Eli giggled madly to himself as he stacked the bear traps up in the trunk of his car. He had tried so many times... but he was confident about this year. Magic was a blight on the world, and one man had been using it with impunity. It was time to remove that threat from the world forever. "What are you doing?" Eli looked over his shoulder, slamming his trunk closed, "Nothing!" Rose Day, his assistant crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him. The slowly-falling snow stuck to her dark hair as she walked over to him and pulled his trunk open. "Why do you have *bear traps* in your trunk?" "They're not *just* bear traps. There's a little mechanism in the teeth, you see, and when they clamp shut, that mechanism will explode and shoot the teeth into whatever it grips." "What the hell are you *hunting*!?" "It doesn't matter. Don't you have to go visit your family or something for Christmas?" "We save our Christmas gatherings for January." "Okay, so go bother Chase or something." "He's visiting his family in Massachusetts." "Well, go be where I am not." Eli rolled his eyes, "I don't need your condescension." "Eli, you're gearing up for what looks like a *war* on Christmas Eve. What the hell could you be going after *now* of all times? You agreed to wait to ambush Farmer until after Christmas. You can't leave Chase out of that." "I'm not going after Farmer today. Go on. There's no need for you to bother me here." "I'm a little worried about you." "I actually do not believe that." "You're not the worst person in the world. Just tell me." "Fine! I'm going to kill Santa Claus." Rose paused for a second as her mouth hung open. Eli nodded. Rose shook her head. Eli nodded. Rose slowly nodded. "Jesus Christ, Eli. Santa isn't even real. Why would you waste your time hunting him?" "He is a monster that lives far beyond the natural lifespan of any normal person. He changes his name and ethnicity to appeal to whatever nation he's in. He uses vast, dark magical powers to see all the actions of the people in this world, and has speed that carries him to all who believe in him. He is in a coma for three hundred sixty-five days and he punishes children who are on the naughty list. He is satiated only by adequate sacrifices of milk and cookies. He survives the Arctic wasteland with the only documented reason being that he lives in obscurity. He breaks into people's houses while they sleep and leaves items behind, and uses his magic to warp the minds of the nonbelievers to think that they themselves purchased those gifts." "What on Earth is the matter with you? You're a grown man. If he even exists, Santa Claus is benevolent." "Ah, but his power in the hands of a madman could be dangerous!" "*You* are a madman!" "You're damn right!" "Wouldn't this put you on the naughty list!?" "Nah. There's a whole new list for what I am." Eli motioned, "Go on. Leave me to my business." "Are you sure you're doing okay? Are you maybe a little lonely around the holidays?" "I have a dog. I am not lonely." "It's okay if you are." Rose rolled her eyes, "Fine. Is there anything I can do to help?" "If you're going to bother me about it, then yes. I'm getting explosive shotgun shells and a machine gun from Sam's guy." "Your neighbors must *love* you." "Oh, they never notice. He uses magic to induce sleep in people when he's in proximity." "So how do you plan to even be awake?" "I discovered a medicine I can take that makes me immune. I get a little drowsy, but that's why I have a cup of coffee at the ready. This is not my first go with the guy." "Right, right... so you've *fought* Santa Claus before?" "Yeah. Damn bastard is a lot tougher than you'd think." "You haven't tried shooting him?" "His red suit is bulletproof. That's why I'm getting the armor-piercing rounds for the machine gun and the exploding rounds for the shotgun. I've planned this out. I'm not deranged." "Are you sure about that?" "Oh, piss off, Rose." "Why don't I come with you? Help you prepare for your war, and we can watch some Christmas movies or something. It could be fun." "Fine. We'll watch movies while I work. I finally got my VHS player hooked up to my TV, so we can make this happen." "Your willful ignorance of technology truly astounds me." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli set the box of shotgun shells on his kitchen table next to his shotgun. His living room was composed of three chairs and a coffee table. His kitchen connected right to both the living room and the dining area. It wasn't much, but it was home. However... he did prefer to sleep at the office. "Powder room's down the hall on the left if you need it." Eli pulled his coat and hat off and hung them on the rack by the door, "Don't go right when you go down the hall. That's my room." "Can I have the grand tour?" "Yeah. Bathroom is down the hall on the left, my room is on the right, and my dining room, living room, and kitchen are basically one room." "You're no fun." "I have shit to do, Rose." Eli rolled his eyes, "He comes through that wall, so I'm going to need to set up the bear traps all around there." "Really?" "The one downside to his power is that he is obligated to visit the home of every person who believes in him. He always enters from that wall." "You know, you didn't believe in immortality before... but if Santa is real like you say, then he's immortal, right?" "No. It's a mantle passed down to whoever unlocks the power. He ages slowly, and is cursed to live only for two hundred years before someone new unlocks the power. The old Santa fades to dust and the new one takes his place. But the legend holds that if he is killed, the power of Santa Claus ceases to exist forever." "Eli, have you ever considered therapy?" Eli knelt in front of the wall, setting the bear traps in place, "No, why?" "No reason." Rose eyed the kitchen, "Do you have food in there?" "Of course I have food in there." "I'm going to make us something to eat." "Don't bother. I can cook." "I thought you had 'shit to do, Rose'." Rose rolled her eyes. "Fine. But something hearty. We've got a full night ahead of us, and I need to be at the top of my game." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli hit stop and rewind on *It's a Wonderful Life* as the credits began to roll, "You've seriously never seen that before? I'm pretty sure people consider it a classic." "I don't watch many old movies." "Oh, man! Jimmy Stewart, Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable, Fred Astaire, Katherine Hepburn... *Especially* Katherine Hepburn! They're the greatest of all time!" "Yeah, well... the movies of that time could sometimes be a little... prejudiced. I get it if you can separate the racism from the content, but I really can't." Rose motioned to her dark skin, "Because *obviously*." "Oh, yeah... That... that is problematic. Sorry... I... I was inconsiderate on my part." "Don't worry about it. I'm sure you didn't mean anything by it." "How about more eggnog?" "Can we actually put whiskey in it this time?" "I told you I don't like the taste of whiskey in eggnog and I need to be undeniably sober when that benevolent bastard breaks into my home." Eli stretched his left arm out and checked his watch, "Oh, we're getting close. He always shows up at one-thirty-seven. The sleep spell should hit us around one-fifteen... We should take that medicine now so it has a chance to set in before he gets here." "Ugh... *fine*." Eli walked over to the kitchen and pulled out the garlic, the eggs, and the toast. He mashed the garlic and eggs together and sprinkled in some sugar. He soaked the bread in the mix and threw it on a skillet. "The hell are you making in there?" "French toast with garlic." "*Why*?" "It makes you immune to the sleep spell! Are you in this with me or not?" "Ugh! Fine!" "Then belly up to the bar. First one is almost ready." Rose wandered hesitantly to the kitchen, her eyes showing pure disgust at what Eli was dropping on the plate in front of her, "Do you even have a plan for fighting your fake opponent?" "Yeah. I'm gonna deck him in the halls." "How long have you been waiting to use that one?" "Six months." "How's it feel?" Eli shrugged, "I've had better ones." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli checked his watch. One-thirty-six. It was time. "Positions." Eli motioned toward the hallway, "He's going to come in shooting." "Why would Santa shoot at you?" "Because he knows I'm going to be shooting at him." Eli shrugged, "Have you been paying attention at all?" "Barely." "Well, eyes forward. He's coming." Eli lifted the shotgun toward the wall, "Brace yourself." "Eli, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Santa doesn't exist. Honestly, if you're lonely, you could have just asked me to hang out with you. Like I said, my family Christmas doesn't happen till January, so I'd be free, you know. We could make this a tradition. Watching Christmas movies, I mean. Eating garlic French toast isn't something anyone should do in their life. You don't have to put on some show about preparing for an ambush from *Santa Claus*. It's really not-" The wall turned to liquid in front of their eyes. The floor shook with each heavy bootstep. The jolly chuckle echoed down the hallways. Red hat, red coat, black boots, large bag of presents, braided white beard, red and green warpaint, shotgun painted like a candy cane... "Holy shit." Rose whispered, "He's real..." Eli jumped up from behind his cover, "Merry Christmas, *bitch*!" Santa reeled back as the shotgun shell detonated against his chest. Eli pumped another round and fired again. Santa stumbled into one of the bear traps, the loud *crack* shaking the building as the trap detonated. "Got 'im!" Eli strode forward, aiming his shotgun, "Ho ho ho, *bitch*! Any final words!?" "Elias..." Santa's mouth spread into a big smile, "You're never going to win this." "I'm sorry, but which one of us got his ass planted into the ground *this* year!? I win! Your reign of terror has come to a-" Eli crashed onto his back and as Santa's boot planted into his stomach. The shotgun clattered away from his hands. Five hundred pounds of pure muscle bore down on him, gouging and striking at his prone body. Eli extended the blade on his brace and drove it up into the jolly man's belly. Santa grunted in pain and grabbed Eli's neck, raising him up and slamming him down into the ground repeatedly. "Rose! Machine gun!" Eli shouted, "Do *anything*!" Santa lifted Eli up and hurled him at the other wall, denting the drywall. Eli slumped to the ground and drew his M1911, aiming for the nightmare's face. "You've tried that before, Elias." Santa rose to his feet, cracking his knuckles, "See what happens." Eli struggled to his feet, keeping the gun on Santa's face, "You... are the worst... person..." Santa grabbed Eli's wrist and twisted, wrenching the M1911 from his hand. The black glove slammed into Eli's sternum, throwing him to the ground once and for all. "Y-y-you're real..." Rose whispered. "Of course, Rosaline." Santa cracked his neck, "Are you helping Elias attack me?" "N-no..." Rose numbly shook her head, "I am so... so sorry... I didn't believe and... uh..." "Don't worry about it. Elias and I have been at this for a long time. I suspect I'll see him again next year. Unless someone takes my place. I've already beat down five other people, and I've got about seven more I'll have to put up with tonight. It's part of the job." Santa patted Rose's shoulder, "I'll leave your present at your apartment. Which reminds me! Elias!" Eli groaned. "I brought you something." Santa walked over to Eli. Eli's head rolled up to stare at the jolly son of a bitch, "What?" Santa set a bright green box in Eli's lap. Eli's hand slowly rose to remove the lid. The tissue paper fell away as he dug his hand into the heavy box. "New... revolver..." Eli muttered, "And several boxes of hollowpoints... you thoughtful son of a bitch..." "What do you say when you receive a give, Elias?" "Thank you, you big jolly asshole..." "Should I get him to a hospital?" Rose whispered. "Don't worry about it. He'll be right as rain once I leave." "Didn't he stab you?" "Tricks of the trade, Rosaline." Santa walked back toward the wall, "Merry Christmas to both of you." Rose waved weakly at Santa Claus and watched him melt back into the wall. She looked down at Eli in disbelief. Eli felt his bones and bruises heal slowly, relief washing over him. "Did that *really* just happen!?" "Yeah. Dammit. I thought I had him this year. I'm thinking more bear traps next year." Eli struggled to his feet, "Maybe a landmine... except that I'd like to not blow up my whole apartment. If I could get a claymore aimed at that wall... I might stand a chance. I'd just need to talk to the landlord about renovating or something first." "D-do you want to just watch another movie right now?" "Sounds good to me." Eli shrugged and dropped onto the couch, "And Rose?" "Yeah?" "Thanks for spending Christmas with me. It... It means a lot." ========================================== Feedback and whatnot are always appreciated! Also, Merry Christmas to All, and to All a good night! Or Happy Holidays if you don't celebrate Christmas.


It’s 7:00pm, and like clockwork, Coco trots up to G, with her gray feather duster tail raised high, and cocks her tiny head expectantly. Coco has never been a patient cat. As she saw it, the world functioned according to her schedule. Who else is there to worry about? G was her entire world, so she assumed she was his too. And she wasn't far off with that assumption. “I know it’s time, baby cat, just one second.” He continues to type furiously with his left hand while reaching down to give Coco a quick scratch between the ears with his right to let her know he sees her, and he hears her. Coco feels reassured, but won’t let him forget she’s still waiting for him. Moments later, Coco starts making the calculations to take her valiant leap onto the desk, presenting herself squarely in front of G’s computer screen. She wouldn’t block much of the desktop if it weren’t for her puffy gray fur that always looked like she just came from an unfortunate run-in with a child who just learned about static electricity and wanted to test out some balloon magic. She might look like a large cat, but G swears she’s 75% fur. G is just finishing up writing his code, so he doesn’t appreciate the break in concentration. But this is what he signed up for when he adopted Coco. He never understood why people would get so upset with their pets for climbing on tables or scratching at furniture. To him, any so-called “bad behavior” was all part and parcel with pet ownership. It was easy for him to hold this opinion since Coco never had an affinity for chewing plastic, or really doing anything she wasn’t supposed to, for that matter. She liked to sit on the kitchen table, but her potentially dirty paws weren’t a deterrent to G, who usually ate at his desk and made a habit of kissing her paws ever since she was a kitten anyways. Her germs were no worse than the unknowable filth he encountered on the subway every day. Coco politely, but expectantly, lifts her white-mittened paw to G’s face as if to say, “it’s time, Dad.” With just a few more clicks, he gives in. “Ok, let’s go.” G sometimes needed to be pulled out of the trance he entered when he plopped into his office chair. He is an extremely self-motivated problem solver, and he loved how computers gave him the opportunity to solve even the most complex puzzles. During his most intense bouts of hyper-focus, hours felt like minutes. G scoops up Coco under his arm, grabs the heavy-duty pet brush from the closet, and carries her to the designated spot on the living room carpet. Only one room away in his 900 square-foot apartment, G follows the trace of his daily path on the carpet, which is slightly less flattened near the walls compared to the center line, where it’s padded down almost entirely. Coco loves the carpet because, as she’s learned, things can get very slippery on a freshly mopped tile floor. Coco knows what she’s in for and starts purring immediately. Cats like Coco require daily brushing to tame the iconic mane that G’s friends love to compliment. Her fur easily tangles, especially on her hindquarters, making it harder for her to clean after doing her business. The long fur on her chest dips down into her water bowl. Although it’s not the most sanitary, G does not reconsider allowing her on the kitchen table. Plus, Coco loves to groom herself, which is basically like taking a bath. But self-grooming so much long, loose fur is a recipe for hairballs. Again, sanitation is not a priority in this home. Through years of attempting distinct solutions to each problem, G found that brushing her daily solved all of them at once. He was usually able to brush away approximately two kitten-sized balls of fur from her with each brushing session. Brushing was satisfying for Coco, therapeutic for G, and it only took a few minutes. After all, grooming is one of our most primitive instincts as mammals. Every mammal bonds with their offspring by grooming. It’s a way of building trust and healthy attachment, and it’s functional. G had a routine that left no patch ungroomed. He starts with the back left for 5 brushes, back right for 5 brushes, tummy left and right (5 brushes each), rump left and right (5 brushes each), neck (5 brushes total). Coco gets hand-fed a treat in between each of these self-defined quadrants. She purrs the entire time. When the routine is complete, G takes the furball from the brush, marvels at his work, and wonders how many hairballs he’s saved Coco from before throwing it in the trash. Then, Coco returns to one of her 3 beds. This time, it was the Christmas-themed one even though it was the middle of June. She grooms herself to correct any part of her fur she feels is out of place. G refills his water glass, takes a big swig, and then returns to the computer. G has never missed a brushing session, partially because Coco’s unmatched circadian rhythms would never let him forget. G has a simple and a solid job. He cares most about spending quality time with his family and friends, including Coco. When it’s the end of a long day and he’s feeling overwhelmed, the brushing routine reminds him to slow down. He checks his heart rate on his Apple Watch, a habit he probably does more frequently than necessary, and notices a dip back to resting rate after he sits back down. They say taking care of a living being is good for you, and G would agree. Sometimes, the five-minute mental break reminds him to look out the window, or to cook dinner, or simply got him out of the rut of working, gaming, or getting sucked into an internet rabbit-hole. Those sacred few minutes gave them both peace, and they returned to their assigned seats feeling calmed and accomplished.


Bing! The clone bay clings completion as you tumble out onto the floor, naked and glistening. According to Star Fleet regulations, a clone may only be regrown if the previous variation of its life form has perished. So. Your former self has died. You wipe the clone gunk out of your eyes and take hold of your situation. Fire. The room is fire. And worse than that - the air is more smoke and carbon than anything breathable. The oxygen generators must be down! Using your new arms and legs for the first time you stand up hastily, shakily, and break for the life support room on the far side of your pirate vessel. Each chamber is a worse level of hell. More fire. Less oxygen. Your skin bubbles from the flames while your lungs burn from starvation. Bing! You hear the clone bay spitting out one of your hapless crewmates into the inferno that is your ship. You're by the oxygen generator now. The charred remains of your team lay slumped against it - all unable to reset the delicate functions before the life seeped from their ravaged bodies. No time to think. You pry your own blistered previous remains off the display pad and try to reboot the system. Far across the ship, through the thin atmosphere, you hear it. Bing! Your fingers are fumbling, weak and burnt. Your eyes are glazing over as the lack of oxygen and waves of pain wash over you. You collapse. Darkness. Bing! You open your eyes for the first time. You're naked and glistening in a pool of clone gunk on the floor. Through the thick smoke, the emergency lights flicker, illuminating a wet path from the clone machine out the door towards the oxygen generator. Strange. According to Star Fleet regulations, a clone may only be regrown if the previous variation of the life form has perished. So, your former self has died. You try and breathe but your new lungs are empty and you're drowning from the lack of air. The oxygen generator must be down! You break for the life support room and follow the wet path of clone gunk but you're already weak and groggy. As you stumble down the corridor there's evidence of a great blaze. Struggling for whatever air remains you greedily gulp down lungfuls of fresh, acrid smoke. The fire that once raged (when?) left behind blackened walls, broken technology, and charred corpses. The world is starting to swim as you enter the life support chamber, and you stop, disgusted and afraid. You try and scream but can't. The wall of the interface is blocked by a pile of copy-pasted bodies. One of them, barely alive, falls to the ground and turns to look you in the eye and all you can see is terror as they twitch and pass away. In the distance, the clone bay continues to do its job. Bing! Oh god oh god oh god need air need to turn on the life support what happened why is it like this must run damn these weak muscles! Ahead, the corridor is blocked. A sea of bodies, waist-high. Down the other corridor then it's further but no choice no choice no choice please god don't be blocked! The alternative door to the life support room doesn't respond to your attempts to open it. Burnt out. Broken. Unwilling to budge. Curse this death, too quick to save yourself, too slow to spare you the agony of each cell in your body shutting down. A pistol on the floor? Make it quick. Bing! Where's the air? No air? Where's the air? What was that? An explosion? God, there were so many bodies blocking your way to the life support room. Back down the other corridor then. Around the corner to more death, dozens of more clones lying lifeless and naked on the floor. But these are different, these all are missing half their skulls. No air, but there's a pistol on the floor and brain matter dripping down the walls. Why did none of them try and open the door at the end of the corridor? Bing! You'll never know it, but the Federation ship that disabled yours left hours ago when they jumped to the next beacon.


Wurrem was believed to be the kindest wizard, by almost everyone in Evrit. He used his magic to help, and heal the sick, and wounded of the village, Evrit. Wurrem found it his passion in life to care for others. This made him very different from many other wizards who used their magic to gain power, and control. Wurrem was still young though, and had much to learn. He wanted to make a name for himself by helping the world. But this was difficult to do when he lived in such a small village as Evrit. And so Wurrem had an idea to create a wand for healing. It would be able to heal anything it touches instantly. But making a wand like this was not an easy task. He needed a branch that had to be gifted to him from the trees. This was not too difficult though, for he had helped the trees before.But the second thing Wurrem needed was more of a challenge. A bone taken from a living person. To Get this he used a healing spell and duplicating spell at the same time to remove one of his ribs. This was very hard though to use more than one spell at a time. But once Wurrem had both the branch and the bone, he was able to make the wand. To do this he used magic to mend them together. This was very tedious, but when it was finished it was like a long spiral. Then he set off on his way. After a few days on the road. And several people helped. Wurrem was stopped by a group of men. The apparent leader asked him where he was going. Wurrem answered in a cheery voice “I am off to help the world.” The leader (Koled) responded “Alright, then you wouldn’t mind helping us out. Would you?” Wurrem “Oh yes absolutely. How can I help.” Koled “Hand over your satchel.” Wurrem “I’m sorry you may be confused. I can’t give this to you.” Koled “I didn’t finish. Take off your clothes as well and give them to me.” Wurrem “No I cannot do that.” Koled “Well I guess we’ll just have to take it then.” The group then proceed to attack Wurrem, with one of them stabbing him in the chest. While going through the satchel they discovered the wand. Though having never seen anything like it they assumed it was some sort of dagger. And so Koled held on to it. They then mounted their horses to ride off. But Koled’s horse wouldn’t move. This was new and infuriated Koled. In a fit of rage he stabbed the wand through the back of the horse's head. The horse reared on his hind legs, throwing Koled to the ground. The wand now stuck in the horse’s head. It healed itself, sealing it there forever. The immortal horse named Unicorn was stuck with the curse of healing anything it touched. This is one of my first stories so any criticism is appreciated. I really like the idea of this story and kind of want to rewrite it but longer and with more detail.


There's a little neglected drag of cobble half a mile up from the banks of Possible's stream, where the eddies gurgle rapturous and wide making glee faces at men that dangle their little heads over the edge of possible's bridge. The little cobble streets that bob and teeter like a broad with a gut full of beer have become otiose, wringing not person, other than the cheese maker of hungry french memories. Horny lads, feet clicking, cluck, cluck, as they sauntered sheepishly in the evening, searching for a lass to loosen their wallets for. The new age saunterers in their barely worn pea-coats, pry grimaces from the cheese maker. The sound of flats and flimsy conversation bouncing off the old street and into the cheese maker's ears. He hated them. The cheese maker had lived alone since his wife had died 8 years ago. I would see him now and then as he stopped in the diner I worked at and had a cup of coffee. Nobody really knew his name. Nobody really cared enough to inquire. His presence seemed to go unnoticed as he strolled through town. Maybe he likes it that way. I called him the cheese maker because that had been his profession. He owned a small farm outside of town that he had purchased after returning home from WWII. His sons ran the farm now and they routinely delivered the cheese and milk we used in the diner. They had booted their father out into a nursing home. I learned all of this because they would engage in small talk with my manager who was an old childhood friend of theirs. I can't tell you exactly why I had become so infatuated with his life story. I would get off work and walk past his nursing home. Sometimes I would see him out and about, smoking a cigar outside a grocery store, or rummaging through a thrift store. I never had the audacity to approach him. It's been a few weeks since I last seen him, sipping on his coffee. I wondered where he had been. What he had been doing since he left the diner. I finished my shift without one sight of him. As I was walking home, I heard a yelling sound coming from the yard of the nursing home. I moved in closer to get a look. It was the cheese maker and another elderly man yelling back and forth at each over the white picket fence built around the nursing home. "You filthy fucking rat!" stammered the cheese maker. "Don't call me a rat, you goddamn wrinkled shit." I hid behind a tree and listened as best I could. "She loved me, Chester. She was married to me. She had my children." said the cheese maker. "You only stole her from me! She was going to marry me, if I hadn't thrown my ring into that goddamn stream!" yelled chester in fury. "I go to her grave every morning. And you, the guy she married won't even bother to visit her!" "FUCK YOU, CHESTER, FUCK YOU, you sniveling little fuck." The cheese maker picked up a rock from the ground and hurled it at chester. The rock missed chester and landed in the street behind him. By this time, the care taker's had come out and were ushering the cheese maker, who was mumbling curses, back to the house. Chester inched his way down the sidewalk past me. He had a cane in his left hand and leaned half his body on it as he walked. He didn't see me and I passed him and went home. I was so fascinated. The two men, in this perpetual state of conflict all over a woman that had passed away years ago. A few weeks had passed since their last quarrel. I couldn't pacify my intrigue. The sullen moments at work and the blandness of the regular social interactions between people left me craving their passion, their hatred. I began cutting by the nursing home more and more often. Checking to see if they would be there yet again, like a rerun of an old show. Then one day he appeared. The cheese maker himself. He waddled into the diner and sat in his regular spot and ordered a black coffee with two sugars. I brought it out to him. He didn't look at me. He stared straight out the window, almost as though he was expecting someone to walk in. He finished his coffee and left. Chester had died that day. I read it in the obituary later that night. He had a bad heart they said. I thought this was ironic. I went to the burial. I stood in the back away from everyone else. I took a cigarette out and puffed on it. I looked over to my left and noticed the cheese maker walk up beside me. "You got another one of those?" he asked motioning towards my pocket. "Yeah, sure." I handed him a cigarette and we both stood there silently.


Hey. It's been awhile, hasn't it? I just want to start out by saying that, before you jump to any conclusions about the meaning of this sudden outreach, that I am not dying, nor am I in some financial trouble. In fact, nothing of any major significance at all has lead to me writing out this message to you. Does there really have to be a reason? I mean, I know we didn't leave things off on a good note, or even a bad one. I know you said you never wanted to see or hear from me again, and for a good while, I was okay with that. I realize now that that's only what I told myself, what I wanted to believe, that I never should have let you be a part of my life. I was wrong; You finally get to see me say that. In spite of everything that is different about us, you are still, to me anyway, my own and only daughter. Did I ever tell you how you and I first came to be so? It was a cold night, wet and miserable, the kind where it threatens to rain all day but never commits. I was a young man then, new to the job, fresh-faced and very sure of myself. The shift had gone on without incident for more than half its length, and I doubt I need to tell you that I did not feel it could end soon enough; The thought of chasing down some crook or pulling over some speeding civilian in that weather was an unpleasant one. It was, however, at that time that I drove through the old industrial neighborhood of Olney Heights, I think you know it. In those days, it was in a bad way. The economic downturn had shuddered more than a few businesses, and the neighborhood as a whole was like a patient with terminal cancer: A ravaged, emaciated shell of its former self. The only lights that were on as I passed through were the street lamps and my headlights, reflecting the water vapor that so readily hung in the air that evening as I drove along the cracked, unmaintained streets. All along, I could make out the husks of former factories and warehouses, doors boarded and padlocked, windows smashed by hoodlums or disgruntled ex-employees, the shattered glass left to reflect in the light of the lamps. It was then that, out of my peripherals, that I saw what looked like a lightning flash to my left. My mind naturally assumed it was so, at first. A few seconds passed, however, and it happened again, more intensely, and I noticed then that it was not coming from the sky, but from somewhere very near. What's more, it was not a brilliant blast of white light, as lightning is, but a deep full red, like a digital alarm clock blaring its tune. I didn't stop, I never stopped in neighborhood like Olney Heights, but I did slow down, and I craned my neck to get a better view of what, if anything, was causing that light. A little ways behind me now, an old steelworks plant stood, and it was there, for a third time, more clearly now, a terrible flash of red flooded the empty windows of the building's third floor. What would have happened if I had just kept going on, I sometimes wonder. It doesn't matter now, I suppose, because stop I most certainly did, and I got on my radio to report what I could only describe as a "possible disturbance" on private property. Waiting was what I would have preferred, but this was Olney Heights, on a night with miserable weather to boot; I knew nobody was coming any time soon. So I braced against the cold, turned off my car, and stepped out, my maglight in one hand, and the other hand at my gun holster. There were two things I noticed straight away, that gave me pause. The first was that the chain link fence that often surrounds such defunct properties as this had been cut open in several places, neat human-sized holes all in a row, the cut sections left where they fell. The second was the feeling on the air. It was not cold, as it had been everywhere else that night, but actually comfortably warm, the kind of warmth that extends from a radiator. I pressed on, my hand at my waist now gently undoing the holster clasp that held my gun in place. With a deep breath, I drew it forward, balancing the piece on the other arm that still clutched the maglight. I don't think I need to tell you that I was more than a little nervous now. The human mind cannot conceive of unnatural things actually occuring to it, and I could only think that it had to be some dispossessed and desperate people seeking shelter, no matter what little sense that made in retrospect. As I walked across the yard of the not-long-before vacant lot, I scanned across the way, back to the street. No cars parked there, save mine. The flashing continued, and the temperature was steadily increasing; It was like being in a bathroom when a shower runs without a fan now. I made it to the door, and another pang of fear hit me; The heavy padlock that had rested on the door had been cleanly cut through and also left where it fell, the door jarred open just enough for someone of average build to squeeze through. As I said before, I should have been much more cautious, but being the young upstart with ambition, I went ahead anyway, keeping the flashlight pointed downward and the gun at the ready as I pressed myself through the passageway. The first floor was barren; Anything that could be stripped away and sold had been so for enough time that dust gathered visibly on the husks of old machines and equipment. I scanned the room, first very quickly, then very, very slowly. The heat was becoming a bit hard to tolerate now, like I was hugging the radiator and not just in the same room as it, and I was sweating bullets by the time I worked up the courage to step forward, further into this decrepit place. I couldn't see the flashing light now, but I could hear something. It was faint, but unmistakeably the sound of people talking. No surprise there, but it still unnerved me. I pressed on, towards the stairs knowing the elevator would be inoperable. The stairwell was all metal, and I took great pains to ascend it as quietly as possible. The flashing was visible again, coming from the third floor just as I had seen from the outside, reaching downward and painting the otherwise pitch black stairwell with its malign intermittence. It was like I was in a hot bath now, and the flashes were so frequent I could have carried on without the maglight, yet I was mesmerised, my upper half barely moving as I crept up the stairwell, to the third floor. The feeling upon reaching the door to my destination was overwhelming. The flashing was so saturated in my vision now that I could see red even when it fell dark again. I could hear the voices more clearly now, though they did not say anything that made sense to me, repetitious chanting of some foreign tongue, and it was joined now by a sort of low buzzing drone that picked up with every flash of that damned red light, like an engine running then revving. It felt like I was on fire; I couldn't bear it a second longer. I steadied myself for only a moment before I kicked in the door as hard as I could, and advanced onto the floor, shouting my trained words, "Police! Hands where I can see them!". I don't quite remember what happened next, honestly. I saw three figures in the center of the room, black silhouettes against the source of the blaring red light they could somehow tolerate. I believe they turned to me and all nerve and levelheadedness vanished from my being. They say that, when you are a policeman in a life-or-death situation such as that, you cannot think, as there's simply no time to. So I acted; I fired and fired and fired again at the figures and perhaps irrationally at that horrible light. It was all over in an instant. Suddenly the room was cold again, the sound had vanished. It was replaced with the soft patter of rain hitting the building and the floors where the windows were smashed. I regained my composure, and looked around. The light had vanished, and then I heard it; The soft cry of a baby. This is where you come in, I'm sure you've guessed. Where once the figures stood and a terrible light blared, there was now just a baby, nestled on a cloth on an improvised altar made of an old office desk. The three figures lay slumped on the floor, shot through several times each, with ragged patchwork robes obscuring the form of each. Looking them all over, they seemed utterly normal, two were men, one a woman, all shaved of hair, but undeniably human. My attention fell then to you. You were a bit pale for a newborn, but you had all the signs of one; Closed eyes, miniscule form, thrashing about with a freshly cut umbilical. I had never been a father before, but I am a brother, and despite my police training, I heedlessly scooped you up off the floor. You stopped crying almost immediately, and I tell you this now: I loved you straight away. I never told anyone this, not even you. I hid you away for a time, reporting to my supervisors only that I had run across some odd cultists that had been trying to start a fire who had resisted arrest. I never told anyone why your eyes were a natural red, or your skin pale yet unharmed by sunlight. I lied about who your mother might be, and I'm sorry to tell you that to this day I do not know, though I fear we both might know who your true father is. I'd wager that this letter is either a life-changing shock, or what you've already gathered to know as truth, simply missing the last puzzle piece to tie it all together. It doesn't matter. This letter was meant just as much for I as it was for you. No matter what you do with this information, no matter what you might think of me now that it's yours, know that I still consider you my only daughter, my only family, and I hope that you feel the same about me.


The tension from what would be their final fight grew and boiled as they shouted, until it felt like a metal rod shoved into both of their chests, keeping them planted in place, tortured, unable to walk away, and then he said some words he couldn’t take back and twisted it, and she did the same, and then they both twisted further, and finally the rod snapped in two. They turned and walked away from each other, him first, then her, the sounds of the city muffled by the haze of their anger. The only thing they could hear was their footfalls, asynchronous on the hard sidewalk, her heels clacking, his sneakers scuffing. Pick up your fucking *feet* when you walk, she thought, and she turned around to tell him that, and then she stopped and was silent. She watched his funny, loping gait as he walked away from her, and realized she had not turned to tell him that. She had turned to see if he would look back at her. For a second she stood, frozen, waiting for him to turn, trying to will it to happen telepathically. If he would just *turn* they could be together again--it felt like if she just believed it enough it would happen. Didn’t some mental connection between lovers exist? But he didn’t turn. He continued to walk in his off-kilter way, and, trying to conceal her hurt with a crisp show of grace and defiance, she pivoted on her heel and strode forward. Her sharp footsteps broke his focus on angrily walking forwards, and before he realized fully what he was doing he stopped and turned and watched her. Now *he* was caught watching her, waiting for her to turn. If he yelled it would be cheating. Any attempt to draw her attention destroyed the point entirely. He needed her to turn, and see that he had turned too, and they would know that they both loved each other, and everything could go back to the way it was. But she didn’t turn. Her sundress swished back and forth as she walked away, one foot directly in front of the other as if she was walking a tightrope, and she showed no sign of responding to his desperate mental pleas. She seemed to be accelerating. He awkwardly bent down and pretended to pick up his keys, just in case she saw him, and then spun around and walked away, faster, the suppressed pain in his chest spurring him on, his only goal now to escape. She came to the crosswalk. The walk sign was illuminated. She knew that this was the point of no return and once more, she turned and looked at him, now small in her vision, threatening to be swallowed by the city. He didn’t turn, and so she did, and then he reached his crosswalk and turned to her but she was already across and away, obscured by a bus. The distance between their backs grew and grew as they both fast-walked in a straight line away from each other, trying to forget, trying to justify why they left, trying to understand why the other hadn’t turned around, wishing they hadn’t been so weak. Both of them, in sync without knowing it, became determined to never look back again, to keep their head down and walk in a straight line until they reached some endless ocean that would swallow them. Their paces increased. In that massive, ever-expanding space behind them, something began to grow. With each step he and she took, a new doppelganger of each of them was created, directly behind them, facing the opposite direction. One by one, the doppelgangers ran backwards towards the center, where the two lovers had started their journey outwards. He and she both heard the footsteps of their hundreds of thousands of copies, sounding almost endless, behind them. They both of them wrote it off as a trick of their imagination, trying to get them to turn around again, and they continued forward with new determination even as the sound of sprinting feet behind them grew exponentially. The first of their doppelgangers met each other in the middle, exactly where the real versions of them had first turned from each other. The doppelgangers leapt into one another's arms and began to kiss. Then they were slammed into by another set of copies, who groped for one another as if they were in pitch blackness, and then another pair reached the middle and began to claw at each other's eyes with hatred. Every second a new pair of doppelgangers reached the middle and fell into love or hate or embrace or murder with the other--they began to pile up, their bodies twisted and wrapped around each other, until there were millions of them, fighting or loving or looking into each others eyes. The pile of copies grew in height and width like a tsunami. The writhing bodies ascended up the sides of buildings, breaking windows, flooding into apartments, destroying cars and buses with their weight. He and She both heard the noise of it, but they couldn’t look, they had to keep walking forward, they knew that they wouldn’t see what they wanted. Behind them the endless copies of their bodies grew until it looked as if they had somehow become a towering organism in their own right, one massive living body made from millions of tiny ones. The body of bodies loomed over the streets and plunged everything into shadow, until finally, the whole massive stack of them, almost a mile across, tipped on its side, crushing buildings, leveling entire neighborhoods. Every hope and dream and future and fight contained in that enormous pile released all of its destructive potential, and the city was engulfed in dust and fury and chaos--all the doppelgangers screamed, the millions of copies of her holding onto the millions of copies of him tightly as they fell, and thousands of city-dwellers screamed in fear and agony from below, being consumed and swept away by the massive ocean of squirming, identical couples. The noise grew to an unspeakable level, and the dust reached out for him and her, and the screeching of millions melded together, sounding as if New York was some sort of giant monster that was just waking up and realizing it couldn’t move, buried under buildings and concrete. Finally she stopped, and then he stopped, the noise somehow still growing, threatening to pop their eardrums. They were about two miles apart now. Exactly at the same time, in sync without ever knowing it, they whirled around and looked at the stretch of street behind them--and saw nothing there at all. All was quiet and still--the other person nowhere to be seen. They both stared at the empty street for as long as they could, hoping to will the other person into existence. Finally, after an eternity of staring and silence, both of them turned back the way they were going, and took another step apart.


"Welcome to the Wild West, young pardners! After striking gold, you and your band of prospectors were robbed and taken hostage. You managed to escape but the robber rigged the saloon with all sorts of tricks to keep his loot secure. Your mission: break in and steal back your gold. Yee haw!" I usually spoke that part with gusto- my shoot-em-up not-too-hokey Western accent, grazing my hand against my pretend holster, tilting back my head just so, a machismo wink- this time to a group of young boys- while I drawled, “You got it, pardners?” But then I saw him. My swagger faltered a bit. Coach Bowie, standing in such a familiar pose- arms crossed, staunch, glowering- that I was thrust back into high school; twelfth grade speech. His gut had grown considerably, and he appeared stouter, shorter, than his giant-sized persona back in high school, but still imposing. I pushed a button on my Ipad and the iconic sound of wind rushing through the sagebrush whistled from its tinny speaker. I snuck a quick glance on my device to look at the kid’s name (much could be gleaned from digital waivers) but it pulled up right away: Bryce Bowie, aged six, birthday Wild West Extravaganza. Thoughts skittered- this must be Coach Bowie’s grandson; Colton Bowie’s son, had to be. Colton would be..what, 28, 29? He was four years older than me, had graduated by the time I started high school, but Coach had a daughter two years older than me- Carissa? Christy?- and a son my age, Jacob Bowie. Flustered though I was, I had to keep the show going. “Saddle up!” I clapped my hands and the boys squealed in delight. I led them into the saloon, wondering if Coach recognized me, but then immediately dismissed the thought. Of course he didn’t. I was a drama kid. Not that I tended to parse the variances of human nature into categories, compartmentalizing them into some Hollywood version of high school: meaty jocks, ditzy cheerleaders, nerdy brainiacs. Football players could be sensitive too, right? Didn’t High School Musical already cover that ground- upending the status quo and all that? Everyone knew who Colton Bowie was; not because he was the football star (he’d started strong: varsity quarterback his freshman year, reduced to second-string his sophomore year, and then to JV his junior year, and then dropped out completely by his senior year). These days everyone had a psychology degree from Google University and could see that the relentless pressure his dad put upon him had withered away soul. By his senior year, Colton had grown his hair long, had a dramatic relationship with a girl, where he’d punched a few walls (misplaced anger, obviously) and then had gone of to a four year university (a mid one, nothing to brag about), married young, had a kid young.... Wait a hot second. Was this the kid? As expected, the boys didn’t look for clues but manhandled all the props, they went straight behind the bar- cheap plywood with fake liquor bottles. I sidled up to Bryce and said with a wink. “Got an ID, pardner?” He grinned at me and his friends clamored around me. At this age, reality blurred with fantasy, and so most of them thought I was a true cowboy straight from 1880’s dusty New Mexico. I jostled with them a bit, while Coach looked bored from the sidelines. “All them rattler bites get to your brain, pardner?” I said to Bryce, tapping him on the side of the head. I was straying too far from my comfort zone. Except for a few stock phrases, I didn’t know much beyond basic cowboy lingo. I wasn’t supposed to touch the guests, especially kids, but I was feeling reckless, Coach Bowie stirring things up like a mean ol’ viper’s nest. Depending on the age group, the Wild West escape room could be a real head-scratcher. The management wanted to keep the script versatile, marketing for all age groups (to line their pockets) which meant adapting from the intricate to the simple. Such as: How much was the bounty on the wanted poster? The liquor bottle dates. The sheet music on the piano. The deck of cards. The menu. It all added to clues which led to a code which ultimately led to the safe. For the young ones, the clues were so basic that I’d basically let them whoop and holler around the room until they found the code by me hinting at the clues in some Barney-like, Western-style yippee-yay in which I’d always let the birthday boy become deputy to allow them access to the jail, where the safe held their “gold.” But dammit, Coach Bowie. I swaggered over to them, loose-limbed, and slightly bow legged, tilting my hat. “Okay young cowboys. You don’t want the robber to come and getcha!” I flourished this by lunging at the boys while they squealed and darted away. I pulled my fake gun from my holster. (The management thought guns, even fake ones, might cause some controversy, but ultimately decided that this being the Wild West, they warranted that they be props, always sheathed, not brandished about. I was of the anti-gun mindset myself, but this was a learning moment. And Coach Bowie the intended audience.) The kids wanted to hold it. I put it into Bryce’s hot little hands, glancing over at Coach. Byrce immediately pointed it into the air and tried to fire. He whined, “But it’s not real.” I said more angrily than I intended, “Whatcha doing, Cowboy? Your granddad there not teach you about gun safety?” This got Coach’s attention. He narrowed his eyes at me. The bullet had found its target. I took the gun from Bryce. “Guns kill people. Bryce was undeterred. “I’m going to kill the robber!” Coach Bowie was the high school’s football coach, and he was a legend. A legend. But as legends go, they tend to lose their luster if they don’t eventually vacate their perch of greatness, because nothing lasts forever, right? And it was clear that Coach Bowie, as most egotistical pricks, never thought his number with the football gods would be up. He’d led the school to three state championships, won two of them, but by the time his son came to high school, his star began to wane; and maybe because he’d lost that razor-sharp detachment, and with Colton’s lackluster performance, the public began to see the rage monster behind Coach Bowie’s facade. But damn, isn’t verbal abuse, especially among youth, passe by now? Don’t we know so much more now? About emotional needs and sense of self and all the wisdom and knowledge amongst Tik Tok shorts and Youtube gurus? Aren’t we all so much more enlightened now? Like I said, no surprise, I was a drama kid. And for some reason, as though my guidance counselor enjoyed tormenting me, she sprinkled the outliers (and only in a football state was I considered an outlier), a theater kid, a band kid, a chess club kid- just a few, and tossing us, like a garnish, into a whole class with athletes. Bryce handled the gun with deftness, alarming, in my opinion, for a six-year-old. It looked like he was trying to open the chamber (there was no chamber on this cheap-ass fake gun). “Where are the bullets?” he asked me? “Where are the bullets?” I said in mock outrage. “Where are the bullets ?” Then I winked at them. “You gotta find the magic bullet.” I told them that it was a magic bullet, a gold bullet, and that we were going to shoot the bad guy with it. Whoo-boy that stirred them up. They went hollering all around the saloon. I was thinking on the spot. I was changing the rules. Screw the clues and the code. This was about a bullet now. This was about a gun. Colton Bowie shot someone dead the spring break of his senior year. He’d gone to a shooting range with his buddies and accidentally shot a woman (just a girl, really, nineteen years old), just an employee. No one knows if it was a misfire, or him being reckless, or a little of both, but truly no one thought it was intentional. It was clearly an accident. No one could fault him for lawyering up, for the coach wanting to protect him by getting the best lawyer; no one could fault him for that. But what we could fault him for was the fact that his own family- his dad and mom and sister- pillars of the community- did not give a damn, for this young woman, for this human being. And yet, his younger brother, Jacob, the same age as myself- he did care. During the time we spent together in high school, he looked gaunt, miserable, keeping to himself, looking pained to be associated with his father, especially his brother. These days, from my social media stalking, it’s clear he’s estranged from his family. (I say this facetiously- stalking- just an expression. Let’s just say I kept up an interest in Jacob.) He lives a more granola lifestyle, living in Seattle, committing the cardinal sin of being a liberal, liking all sorts of posts against guns and school shootings and so forth. I hadn’t hidden the gold bullet. In the mayhem, I’d rooted around in a drawer for a tarnished old bullet that we’d kept among other “Western” knick-knacks in a drawer behind the bar. “Maybe it’s by the piano!” I said, to misdirect them. The bullet was real, an antique, belonging to an old shotgun that we didn’t keep on the premises. The coach still stood there, scrolling through his phone, underwhelmed. He was probably only waiting for the birthday cake in the party room. I edged by the coach and he looked up long enough for us to have eye contact. I smiled at him- a genial Cowboy smile, and he gave me a curt nod in reply. One of the bottles behind the bar table knocked over but luckily didn’t break. The boys looked in every nook and crevice. A golden bullet! Under normal circumstances this would be a terrible idea. I managed to catch Bryce’s eye and give him a quick shake of the head. Over here . Luckily, like the sly little devil, he got the hint. Behind my back, I pointed to the drawer. “I found the bullet!” Triumphantly Bruce held it up, not knowing that it wasn’t exactly gold. You couldn’t bite down on that nugget- it would break your tooth. “The birthday boy found the bullet!” Luckily the boys were too young to notice the game was rigged; that the boy of the hour had coincidentally found the prize. I took my hat off and gently set it on top of his head, in which it wobbled and slid low on this face. “I hereby declare, as the sheriff of Wild West Extravaganza, that Bryce Bowie, six years old, is now my deputy.” “Does that mean I can shoot the robber?” I kneeled before him and said soberly, “Bryce, what do bullets do to people?” “They kill bad guys.” There was a short gruff laugh from his grandpa. A ‘that’s my boy’ kind of chuckle. It pissed me off. I uttered with all the sanctimony I could muster, “That’s true, Bryce, but bullets also kill innocent people too.” This got the reaction I expected. “What the hell did we pay for?” Coach groused. “This is supposed to the Wild West!" I stood up and stared him in the eye. “Boys, I just spotted the bad guy.” I retrieved my handcuffs- real ones, also a prop- and dangled it before them. The boys spun wildly around. “Where’s the bad guy?” I smiled at the coach, a gleam in my eyes. “Right there, that old guy there. That’s the bad guy.” “That’s my grandpa!” said Bryce. “That’s not your grandpa.” I widened my eyes at him, with a wide grin, appealing to Bryce's sense of fun. But I was dead serious. This was a reckoning. “Go get em Cowboys!” A little mob of six-year-old boys, attacking the old man, grabbing his hands, clutching at his legs. He didn’t look pleased, huffed a bit, but what was he to do? He wasn’t expecting, however, for me to pull his arms back and flip open the handcuffs, to lock his wrists in place. That set him off, but he managed to stifle his rage. Only a matter of time though. And I was here for it. The girl’s name was Alexis Fernandez, and she was the granddaughter of the shooting range, part of a larger property that had been in the family for generations. They weren’t wealthy, didn’t have the resources to pursue both a criminal and a long drawn-out civil suit. But they loved their daughter, and the public responded. The story, as it goes, is predictable: the criminal suit was ultimately dropped, not because there was no fault, but because culpability was so buried under legalese, the Fernandez lawyer didn’t have the means to excavate. But buried there, a jewel, a simple truth. That Alexis Fernandez was a human being, and she didn't to deserve to die. Everyone speaks of shame like it’s the hot lava core of emotional pain. Food shaming, body shaming, sexual shaming. But for Colton and Coach Bowie, they could have used a nice dose of shame, in its purest form, shot to the core of their black hearts. Because they felt none. And boy did we try. And by we I mean the social media swarm, where we fought valiantly to support the Fernandez family, trying and failing to appeal to the justice system, and then to the community, posting pictures of Alexis, appealing to their humanity. Our hive grew, the outrage grew, surely the Bowie family would cower in shame; surely Coach would quit; surely Colton would go into hiding. Only Jacob kept quiet; only he kept his head down; only he felt mortified. As for the Coach, it’s not hard to feed your ego when you know where to look. The audience might have been smaller- some sycophants at a smaller watering hole- but it could be a puddle and he’d find a place to drink. Colton went to college and posted shamelessly on social media- his buddies, his fraternity, his girlfriend, now his wife, his child, his church, his upstanding morality. No matter that the hive swarmed his comment section, reminding him, cajoling him, it did nothing. It did not penetrate into that part of the soul called conscience. While I was at school, his daughter was a cheerleader, flaunting her good looks, and charming the teachers. Again, it didn’t matter that most of the student body despised her. She would only look to where her ego needed nourishment. That’s what the Bowie family did. “Let’s take him to the jail!” I hollered and the boys crowed. I was so off script, there was no script. I shoved him into the jail, the final room, where typically the boys would find the clues- for the young ones, they just needed to count the “scratch marks” on the wall to produce the key- in order to open the safe where’d they’d find the cheap bars of gold. But not this time. “As my deputy, slam the door, Bryce. You’ve got the robber!” Bryce slammed it so hard it clanked open, and so I had to help him lock it. “All right, all right, let me out,” the Coach said warily. “Let’s get this over with.” I put a hand to my chest. If drama kids irritated him, I would be Oscar-worthy. “You are the worst kind of blue-bellied, grass-feeding, bottom-feeder devil in all of tarnation.” The boys laughed so tauntingly, it reminded me of the novel, Lord of the Flies . He was getting angry, but it wouldn’t take much for him to barrel his way out of the cheap jail, past me to my manager, where’d he’d take pleasure from getting me fired. Fired? This was beyond getting fired. I knew how to get him. I sidled up to the bars. “Hey, Coach, do you remember me? I was in your twelfth grade class ‘bout...oh say, five years ago.” “I don’t care who you were, you get me out of here, or you’re gonna get your ass served.” “No problem, Coach, sorry for the trouble. Thought I’d give your grandson a little show, right?” I gestured to the sweet child, who was still holding my gun and going “phew phew” around the room. I called the boys over and announced the code to the safe, told them now that they had their robber, they could open it. Bryce shoved his way to the front, demanding it was his birthday, but all the little boys were trying to shove their fingers onto the key pad. I turned back to the coach. “Say, you heard from Jacob recently?” Coach glared at me. “Get me out of here you good-for-nothing scum.” “Of course, of course.” I dramatically patted my pockets. “Well shoot....I thought it was here.” The temperature was rising. The joint was going to blow. I only needed to throw the match. “You know, Jacob and I were friends in high school.” I leaned in, said conspiriatorily, “Special friends, if you catch my drift. Let’s just say...we liked to play cowboy and robber.” And then I winked. Implosion. I tapped the record button on my Ipad.


Friday, October 18, 2019. Fort Hill Cemetery. Montauk, New York. There was a bitter chill in the air. As the wind whistled through the dying leaves of autumn, Nick Cappotelli could feel the cold enveloping him. Though he wondered how much of that chill was external and how much of it was internal. He secretly wondered if he was the only one who felt it. A shiver danced down his spine. Cemeteries always gave Nick the creeps. It was a bleak, gloomy setting, and he knew he wasn’t alone in feeling that way. But this was different. The feeling Nick had that day wasn’t akin to fear; it was remorse. It was just past noon, but the sun had refused to make an appearance all day. Grey storm clouds loomed overhead, threatening rain at any minute. It was as if even the sky was mourning the loss of Francesca Cappotelli. Paul Cappotelli, Nick’s father, had put a temporary halt on the services, as they were still waiting for a few family members to arrive. Nick scanned some of the faces in the crowd as he tried to distract himself, tried to shake off the chill. A lot of people had turned out to pay their respects. They were all huddled around the casket in rows, shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough to smell everyone’s perfume or cologne or cheap aftershave. All the men were clean shaven. Everyone was clad in the same respectable black attire. And everyone wore the same somber expression on their face. Nick could hear their muffled cries, their moans and whispers, their muted conversations. “This hurts more than I could have imagined,” he heard his Uncle Pete say. “I’ll never forget the smell of her sweet perfume,” whispered his Aunt Linda. “She was such a kind woman, so sweet,” he heard another woman whisper to a man Nick could only assume was her husband. He didn’t recognize either one of them. “What’s going to happen to all her stuff?” he heard his Aunt Janice inquire. He knew she was just fishing for free stuff. *Never change, Janice,* Nick thought. *She was the sweetest.* *The kindest.* *The best.* *I’ll never forget her.* *I’ll miss her so much.* Distant relatives from all across the country had flocked to the Hamptons to say their goodbyes, all red eyed and teary, all acting like they hadn’t seen this coming. Francesca Cappotelli was eighty-seven-years-old, and her health had been in rapid decline. So, when Fran died suddenly of a heart attack, nobody was truly surprised. And nobody suspected a thing. Nick had gone to great lengths to avoid his brother, Gino, and his sister, Carmella. It was only a matter of time before they brought up the elephant in the room, their inheritance. His father was a whole different story. That man was poison to Nick. Persona non grata. Nick didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to speak to him. He just wanted to get through this taxing day. And Nick’s mother had done an excellent job of avoiding him all day. And Nick happily returned the favor. He couldn’t bear to face her, couldn’t stand to see that accusatory glare. *I know what you did.* That’s what that look said to Nick. Like she was anyone to judge. Nick knew all their dirty little secrets. In fact, there were no secrets in the Cappotelli family. Sure, they all had skeletons in their closets, but the closet doors were wide open in the Cappotelli household. While attempting to avoid his immediate family, he wound up brushing shoulders with his cousins, Bobby and Stefanie. “I’ll miss her,” Stef said, dabbing away tears with a handkerchief, her dark makeup smeared and running down her cheeks. “I’ll miss her too,” Nick said. “She was one of a kind.” “Remember when we all used to sleepover?” Stef asked. “Grandpa had the Nintendo set up for us. We’d play Mario Brothers for hours and grandma would surprise us with cookies or Rice Krispie treats.” “I have some of her recipes,” Nick mentioned, just trying to make conversation. It had been a while since he’d seen his cousins. “Of course, you do, Mr. Chef,” Stef teased and tried to smile, but her eyes still gleamed with tears. “You’ll have to show us how to make those Rice Krispies one day.” “You got it,” Nick promised. “Yo, man, my condolences, bro,” Bobby muttered. Nick could smell marijuana on him and his eyes were bloodshot. Nick didn’t take too kindly to Bobby showing up under the influence at their grandmother’s funeral. But he had no right to judge. So he decided to let it slide. “I know how close you and grams were. You going to be alright?” “I’m hanging in there,” Nick sighed. “Hit me up if you ever need to talk. I’m always there for you, man.” “Thank you,” Nick feigned gratitude. “I really appreciate that.” Nick tried to remember the good times. Bobby’s recollection of Nintendo had sparked his memory. Nick, his brother and sister, and his cousins used to sit in front of the television for hours, taking turns playing games like Zelda and Super Mario, getting frustrated whenever they lost or couldn’t complete a game. But what a celebration it was when they did finally triumph over Bowser or the evil wizard in Zelda. And Francesca was there for all those victory celebrations with brownies or ice cream sundaes or whatever their hearts desired. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could almost smell his grandma’s baccala frying in a pan of hot oil on Christmas morning. Like every grandmother, Francesca couldn’t bear to see anyone go on an empty stomach. Pasta, meatballs, peppers and onions, fried fish, salted cod, broiled chicken with lemon and garlic. Francesca was the closest thing the family had to a professional chef. Her artichokes were critically acclaimed in Montauk. It's what inspired Nick to become a chef. Francesca had ignited a passion that Nick had transformed into a successful career. He worked for five-star restaurants across the tri state area. And he owed it all to his grandmother. But that wasn’t all she did for him. His grandmother taught him how to read, how to do laundry and fold clothes. She taught him the importance of religion and prayer. Had taught him how to speak Italian, which came in handy when he met Isabella one summer. He was 13, maybe 14 at the time. He’d taken a trip back to the old country. She barely spoke a word of English, but if she spoke Italian slowly enough, Nick could keep up with her in conversation. In hindsight, that was probably the greatest summer of his life, he just didn’t realize it back then. He often found himself thinking about Isabella and what might’ve been. He wondered if Isabella ever thought about him too. His sister, Carmella, was in attendance with her boyfriend. What was his name? Toby? Tim? Maybe it was Thomas? Nick was sure it started with a T, but that was all he could remember. As much as he tried to distance himself from her, he was only delaying the inevitable. Eventually, he saw her approaching with her lapdog boyfriend in tow, and he took a deep breath and braced himself. In typical Carmella fashion, she made sure to stand out with her hair, makeup, acrylic nails, and short black dress that ended just above the knees. She had a tanning booth glow to match her glowing white teeth. Nick was waiting for her to start posing for Instagram pictures. “Funeral selfies are very popular nowadays,” Nick quipped. “Be sure to get one right next to the casket.” “Nick the dick,” Carmella whispered. “You never miss a chance to be a prick.” “It’s in my nature,” he smiled. His first smile of the day. “How are you holding up?” “I’ve seen better days.” “We all have. Have you seen mom. She’s a hot mess.” “I haven’t talked to her since this morning.” “Trying to avoid the family?” “I can certainly try.” “That reminds me, Gino was asking about you.” “Tell him I’ll be okay.” “Tell him yourself. Oh, Nick, you remember Tony, right?” *Tony,* Nick thought. *I knew it started with a T.* “Of course,” Nick said, feigning remembrance. They exchanged nods and awkward handshakes, and Tony offered his condolences. “Has anyone talked to dad about...you know?” Carmella asked vaguely at first. “Did he speak with grandma’s attorney? Was her will finalized?” “It was finalized,” Nick whispered, certain of the fact. Then he excused himself. Nick ran away from one sibling and ended up running straight into the other. He supposed it was best to just get it over with. Rip the Band-Aid off. Gino was straight out of *The Jersey Shore*. Tape up haircut, spray tan, gold chain tucked into his shirt, rings on every other finger. Nick was surprised he didn’t show up wearing sunglasses. Gino could be annoying at times, and he had no filter and said whatever came to mind, but his heart was always in the right place. Gino was the youngest of the three. And even though Nick was the oldest, he’d always gotten along better with Gino than he had with Carmella. “Did you see who showed up to pay their respects?” Gino asked. Then he told him before Nick could even take a guess. “Jenny Washburn. Man, she was a looker back in high school. Now, look at her. Girl, are you a pinata? Because I’m going to need a blindfold before I hit that.” “We’re at our grandmother’s funeral,” Nick whispered. “Try and conduct yourself with a modicum of dignity.” “Sorry, you’re right. She doesn’t kook that bad, anyway. I’d hit it...with a truck.” “Gino,” was all Nick said under his breath. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll knock it off.” As annoying and irritating as Gino was, he didn’t mind talking to him that day as much as he did talking to Carmella. He could feel Carmella’s accusing eyes all over him, judging him, just like his mother. *I know what you did.* Like she had any right to judge. Like any of them did. But he knew he’d get no judgment from Gino. In the days since their grandmother’s passing, Gino had constantly tried to console him, patting him on the back, assuring him that it would be okay, that their grandma was in a better place now. But Nick was inconsolable. “Have you talked to dad?” “I’ve been avoiding him like the plague.” “Well, did you hear anything about grandma’s will?” “I know we’re all included in it, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t know how much you’re getting. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s ample.” “You’re right. I shouldn’t be worrying about that right now, anyway. It’s silly. Forget it. How are you doing?” “This is one of the hardest days of my life,” Nick said, feeling he could be more open and honest with Gino than he could with his other family members. “It’ll be alright,” Gino told him. “At least she’s not suffering anymore. She was sick. It was going to happen sooner or later.” “Excuse me,” Nick said, feeling quite ill himself. At least he had ripped the Band-Aid off by talking to his siblings. Now it was time to take the stitches out and talk to his mother. He saw her excuse herself from his Uncle Pete and Aunt Linda and start walking towards him. Sofia Cappotelli didn’t take her eyes off her son the entire time. Those eyes, that stare, it gave a clear impression of her thoughts. *I know what you did.* “How are you doing?” Sofia asked. “I could be worse. You?” “I’m managing,” she said. Then she added, “You look nice.” “Thank you,” Nick said. “Gino looks...presentable. I’m grateful for that. Carmella looks-” “Like a streetwalker?” “You said it, not me. Have you spoken to your father?” “I haven’t talked to Paul since we got the news about grandma.” “Maybe you should. I know he wants to talk to you. Life is short, you know.” He didn’t appreciate that last little dig she threw in there. But he let her have the last word. He was just grateful the conversation was over. The last of his family members had started to arrive. Soon, the priest would say a few words, recite a few prayers, then they would lower Francesca into the ground, and she would become one with the earth. Nick was shocked to see Isabella there. But her dark shoulder-length hair, caramel skin, and hypnotic brown eyes were impossible to forget. He spotted her easily in a sea of family members and close friends and approached her slowly and gently. “Isabella?” he asked, acting as if he barely even remembered her. “Isabella Argento? Is that you?” “Hello, Nick,” she smiled. “How many years has it been?” “Too many.” “I still remember that summer in Italy.” “It was beautiful,” Nick said, referring to something entirely different. Isabella blushed. “It’s good to see you again. But I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” “You and me both.” “Oh, and by the way, it’s Isabella Resnick now.” “And is Mr. Resnick in attendance?” “*Doctor* Resnick is in Atlanta, performing open heart surgery.” “Lovely,” Nick said, feeling slightly let down. Though he tried not to show it. “So, what brings you all the way here?” “I was in New York on business when I heard the news from my mom. So, I decided to come out here and pay my respects. Your grandmother was always so kind to me and my family. We never forget kindness. It’s a rarity nowadays.” “How long have you been living in the US?” “A while now. I should have reached out earlier. I left Italy after I graduated college. By then, I was fluent in English. I took an accounting job in Atlanta. And that’s when I met William.” “Any kids?” Nick asked. “Not yet, but William and I have discussed it. How about you? Is there a Mrs. Cappotelli in your life?” Nick flashed his bare hands, no wedding band. “One day, if I’m lucky.” “Girlfriend?” “Not at moment. What can I say?” Nick shrugged. “I’m not as popular as Carmella.” “Nobody’s as popular as Carmella,” she said, her accent still thick. They shared a laugh, and she offered her condolences again. Then she walked out of his life just as fast as she had walked back into it. When the crowd dispersed and Francesca had been lowered into the cold, cold ground, Nick took a moment to pay his respects and say his final goodbyes, alone. He stood over her grave, arms folded in front of him, and took a deep breath. His father walked over quietly, and Nick flinched as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “It had to be done,” Paul Cappotelli whispered. Yes, it had to be done. And Nick was the unfortunate one to do it. He was the only one Francesca Cappotelli still trusted. She hadn’t given the family much of a choice, at least from their point of view. She was holding out on them. Rumor had it she was looking to adjust her will and cut them all out of it. They had to act fast, before she had the chance to do anything drastic. Nick was the only one who could still get close to her. The only one of her grandchildren she trusted and respected. Carmella had no drive, no focus. She avoided working like it was her actual job and depended on her parents or her boyfriends to fund her lifestyle. Francesca wasn’t a fan of her granddaughter using her looks in order to get by. And to Francesca, Gino was an utter buffoon, wasting his life away, bouncing from one meaningless job to the next. But Nick was smart, bright, promising, a hard worker, intelligent, trustworthy, loyal. Or so Francesca had believed. Paul Cappotelli procured the poison. But Nick was the one who had administered it. His father assured him that it was untraceable, that it would show up as a heart attack on any autopsy report. And at her age, with her declining health, nobody would have a reason to question it. Nick was the culprit. But none of their hands were clean. They all had their reasons. Paul’s construction business was failing, and he was in debt to the bank, struggling to pay back his loans. The IRS was breathing down his neck. His employees were threatening to walk out on him. He needed money, and he needed it fast. He had pleaded with Francesca for financial relief, swore he would pay back every penny with interest. But Francesca refused to lend a helping hand. She’d grown weary of her family, of their greediness and recklessness, of their neglectful and selfish ways. The way she saw it, she wasn’t responsible for their irresponsibility. Her son would have to find a way to save his own business. The same went for her daughter-in-law. Nick’s mother had sunk all her money into her own business venture, a clothing boutique. While she did have an eye for fashion, she was barely covering the rent. Needless to say, the store wasn’t doing well, and she didn’t even own the property. Her only choice was to try and stay afloat or pack up and admit defeat. And Sofia Cappotelli was not one to lie down and admit defeat. She was stubborn and never liked to admit when she was wrong or made a mistake. And the love Sofia had for her mother-in-law was paper thin, if it ever really existed in the first place. Gino needed money to fund his selfish lifestyle. Carmella was the same story. But they were the only ones that weren’t quite in on it. Sure, they assumed the passing of their grandma meant they would be receiving their inheritance, but they weren’t aware of the circumstances that had brought them to this point. Paul felt it was for the best. But he also didn’t have a lot of hope for his daughter and youngest son. And between trying to fund his business and care for his children, he was going broke. This money would alleviate so much pressure, solve so many problems. And then there was Nick. The good son, Nick the saint, or Nick the dick, depending on who you asked. In his heart, he wanted to believe he was a good person. But he needed money, just like anyone else. Chefs, as talented as they may be, work long hours for very low wages. Most restaurants don’t even offer benefits or health insurance. But that wasn’t the problem. Gambling was Nick’s vice. And his debts were enough to scare even the most notorious gambling addict sober. Nick was in debt to some very unsavory individuals, and they were going to take more than a couple of fingers if he didn’t pay up soon. But Francesca was stubborn. She wouldn’t budge. She wanted her family to work for what they had. So, they had to take drastic measures. His father was the one who had suggested it, but Nick was the one who went through with it. And he’d have to face that for the rest of his life.  \*\*\*  Monday, October 21, 2019. Early morning. Nick was summoned to the office of Herman Winesap, his grandmother’s attorney. He assumed it was in regards to their inheritance and how it would be divided up among the family. He also assumed everyone else would be there. So, he was bemused to see that his mom and dad were not present. Neither were Gino or Carmella. He walked in alone to Winesap’s office and shook Herman’s cold, dry hand. “Have a seat,” Winesap said. Nick accepted his invitation and made himself at home. He looked around at his otherwise empty office. “Are we waiting for anyone else?” “No, Mr. Cappotelli. Just you.” “What’s this all about?” Nick asked. “Just a formality? You need me to sign something?” “Well, yes and no. Mr. Cappotelli, your grandmother made extensive changes to her will prior to her death. Were you aware of these changes?” *That bitch,* Nick thought. *She was one step ahead. She must’ve figured out we were plotting behind her back and took us out of her will before we made our move.* “No, I was not aware,” he said quietly. “I was under the impression that the whole family was to be included in her will.” “That was indeed the case, as of last Monday, a day before your grandmother’s unfortunate passing. My sincerest condolences, by the way. On that day last week, Francesca amended her will and listed you as the sole beneficiary.” Nick was stunned, floored, speechless. He couldn’t utter a word. But internally, he was beyond elated. Every single penny of Francesca’s vast fortune would go straight to him. Not to Gino or Carmella or his parents, but him. The rest of his family wouldn’t see a cent. He was rich; rich beyond his wildest imagination. “I’m going to need your signature on a few documents before we can proceed,” Winesap said, shuffling papers around on his cluttered desk. Nick was more than happy to scribble his name on the dotted line. Once the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed, Winesap opened the top drawer of his desk. “Oh, this is for you,” he said, handing Nick a sealed envelope. “Your grandmother insisted I give this to you in the event of her death. As her attorney, she also insisted that I not read it.” Nick opened the envelope and his smile suddenly dissipated. As he read his grandmother’s words, the grim, harsh reality of the situation began to dawn on him. He was now the sole beneficiary of his grandmother’s fortune. The same fortune his family had been plotting to secure. *Dearest Nick,* *I never expected it to be you. Your father, sure. That no good son of mine has been waiting me out for years to get his hands on my fortune. But I thought you were different. I thought I could trust you.* *You were always my favorite, Nick. Which is why it almost hurts me to write this. In the event of my demise, I’ve amended my will to have all my money and assets transferred to you.* *I hope you understand what this really means, Nick. You all wanted me out of the way in your greedy pursuit of my money. Well, if you’re reading this, you succeeded.* *You can have it all, now. Everything I have. It all goes to you. Now they will be gunning for you instead of me. I hope the thought keeps you awake at night. I hope you won’t be able to focus, to sleep. I hope you spend every waking minute looking over your shoulder, wondering who is going to stab you in the back, figuratively or literally.* *Who is it going to be, Nick?* *Gino? Carmella? Your mother and father? Who can you really trust?* This was Francesca’s final revenge. She knew her time was coming to an end. She knew her family was conspiring against her, and she knew it would be the one closest to her to plunge the dagger into her heart. And now, she was returning the favor. Francesca Cappotelli was gone. But Nick wasn’t too far behind.


I sit at my window sill, my palms sweaty, face tense, hands clutched tight. The only thing keeping me physically stable is the repetitive chant in my mind; “I am okay”. Though I am in complete terror, I am no amateur to an anxious mind. In truth I have experienced this very feeling before, and before, is an understatement. I am pretty much know as the anxious kid everywhere I go. At school, where I scurry out of my seat in the middle of the lesson, and pace around the classroom. At home, where my room is filled with stress balls, fidget spinners, and all other kinds of weird gadgets. And even at the supermarket where I once got to go to the “Cashier Lounge” when a panic attack quickly arose during our grocery shopping disaster. I always get aggravated having that label stuck to me, but yet I continue to be anxious. Not by choice of course. But more by habit. Unfortunately, having anxiety is like riding a bike, learn it once and you don’t seem to forget how to do it. My relentlessly anxious mind wakes me up night by night, at that phase where your just drifting off to the magical world of dreams. However, my brain doesn’t allow me to feel free in the joyous dream realm, instead it awakes me with haunting secrets that I have shielded to myself. So, I have gotten into the habit of jumping out of bed, almost as quickly as my racing mind, and sitting at the tall window sill beside my bed. There, I try to find peace in the things around me like the tall buildings that seem to go a mile high, or the blinding city lights that twinkle like stars in the dark city air. Night by night I turn to my window sill for comfort, but more importantly as an escape. But this particular night when searching for various things I have overlooked or ignored I see a small cop car zoom by. Suddenly another follows it, playing the horrendous tune that shakes your bones. As the grating feeling of anxiety, circles around me, I am reminded of that unbearable scene. The devastating memory of flashing blue and red lights storm throughout my mind, and I hear the sirens echo throughout my brain. Tonight the window sill did not let me escape, but instead forced me to be reminded, forced me to replay the scene that I had been avoiding all this time. I felt my heart race, and my eyes grow watery. I felt my legs and arms go numb. Without the very thing that gave me comfort how was I supposed to get past the thoughts that were stuck to my brain like glue. That’s when I resorted to the repetitive chant in my mind. Tightly hugging my legs, and controlling my sobs, I decided to give the cop car one last look. As hard as it was, I made contact with the automobile. Though, I could not see well through the thick city air, and the tears crowding my vision I was able to just barely make out the vehicle. I watched it park and a police officer open the drivers door. That speedy driver than raced out of the car and disappeared behind the local café. Though he disappeared the memories did not. Instead they were enlarged. They felt so real that I could almost feel all the things I felt that day. Like the heavy scent of cigars that stuffed up our living room that afternoon. Or the sight of two bottles of alcohol that were empty and shoved into the corner of our kitchen. Or The strange man that my so called father was speaking to, as he handed him loads of cash at the corner of the block. I saw all those things happen but only gave it a small ponder. I didn’t pay attention to the signs. I wondered if I could of prevented all of what happened, and if I did, would things look different for me? That thought alone has troubled me since the moment the cops arrived, and took me to the home I reside in now. To the family I now call my own. I know living with my father any longer would have not been the right environment for me, but I do wish there could have been a better chance for him. Maybe not with me, but I do wish he could of outdone his wrongs, and we could both live in the worlds we deserve. But instead he is locked up for good, and I must live knowing that he wasted his life, cause of his silly obsessions. He wasted his life, and jeopardized his daughter’s. Strangely enough remembering that day in such detail felt like the ticket I needed to get past the dark road I had been struggling on. Something changed inside me at that moment. I realized that by my father being out of my life, he was controlling it more than before. And I didn’t want that. I want to live my own life, with my family, and with nothing but positivity around me. My father had his chance, now it’s my turn. I also decided that reliving the tough days is okay. The way we look at memories, is the way we see those memories and I needed to rewrite some of mine. Memories can be carried with much sorrow and pain or as tribute to the strength, perseverance, and bravery exhibited. The police man then came around the corner and jumped back into his car. He drove off as suddenly as he came. Watching the police car leave, I vowed that I wouldn’t be so afraid to look at something that remind me. As after all what harm did it do. Yes I saw and slightly relived the pain, but I was also reminded of how strong I was that night, and all the nights that followed. So, don’t be afraid to watch your memories, get past the pain, and look out your window. Who knows what you can overcome.


The branches of the trees creaked and whined as the wind swept across the moor. Twisters of leaves flung wildly about. Upon a hill stood a man gazing absently over the valley. The man’s clothing was ill fitting on his thinning frame. His face was gaunt and his hair fell unkempt. His body trembled with weakness and exhaustion. His once bright blue eyes were now clouded and bleary. It was his first time in the outside world from his manor in as any months. His home had fallen silent. The floor was littered with leaves, dust coated every surface and he had ordered for all the windows to be shuttered and the drapes closed. It was once a warm and welcoming place. Dances and other entertainment were frequently hosted there. The expansive hall was often ornamented with fine porcelain china and exotic vases. The banquet room was perfumed with oriental teas and rich fat from roasted meats. For some who had the taste for it, Opium was imported from the Silk Road. At these parties Edmond’s wife insisted on greeting the guests and escorted them into the designated room. Performers and musicians serenaded them as they indulged. Wine flowed in abundance into crystal glasses. As inebriation took hold, gentlemen shed their jackets. Their women flushed and giggled. Some were more blatant than others as their primal nature was revealed. Later they would take coffee and cigars in the parlor. Edmond would further entertain as his wife served delicacies. The haze of smoke lowered the inhibitions of their friends. Kissing and groping would take place on the couches. Make-up was smeared and hair was ruffled. Some sat awkwardly, witnessing these displays while maintaining decorum. On occasion a couple would sneak into one of the upstairs bedrooms. The sounds of their whooping coitus caused riotous laughter. When the night drew late the guests filed out of the home and into their carriages. The servants bustled here and there, clearing the tables. Edmond took his wife’s hand and escorted her up the stairs. He could hardly wait to bed her after the party. He had been starving for her all evening. As soon as the bedroom door closed, he reached to pull her to him. Her hunger matched his. With fumbling hands, she unbuttoned his trousers. Slowly her fingers traveled downward to tease him ever so gently. A mischievous smile graced her lips as her husband’s breath began to hitch. He disrobed himself unceremoniously and cast his clothing in a pile upon the floor. Angelique rushed to undo the laces of her bodice. Her face flushed red and her skin was exposed before him. He reached for the pin that held her hair up into a braided bun. Her golden locks slipped down to curtain her breasts that had so pleased him. He gripped a fistful of her hair and crashed his lips down upon hers. The days of virginal restraint and care had long since passed. Yes, still he made love to her, but now was not the time. No. Now they would devour each other in simple lust. Roughly he pressed her into the bed. He nipped at her collar bones and shoulders and she trembled beneath him. Desperately, she clung to him, raking her nails down his back breaking the last of Edmond’s resolve. He eagerly shifted Angelique’s skirts and placed his mouth upon her breast. Her body accepted him and she cried out from his touch. They plummeted from the edge of self-control and submitted to their carnal wants. In an act of boldness, Angelique crossed her legs around his waist, urging him on. A low moan rose from the depths of his chest and he bared his weight upon her. Pinning her wrists, he seized control. They began to sweat and their breathing grew ragged. Their rutting became erratic and all sense of the world around them disappeared. Soon now. The last dredges of their intercourse came with a strangled grunt and his lower belly clenched. With his release the tight coil that had been building inside Angelique’s core finally broke. With a few more twitches and spasms, the couple lie still. In the afterglow of their love he took her hand in his and she began to weep. He smiled knowingly. She always cried with joy when he was with her like this. Sapped by exhaustion they began to fade from consciousness. With what little will she had left, Angelique rose onto shaky legs and managed to make it to her own room. Edmond’s slumber used to be so sweet knowing his love was not far away. Just a few doors down his wife lie peacefully. Now he tossed and turned...if he slept at all. When he did sleep, he dreamt of her. He would reach out for her and her hand would be icy cold. Her hair was wet and stringy, skin pale and blood drenched the bodice of her gown. Mud and leaves were matted in her hair. Angelique’s eyes were sharp and accusing. Edmond trembled and wept as he leaned in to kiss her. No sooner that his lips brushed hers a shriek ripped through the air. Her mouth curled in a sneer. A voice like venom roared. “Your fault! Your fault!” Edmonds throat tightened and a pathetic cry struggled from his mouth. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. Please forgive me my love.” Again, she bellowed. “Your fault! Your fault!” The wind howled and she began to fade. Leaves appeared in a whirlwind where she once stood. A gale forced the leaves to engulf him. They were razor sharp, tattering his clothes and slashing his skin. He would wake in a cold sweat. After such dreams he would slip into fits of rage. His wailing dirge would echo all the way to the servant’s quarters. As the weeks drug on he dismissed them. He couldn’t bear the whisperings and the way they avoided looking him in the eye. Edmond despised the way they pitied him. A malignant resentment built in him from the falsity of their sorrow. As they left, he shut himself away. He wallowed in his solitude. His guilt riddled thoughts were all that kept him company.