Fireflies

He had heard the gate clank a thousand times, but only once before from this side of it. Thirty-plus years ago when he'd arrived. Young. Hot-headed, filled with righteous anger, and a hatred for everyone who wasn't him. Time and solitude would teach him that righteousness was hollow, anger was impotent, and how to redirect that hatred, to aim it where it belonged. At himself.

He never thought he'd stand on this side again.

There had been no squeak of metal. A fresh layer of grease coated the gate's hinges. The scent of mineral oil mixed with the smoke and damp earth smell coming off the creosote cross ties.

He took a breath and let it out slowly. He put a hand on the gate to confirm it was real. The sun-blistered green paint curled in strips, breaking away in sections, leaving the iron beneath exposed and growing rust.

He stood there, not knowing what to do with himself. Behind him, the bars stretched to twelve feet, coiled barbed wire atop them like vines over a trellis, running to guard towers on both sides. Bulls with Winchester rifles stationed in each, just itching to pull the trigger on a line-boy who got too close.

He looked back through the bars as if expecting someone to call him. Tell him he was where he didn't belong and to get on the ground now before the bulls took aim. Or that his release had been a mistake. Or that perhaps he was the victim of a cruel joke. Or worse, that he was dreaming and needed to wake up.

Men like him weren't supposed to see the outside again.