of the hatchet came from the tree; with it, a few more nuts and a sprinkling of dried, amber leaves. The sharp edge of the hatchet easily entered the space between Emmanuel’s dark eyes and darker hair. Introduced to the fall morning air, Emmanuel’s blood streaked in chestnut colored waves between his eyes and to his lips. A moment passed before he fell. Alexander stared into his eyes as life vacated the body. First, dropping to his knees, then forward onto his chest, the hatchet still securely stuck in his head. A final shiver announced his death.
Alexander used his foot to move Emmanuel’s body enough to remove the drawing and proposal from his breast pocket. His anger subsides with satisfaction, and spits a mouthful of blood on the body in front of him.
Alexander turned towards the house. His father stands in the open front door. He nods turns his back and enters the house.
