RAISINS
by Dolapo Ajayi

      Everyday at approximately seven o'clock in the morning, twelve year old Oliver Mitchem made his way to Mr. Dellis' shop on the corner of Helix Street and Eighth Avenue. It had become a bit of a ritual for him as Mr. Dellis had made a habit of giving young Oliver a bag of his store's locally famous cinnamon raisin cookies. 

      On his way there from his family's flat a few blocks away, he would pass all manner of local landmarks. First, he would see the jewelry store. It was run by a couple of misers from Garma and had been there for nearly one hundred years. The elderly owners were as old as they were nosey. Oliver would often pass their storefront from across the street. On the odd chance one of them decided to descend into their shop from their apartment above it, they'd surely ask him how his older brother was doing— a question he never had a good answer for. Lucky for him, he thought, they slept in and missed him. 

      A bit further down the road, Oliver passed the statue of Saint Nathaniel Kert. This monument, erected a decade after Pleatsville's founding, commemorated the city's dedication to becoming the most naturally beautiful place in the world. This ambition had perhaps become lost to time as Pleatsville was now no more distinct from any other urban settlement in terms of natural beauty. The statue itself, once surrounded by abundant greenery and fountains, was now upstaged by the myriad of shopping centers that littered the square it inhabited. A passerby in his mid forties, likely a tourist by Oliver's estimation, locked eyes with Saint Kert. His fixed gaze made it impossible for him to have seen the ledge leading to the sidewalk. And there, in front of the monument, the man tripped and fell. Oliver assessed the man from afar, never breaking his stride. The man stayed on the ground for the briefest of moments before standing up, dusting himself, and limping off. His inaction felt cruel for a moment, but the man did seem alright. If not, why would he have walked away, Oliver assumed. He turned and kept marching. 

      After a few intersections, he came upon a mural. This large painting hosted on the wall of the town hall was titled "The Hand That Feeds". It depicted a large open hand with a golden halo encircling it. Below it were a great number of hands, all ashen grey, reaching up toward the large one. Oliver peeked at the image, never fully stopping to absorb its implications. His father told him that the large hand was that of a Saint, but this ran contrary to Mr. Dellis's theory that the large hand was actually that of the political figure who had it commissioned. Oliver considered finally taking a moment to analyze the image. If he had, he might have noticed the small symbols on the wrists of the ashen hands. But he didn't. Because nothing on the planet was as beautiful as that bag of cookies he was minutes from enjoying. 

      After a final turn onto Helix Street Oliver spotted Mr. Dellis' store. On a typical day, Mr. Dellis would be tending to the many fruit bins in front of his shop. He'd be straightening the newspapers ensuring the headlines align perfectly with the edges of the rack that held them. After that, he would shoo away Isaac, the Unwoven beggar who had been finding great panhandling success outside of the bodega. But as Oliver approached the shop, he noticed that Mr Dellis was nowhere to be seen. 

"He must be inside, tending to the cookies,” thought Oliver. 

      Upon reaching the entrance, Oliver peeked inside. The pictures Mr. Dellis proudly displayed on the counter next to the chewing gums were strewn about on the floor below. His carefully curated collection of vintage knick knacks joined them. Oliver felt his stomach sink. As uneasy as he was, his curiosity led him further inside. 

      At the back of the store by the drink fridges was Mr. Dellis's office.  On the door handle was a small fingerprint. It was shimmering in the fluorescent lighting. It looked as if it was made of some dark slime. Oliver inched closer. Blood. 

      Without warning the door swung open and crashed with the wall behind it. The force caused a thud that hurt Oliver's ears. Oliver, now looking at the ground in sheer terror, spotted worn hiking boots in the doorway. He slowly moved his gaze upward until his eyes met with a familiar face. Looming over Oliver was Isaac. He let out a breath in relief, but it was short lived. For in the room behind Isaac lay Mr. Dellis' lifeless body. His beard soaked in a pool of blood beneath him and a small handful of teeth sprinkled around the floor.  

Oliver's face went white. Isaac, covered in sweat and hands soaked in blood, began sobbing. 

"Oliver!"  He screamed. 

Oliver turned to run away but Isaac was quick. Isaac pushed Oliver to the ground then ran to the front of the store and locked the door. 

"Why, Oliver! Why are you so early!" Isaac sobbed.

Oliver couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He sat there on the cold floor barely managing to breathe, ashamed of his lack of agility. 

Isaac began muttering to himself, all the while tears poured down his face. He paced around the room for a moment then spotted a metal pipe at his feet. He bent over slowly and picked it up. He turned it in his hand several times. 

Oliver finally gathered himself enough to begin crawling backward but there was no point. There was nowhere else to go. He was trapped.

 As he inched away from Isaac, he felt his hand brush against something. He looked at the ground and there, amongst all of the debris, was a single cinnamon raisin cookie. In the blink of an eye, he shoved the cookie into his mouth. 

      He did not think of his family, though his mother would surely be devastated. He did not think of his classmates,  though they would certainly mourn him. He didn't even think of his puppy, who in his haste he had forgotten to take out that morning. 

The only thing he could focus on was how delicious the cookie tasted.