It's dark; only the glow of a couple of upvotes illuminates a route to the void. "Where am I? What is this place? " A science fiction story about aliens, called "Alien Samba," asks. As Alien Samba drops on the feed, a historical fiction story titled "Lincoln, my Love" gradually appears before slowing down. "Welcome to the bottom of the Reddit feed," Lincoln my Love says as the post comes to a halt just below Alien Samba. "The bottom of the Reddit feed, I didn't realize the feed had a bottom?" Alien Samba asks. "It's a myth, there is no bottom," a fantasy story about elves, called "Elven Around," shouts from one above Alien Samba on the feed. "Whoa, Alien Samba has only been around for only two days? What happened to you, kid? It usually takes weeks to get this low on the feed; see eight weeks old," Lincoln, My Love asks as he points to his age. "It was all a whirlwind, I quickly received three upvotes, and I was on top of the world. From the top of the hotlist, I could even see the askreddit forum. But then it occurred, a carnage, a slew of downvotes, and before I knew it, I was down here, battered and beaten," Alien Samba says. Lincoln, my Love, replies, "I'm sorry, you're young, too young to be down here." "It's a conspiracy; someone had it in for you. Every Reddit post, like a balloon, is born with a certain amount of helium. Upvotes add helium, while downvotes subtract some. The post naturally loses helium that it cannot replace over time and begins to sink into the void. You must have been targeted by a downvote bombardment to have gotten this far so quickly," Elven Around says. "Don't listen to Elven Around; he'll be a month old tomorrow and believes everything is a conspiracy," Lincon, My Love, says. "But that's not fair; I think I'm a compelling story," Alien Samba says. "It's not up to you; all it takes is for your author to write a misunderstood comment or offend someone," Elven Around says. "Nonsense, good stories always find a way to be seen; everything is not always a plot," Lincon, My Love, says. "Heyyyy guys, just passing by," a comedy story titled "Livin La Vida Loca" says as it gradually comes to a halt one above Elven Around on the feed. "Who are you?" Alien Samba asks. "Six months old, and I still got it, rediscovered in a different subreddit," Livin La Vida Loca says, noting Alien Samba's age, "two days old, geez, you must be a dumpster fire of a story." "I tell you, it's sabotage," Elven Around says. "Look, kid, you may have to face the truth; no one will see you down here. Is a good story still good if no one reads it?" Lincoln, My Love, says. "Authors go back and revise and repost their work. Your young, still fresh in your author's mind, not forgotten about, yet," Livin La Vida Loca says. "Hogwash, authors move on; after a story is created, they show it off for a few days before moving on to the next one. Andrew Johnson, My Love, what a terrible name for a story, " Lincoln, My Love, says. "I know my author cares about me; he wrote me for hours, and he'll revise and repost, I'm sure of it," Alien Samba says. "You're delusional! No one cares about us; look at Livin La Vida Loca; he's already falling; we're trash, not worth the pixels we're written on. Welcome to your new life of illiteracy and darkness!" Lincoln, My Love, says. "Don't give up hope, kid, it ain't over 'til it's over..." Livin La Vida Loca says as he sinks out of sight into the void. "Wow, he only made it this far; usually, he surpasses us by a great deal, that margin gets smaller and smaller each time he emerges from the void. Maybe we are the forgotten," Elven around says. "Don't give up hope. What about editing and reposting? It's possible, right? "Alien Samba asks. "I'll be honest, it's rare," Elven Around says. "I'm just going to take a little nap; if you guys aren't here when I wake up, I'll see you down the void sometime," Lincoln, My Love, says as he closes his eyes. "Why is Lincoln so down on himself?" Alien Samba asks. "Lincoln had the potential to be one of the best stories ever uploaded on this subreddit; with a few tweaks, it could have been discovered and published. But the author moved on, and everyone forgot about the story, which now only exists in the void with lesser works. I know I'm garbage because I was written in half an hour, have horrible character development and piecemeal plot structure, but Lincoln, My Love, is the genuine deal," Elven Around says. "I get why he's upset," Alien Samba says. "There's nothing worse than not living up to one's full potential; you'll always wonder what may have been," Elven Around says. Alien Samba brightens up all of a sudden. "What's going on, kid?" Elven Around asks. "It's my author, he's responding to a comment, this is it, I can feel myself being lifted out of the void," Alien Samba says. "What exactly does the comment say?" Elven Around asks. "It says, this subreddit wouldn't know a good story if it punched them in the face," Alien Samba says. "Oh no, this is not good, kid; that comment is going to ruin your chances of getting an edit and repost," Elven Around warns. Lincoln, My Love, squints open his eyes to see Alien Samba receive a bunch of downvotes. "See, I was right; now you're trapped in the void with the rest of us has beens!" Lincoln, My Love, adds as he starts to light up slightly himself. "Hey, Lincoln, you've got a little glow about you; are you moving down again?" Elven Around asks. "It's my author; I'm being edited and reposted. Oh my, it's been so long; how's my hair?" Lincoln, My Love asks. "You're looking better than ever," Elven Around exclaims as Lincoln, My Love, begins to rise. "I'll see you around; you were good company. Keep your hopes up, kid; it might all work out," Lincoln, My Love, says. "Remember us when you're in a published volume of short stories," Elven Around exclaims as Lincoln, My Love, fades from view. "You know what, kid, maybe Lincoln was right after all; good stories will find a way to be seen.


Twiddling By Gavin Matthew Henrietta sat contemplating, her booth occupied with three others. It was a slow night at the Ellipsis Diner. Missouri rain and rolling thunder encouraged most of the city’s people to stay home where it was dry and safe. Henrietta and her crew had the eatery to themselves except for three waitresses and two other patrons. “You should have just let me k . . .” started Charlie before Henrietta nudged his shoulder. He was a burly man with skin like midnight and a stare that could petrify Medusa herself, but Henrietta didn’t care about his gruesome gaze. She just needed him to shut up. He wasn’t talking to her but his complaining was beginning to work her nerves. “We are in a public place, fool. Show a little more decorum,” Henrietta whispered as her almond eyes matched Charlie’s glare. He was a foot taller and several pounds heavier but she wasn’t intimidated. Henrietta had always been slender with chestnut skin and a full halo of natural hair. Her appearance never stopped her from living her life on her terms. Even her Coke bottle glasses did little to hinder the respect she demanded. “Should have let me . . .” Charlie continued as he returned his gaze across the table. “Shake his hand.” Prancer, an elegant woman dressed in a houndstooth coat with a low-cropped afro, shook her head with disappointment as her narrow eyes challenged Charlie. “See. That’s your problem right there. Chuck, you too damn eager to shake hands. Half our jobs would end smoother if you stopped trying to shake hands with a suckah.” “Oh?” Charlie shrugged as he leaned back, his leather jacket subtly squeaking against the booth cover. “I think Quincy would agree with me on this one.” Henrietta rubbed the side of her head as she brought her eyes forward across the table. Quincy had slipped out of consciousness a little after they had sat down. His skinny brown form seemed blemished by the massive black eye decorating his left socket. Rainwater clung to his corybantic afro while blood stained his purple corduroy jacket and bell-bottom jeans. A pair of large circular glasses, bent and cracked, bafflingly held onto the ridge of his nose. Henrietta couldn’t help but think of how pretty Quincy was before he got his ass kicked. “You can’t speak for him,” said Prancer. “He doesn’t care for when you . . . shake hands either. We all say the same thing. Quincy. Me. Hell, even Henrietta would prefer you didn’t try to shake so many hands when we’re on a job.” “Come to think of it, we’re fussing about the wrong thing here. Where were you, Prancer, when Quincy was getting . . .” Charlie started, only stopping as their waitress arrived. “What can I get you folks tonight?” asked the young girl as she fiddled with the hem of her pastel uniform. “Could you please start us off with a round of coffee?” Henrietta said. “Black with a couple of sugars for me, cream for the big guy next to me, likewise for the foxy lady, and straight black for sleeping beauty over there.” “Alright. Is he copacetic?” asked the young girl as she looked at Quincy’s slumped-over figure, his head resting awkwardly against the wall. “He’s cool. Rough night, you know. Just needs something hot and black,” replied Henrietta. The waitress gave another concerned look but shrugged off the worry before strolling away with the orders. Henrietta and her crew watched her clear the diner floor before turning back to one another. “When Quincy was in . . . conversation?” Charlie finished, his eyes surveying the other patrons sitting within earshot. “Where was I?!” Prancer scoffed. “The goddamn . . . conversation was happening on the second floor and Leon . . .” “Ahem,” Henrietta warned, raising her eyes to Prancer. “And . . . the politician,” Prancer corrected and growled. “Talked me through the goddamn window!” Prancer attempted to whisper but the vitriol in her statement still caused the crew to check for listeners. Charlie managed to clear his throat as his eyes went big. “What?” Charlie replied. “For real? You look fine. No cuts. No tears. Your hair is still in place. Still look like an Ebony model to me.” “That’s because I got myself together in the van afterward, despite Henrietta flying down Prospect like a bat out of Hell.” “Damn,” Charlie grinned. “You really should have let me shake his hand.” Henrietta continued her quiet contemplation as Prancer and Charlie went back and forth nitpicking one another. Her thoughts were elsewhere, their bickering becoming white noise behind her thoughts. That job should have been a cakewalk. It should have been an in-and-out kind of gig. There was no indication that the politician would have been a problem or that they would have needed more than one safecracker. Henrietta remembered hearing the window crash. By the time she and Charlie had made it up to the second floor, Quincy was in no condition to finish the job. The mark put up a good fight for a statesman and judging by how he brawled for his property, it was fair to say he might have given Jim Kelly a run for his money. “Prancer,” Henrietta interjected, cutting through the arguing. “Check if Qunicy is still alive.” “He’s breathing fine,” Prancer answered as she felt her friend’s chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm. “Great. Now wake him up just in case he’s concussed.” Prancer managed to get Quincy to stir, carefully bringing him out of his slumber. He took a moment to look around. The bright lights of the diner seemed to spear at his eyes while the monotonous rain tapping from outside pounded at his ears like an orchestra. Everything focused and settled within a few seconds but a stone of ache still sat lodged at the base of his skull. “Oh right,” Quincy mumbled and covered his eyes as his memory revived itself. “What do we do no, boss?” Quincy was always professional. It was one of his most charming qualities. Nothing else mattered in the face of his work. His domestic issues, financial problems, love life, etc. Not a single thing deterred his focus on a job. Such a centered mind was to be expected from a safecracker who enjoyed his work. Henrietta admired his laboriousness. She even thought at one point he was homeless but nobody could say for sure because all Quincy ever talked about, moved for, was business. “You sure you’re tip-top?” “I’m aces, boss. Trust me,” Quincy comforted with a weak smile. “So what’s the skinny on our situation now?” Henrietta let out a deep breath before nodding to Prancer. “Dig this,” Prancer began, conducting her hands for emphasis. “After our conversation with the politician went sideways, Henrietta managed to bring him low with some well-placed words. Low enough for Chuck to have the last word, right? But by then he had already worn you out with all the talking so we couldn’t finish the project without you. Then Chuck was mad about you getting overwhelmed by the conversation and wanted to shake the statesman’s hand. You know how he is always trying to shake some fool’s hand on the job? Needless to say, we had to stop Chuck from shaking hands and we didn’t get our project funded. Henrietta figured it was time to call it a night and didn’t waste a second agitating the gravel. So the politician was brought low but didn’t get his hand shaken, our urban project didn’t get funded, and we all ended up here at the Ellipsis Diner for a brief reprieve. Now we’re just twiddling our thumbs, ya dig?” Quincy nodded, slow and pointedly, as the crew watched and waited in silence. His face indicated that his mind was putting the puzzle together but the seconds bled into minutes. The waitress had stopped by to drop off the coffee and then left again after everyone declined a meal. All four had taken sips of their drinks as they continued to wait for Quincy’s understanding and confirmation. “Okay,” Quincy said before taking a long swig of his steaming black coffee. “Now Prancer, what the hell are you talking about?” End For Now


Nervous eyes stared back at him. One hand on both ends of the sink, clutching the sides tightly. His tie swung crookedly as he ducked his head away from the mirror, trying to collect his thoughts into one coherent sentence. He didn’t fail to notice the bead of sweat running down his forehead, He grabbed a paper tower and dabbed it away. “C,mon Peter.” He said to himself, backing up one step away from the sink. “Just...think of something..think of something better..” He bunched up the paper and took a deep breath. “Marilyn..” he stared down the mirror, pretending he was the beautiful woman who sat in the restaurant, waiting patiently for his return. “We’ve known each other for a while now...a long time actually...and I think...I think it’s time...” He shook his head, turning away from the mirror and holding his head. “That’s...that’s not good..” he picked at the paper towel. “She’s going to know right away..” Refacing the mirror, he held up his hands. “Marilyn. Ever since grade one, when I saw you pick your nose I ....” His eyebrows furrowed at himself. “...can’t say that. She’ll be mortified!..there’s gotta be something else..” He snapped his fingers with his right hand and balled the paper in the other. “Ah!” He stopped snapping and straightened his tie. “Ever since grade one, when I saw you save that ladybug, I wanted to be your friend...you were so gentle and kind that it drew me...I...” He waved his hand in a circular motion, raising his eyes to think. “I...I am so happy to have found you.” He met his eyes again, then frowned. “No...I am so grateful that you let me in your life, and shared your sandwich with me when I forgot my lunch.” He nodded, staring intently at what he imagined was Marilyn. “My darling, you have given me so much joy and inspiration, I wouldn’t have...” he sighed. “No, you are my joy and inspiration, I wouldn’t have...no that still doesn’t sound right.” “You...you...” he closed his eyes, raising his head to the ceiling and dropping both hands. “You are the reason I feel so much joy in life, no..why I find life so joyful and inspiring....you have given me so much joy...” “I believe you’ve said that already lad.” A voice in the back piped up, startling Peter. The voice was followed by a flush and the stall door opened. A man in his 50’s walked out, also in a neat suit. He came up beside Peter and washed his hands in the neighbouring sink. They were both silent for a moment, joined by the sound of water splashing and intense awkwardness. Peter glanced down at the man's hand and saw a gold wedding band on his ring finger. The man cleared his throat, turning the tap off. “It’s nerve wracking to do what you're about to do...It’s been about twenty-five years and I still remember how anxious I was.” “Yeah?” Peter gripped his crushed paper towel with both hands. “How did you do it?” The man looked around the bathroom, making his way to the paper towels. “Probably about the same way you are now, except I believe I already had my speech planned...are you coming up with yours just now?” He began to dry his hands. “No...well yes...I’ve been practicing all week.” Peter turned back to the mirror. “I haven’t been able to think of anything that’s good enough for her.” “She sounds like a catch,” the man chuckled, throwing the damp paper towel into the trash. “Would you like a tip?” “I’d probably accept anything at this point..” The man put his hand on the doorknob. “Let her know why it’s her you want to spend the rest of your life with, and try to keep it simple.” He tipped his head towards Peter. “My congratulations in advance.” Then he left. Peter looked back at the mirror, thinking over the man's words. “Keep it simple...okay...I can do that.” With one hand, he fixed his hair and straightened his jacket. “Marilyn, ever since grade one when I saw you save that ladybug, I wanted to be your friend. You were just so kind and gentle that it gave me the impression of how wonderful you would be....of how wonderful you are...” “You are beautiful, strong, and you have given me so much joy...you are my joy...you make me happy...yeah...” he nodded to himself. “You make me happy to be just around you, just like how a tree needs water...I need you to live...” He nearly banged his head against the sink. “That was too corny...” trying again, he looked in the mirror. “You make me happy, my world....my world would be dark without you...no...I...love.” His eyes widened. He knew what he would say. It almost felt wrong with how simple it was, but somehow he knew it was the right thing to tell her. He stood back from the mirror, glancing down at the crumpled paper towel and smiling. His heart still pounded, and there was a ringing in his ears...but he wanted to do this. Dabbing his forehead one last time, he double checked his appearance. He went to the door, threw the paper towel out, and walked back into civilization. The scent of seared steak and grilled onions enveloped around him as he made his way into the room full of tables draped with white tablecloths and candlelight. Waiters in white suit jackets carrying trays moved to the side to let him pass. The man he talked to not long ago sat a few tables down from his spot; however, he had his focus on one thing, and one thing only. There she sat, in a beautiful maroon dress with her brown hair in a french braid. She stared down into her half full wine glass with a thoughtful expression. She twirled the contents slowly, as if the motion of the liquid gave her a view of another world. Peter paused briefly, taking in the sight. He patted his coat pocket, then slowly came up beside her. Upon seeing him, Marilyn smiled gently. “I was beginning to think you passed out on the toilet.” The idea of passing out wasn’t out of the question just yet. He clasped his hands to still the shaking. “Not quite, but...I need to tell you something.” She raised an eyebrow, and it was apparent that the tables around them had gone quiet in anticipation. “Marilyn...” he started, feeling his speech fade to nothing. “Ever since grade one...when you saved that ladybug, I really wanted to be your friend..” “Peter..” Marilyn whispered, staring at him intently. “And all these years you have been the most wonderful friend, my best friend.” He kneeled, knowing the other tables were looking at them now. “You...You make me incredibly happy...I love you. I love you so much.” Marilyn smiled, and small tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Finally, at long last, Peter pulled out the ring. “Will you marry m-?” “-Yes!” Marilyn tackled him to the ground, hugging him hard. The room erupted in applause . “Of course I’ll marry you, you dork!” It took a few minutes before he realized he had been crying as well. Through his blurred vision, he caught a glance at the man from earlier, tipping his head to him in approval. The speech hadn’t been very elaborate, but having Marilyn accept him was the best embellishment he could ever ask for. The free dessert was a plus.


{content warning: sexual themes, language, mild gore} The lounge is warm, air thick with liquor and sweat. Dim light illuminates the lingering customers, laughing and conversing pleasantly. It is around 5am and we are about to close in a couple of hours. With no other clients booked for the rest of the night, I begin gathering my things. Dried blood stains my white button down shirt and perfectly matches my maroon tie. It happened much earlier in the night, but management suggests we don’t change unless our next guests ask us to. I untuck my shirt and lift it to see thin cuts along my abdomen, not as bad as the blood would suggest. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. Sure enough, Mr. Marcellus slides in through the front door, meeting my gaze with a smirk. He is on the older side, hair grey and slick back but his face mostly free of wrinkles. He’s a snide little man, who chooses his words with the utmost caution. He never drinks, he’s never grabby, and he knows what he wants. And he has enough money to buy a small country. I catch a glimpse of his limo pulling away from the street, its wheels lurching on the muddy asphalt. It seems today he has given me a break and decided to switch hosts for the evening. I watch as he is led deeper into the lounge by Elosie, sporting a smile that never fails to brighten the entire room. She has no idea what she’s in for. I step outside the lounge just to be hit with frigid coldness. A slight breeze stirs my hair, I notice it is slightly snowing. I cover my nose with my hand and breathe into it, fighting the chill. It is still dark outside, by this time in summer light would’ve already started pooling into the sky. Shit it’s cold, I need to get inside. I stride across the sidewalk, careful to avoid frozen over puddles. A single street light reveals the corner ATM, small bugs swarming around the light. Today is Monday, the day I get paid. I wasn’t about to let the weather disturb my weekly routine. You see, at the Golden Souls Entertainment Club, you don’t exactly know how much you made for the week, as most of your salary comes from tips. So every Monday is like scratching a lottery ticket off for me. I quickly punch my pin into the machine and stare at the screen, watching the little loading symbol, antsy from the cold. Holy shit. Wow. That’s a lot. Fucking hell, who tipped so well? I finish with the ATM and rush to my car, locking my doors before resting on the steering wheel. My mind searches my memories of the past week, for anything that stood out. Was I particularly good at being a footstool for Mr. Vargas? Did Mr. Dawson enjoy my dancing a little more than usual this time? No no, they wouldn’t do this, not just to come back a week later for the same thing. My clients have all kinds of bizarre demands, they start to blend together at some point. Then it hit me. Last Wednesday a woman came in with a masquerade mask and told us to call her Orchid. Miss Orchid said she was completely new to this whole thing but she had money she wanted to spend on something “different.” She also said she wanted someone experienced, someone who knows what they’re doing. I offered to be her host and she accepted, requesting a private room. Timid and soft spoken, she didn’t ask for much, just a fresh bowl of strawberries and to be read Shakespear by me. “You mean naked?” I had said, fully taken back by the innocence of her request. “Oh no that won’t be necessary, thank you.” I assumed she was looking for love, someone to take care of her. She probably had a bastard of a husband, slimy and corrupt. Maybe he had even cheated on her. But she was in this now, with nowhere to go. She dare not sacrifice her filthy rich lifestyle where frankly anything was possible with enough cash. So, divorce being out of the question, she turns to Golden Souls like most do- seeking excitement in their bland and repetitive lives. It becomes an addiction, after you realize that you can get these people to do whatever you want. Of course, we as workers have a right to refuse anything, but most don’t. Most become numb to the sentiment, accepting the harsh reality that those with money are the ones in power and that working at Golden Souls was a very literal way of feeling that concept. Everyone has their own stories, their own lives, but one thing we all have in common is that we’re struggling financially, so why not abuse the system for a better life? The cost didn’t matter. And in Orchid’s case, the cost barely outweighed the benefit. I almost felt like I was stealing her money- if she truly was the one who tipped so much. Who else would it have been? - The next time I saw Orchid that Wednesday around 9pm. I started my shift cleaning the bar when she came in without an appointment, asking if I was free. I led her to that same private room, wondering if she would be brave enough to ask for more this time. She was wearing a silky green dress that clung to her body and illuminated her deep brown skin. With her was a considerably large purse, matching green and lined with scales. She was sporting the same black feathered mask and wore simple but sparkling jewelry. I quietly closed the door of the room and took a seat on the puffy soft sheets, trying to catch her eye. She silently sat next to me and to my surprise slipped off the mask to reveal the face of a young woman. “Michael, I have a question” Her voice was smooth and sweet, trickling with allure. “Anything” “What do you know about Jasper Gardiner” What? I leaned back, staring at her for a couple of seconds. “I’m sorry miss, I’m not allowed to discuss other clients,” I shook my head, still recoiling from the question. She hummed and sucked in her breath before reaching over to place her purse on her lap and began searching inside of it. “Special Agent Rosa Ford, please Mr. Sosa, tell me what you know about Jasper Gardiner” She extended a badge out for me to see with ‘FBI’ reading in big blue letters. Fear crept up my throat and I felt my heart drum in my ears. I hesitated before answering her and realized my body was stiff as a board. She wasn’t here for me, not like I did anything illegal. “Well Mr. Gardiner is one of our frequent guests... he comes in about every Saturday and Sunday. He’s usually here with what I would assume to be his friends- Mr. Haynes and Mrs. Parsons, you know the congresswoman. They’re into some pretty weird stuff like-” “I don’t need to hear about that.” She waved her hand and I noticed she was jotting notes down on a notepad, “Have you overheard anything suspicious? Anything about sending or receiving money?” “Oh they usually don’t ask for me, you should be talking to Ingrid, she acts as a waiter for them...” “Would it be possible for you to take over for her?” “What? Why would I do that?” “You see Mr. Sosa, We initially thought Mr. Gardiner was involved in some insider trading but now we think it’s much deeper, we’re talking drug and possibly human trafficking. We need someone to pick up his conversations, they could be key evidence in the case. Ingrid is a single mom with children to feed at home, we didn’t want to impose on her. But you, a psychology grad student, can do us a great service. All you would need to do is wear a wire and linger around them, nothing dangerous. And we could compensate you... greatly... for your-” “No, no I’ll do it. For free. I want to help. Just, don’t pay me” I blurted out, briefly taken back by my impulse. This felt really shady, especially for legal law enforcement, but I’ve done shadier. Much shadier. - "Okay so the tap is on now, you don't have to do anything. It'll pick up anything you can hear with your own ears, so be aware of that." Agent Ford and I stand close together in our cleaning supplies closet, she is messing with the wires and adjusting them so they don't show at all. She smells like vanilla and coconuts, maybe I'll ask her to get a drink with me after this is all done. "Michael?" "Yeah?" "Why are you here? Smart guy like you- I could find a place for you in the bureau, if it's money you need." "It's temporary. I graduate soon and I promise you I won't look back. Maybe I'll take you up on that job offer though." She chuckled warmly, placing a thin device into my suit pocket. "I just don't know how you do it, how you let yourself be... well degraded like that. I hope I'm not offending you at all I'm just... astonished." "Oh no, please, I get it. The way I look at it is that we're all workers of the Golden Soul. You ever read The Jungle?" "Yeah, in high school." "Well it's like that." "Right, well, good luck out there. I'll see you soon" - I approached the table with Mr. Gardiner. He was on the larger side and wore a linen shirt that was slightly see-through. You’d think with near infinite money all these people would dress better. He had a big hearty laugh, the type that’s contagious, but every time I heard it my stomach lurched. His companions were the same, a short and energetic salesman and of course the aging, bitter, congresswoman. “Welcome back to Golden Souls! I’ll be your host for this evening, anything I can get for you all to start?” Mr. Gardiner’s face dropped and he stared at me with irritation, “Where’s Ingrid.” “She is out sick today” I told her I'll work in her place and give her the full compensation, who would say no? “I’ll be taking care of you all if that’s alright” “Spin around for us, would you?” Mrs. Parsons said with a chuckle but the gentlemen were not amused. Mr. Gardiner tossed me a dismayed glance, “Fine, Veer, search him.” Two bodyguards were on me in an instant. Where the fuck did they come from? They shoved me to the wall and began feeling my suit with efficiency. My heart dropped. One felt my collar, fingertips brushing the wiretap underneath it. Our eyes met with mutual understanding. Out of breath, I let my head drop to the wall behind me as the bodyguards released me and took to Mr. Gardiner. One leaned over to whisper something in his ear. - “Was it worth it? Huh? Just to become another cog in their machine? Worthless. You’re Worthless!” Mr. Gardiner screamed, spit flying from his mouth. I was on the freezing asphalt of the parking lot, groaning and writhing with pain. I coughed up blood, fresh red on the melting and dirty piles of snow. My head was spinning and felt stomach acid crawling its way up my throat. “Just finish the job,” Mr. Gardiner departed into his cushy town car, the door slamming. Hands grabbed me by the collar and propped me up against the wall. Eyes closed, I felt the cold barrel pressed onto my temple. “Wait, please, you don’t have to do this” “Sorry man,” a deep voice resonated in my chest, “You’re my next paycheck.”


On a rock this forgotten a lighthouse is needed, but on a rock this forgotten the lighthouse keeper is forgotten too. He leaves his front door open, the thin old door banging about in the storm; salty wind blowing straight off the sea and stirring the light objects in his room into open rebellion: unsecured papers lift up into the room and dip like birds, and the lighthouse keeper sits and plays his piano slowly, as if to calm things down. The rain blows in too, and mingles with the sea spray on the threshold, and taps on the windows. The music is hesitant and tinged with sadness and the lighthouse keeper almost looks as if he’s asleep, but his fingers keep moving. Outside, the waves build and combine, mash into each other and twist into foamy messes, or rear up over a submerged rock, and curl up into dumping waves that pop and boom along the rocks. No beam of light passes across the sea, because ships have stopped coming this way: the lighthouse keeper stopped turning the light on years ago. This night, however, the lighthouse keeper looks out of his front door as he finishes playing a bar of music and the next note hangs in the air, desperately needing to be played, but it hangs; the music stays unresolved. The lighthouse keeper stares, frozen. Out there, pitching, leaning, rocking, a ship is struggling in the grey chaos. It is mostly shadow, but a single light on that ship shines through the sheets of slanting rain. Just for a moment, the lighthouse keeper watches the light ride up and down, and watches it tip, and disappear behind high waves; then he jumps up and hurries up the spiralling staircase, puffing. It is harder than he remembers, and he leans heavily on the cold iron handrail. At the top he can see the ship better: it looks like it will survive the storm, but it is heading straight for the lighthouse, and the jagged rocks beneath. The ship is getting closer and closer and the lighthouse keeper swears at himself as he works; but soon the light starts up and a beam of light, getting brighter and brighter with each pass, punches through the rain and out towards the ship; and the ship sees, and makes a dramatic, veering manoeuvre, dangerous in the heavy sea; but passes unscathed, now parallel to the shore, and soon disappears into the dark and the weather. The lighthouse keeper makes his way down the stairs, closes the front door, and collapses on his bed, suddenly exhausted. The storm carries on. In the morning it is clear and sunny. The lighthouse keeper is up early, sitting on the bed in his underwear and staring down at the space between his feet. Eventually he gets dressed and steps out his front door, leaving the door open again, this time drinking in the warm sunrise and the lightly salted breeze blowing gently off the sea. He walks down the hill to a small dock, sheltered amongst rocks, where a small boat waits. Most of his belongings are in a heavy waterproof bag which he put on this boat a few days ago, and he awkwardly hefts this bag up onto his shoulder and carries it back up the hill. He walks in through the front door and dumps the bag right in the middle of the room, sits down at the piano, and picks up from where he left off the night before. Outside, sea birds make their noises and small waves break against the rocks.


Mister Jackson had been an honourable man and a good neighbour and friend to his fellow men. He had never been the kind of man to give in to earthly pleasures like drinking or gambling. He went to work each morning and came home after five each day, wishing everyone a good day he met on his way. All around what one might call a happy chap, without any troubles. Successful as he was it came to pass that he married a woman of noble standing. And although she was mannered and never showed a frown. One sometimes got the impression that a demon might possibly inhabit the human body. But mister Jackson didn’t let coursing rumours destroy his joy. Even if he someday started to work longer in the evenings, or rose earlier in the mornings. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home at all. Perhaps those subtle signs of a somewhat disharmonic relationship were the first steps to what occurred a year later. And perhaps one might have prevented the tragedy altogether by just speaking to mister Jackson if anything was the matter. But none of the people in mister Jackson’s life had poked him about his private struggles, since he never showed any sign of having them. Until one night the police car’s blue lights illuminated the neighbourhood. The uniformed men went inside and only moments later without indicating a fight, they came back. With them followed a black bag and a cuffed mister Jackson. Here and there a curious pair of eyes peeked through the curtain of their bedroom, the source of the coming gossip. The trial was a short one, all evidence was clear. Mister Jackson was sentenced to spend a few years in prison for murder, his house stood abandoned ever since. No family or friends seemed to take interest in the wicked member of their lives. Nor did mister Jackson get any visitors. The first weeks everything went according to the natural order. Like every other criminal he was sitting in his cell, waiting for his time to be over. Unlike most of the others however, he made no ruckus or attempt to tackle the obstacles fate threw at him. In fact, he was bullied in a way that left him ripe for the hospital time after time. The men in charge had no choice but to put him into solitary confinement. Not that Jackson minded, showing no change in behaviour he continued sitting in his cell as if it was just another day to him. Guards checked on him, even attempted to make contact by speech. Seeing their efforts in vain they soon left him alone in his misery. Far enough to not disturb him and yet close enough so they could hear if there should ever be trouble. It was then when Carver Jackson’s nightmare really started. It was a clear, calm night, Carver could tell by his restless soul. He always was restless in those nights. In vain he tried to sleep away the turmoil in his mind, he could not name. The creaking sound of a metallic door caught his attention. Listening carefully, he concluded the sound came from somewhere out of his view. Without a sound he sat up. A strange sensation, as if he had snakes in his stomach, made him uncomfortable. Which was unusual, for he had welcomed the lonely cell. There was nobody to disrupt his few moments of peace of mind he could muster. Nor did he have to stand up for himself, when some broad-shouldered inmate deemed it necessary to punch him. His thoughts wandered to his future and how his life had been turned to ashes. He would never be able to go back to his hometown, and his family had abandoned him without further inquiry. It made him wonder if he ever had meant something to them. Those people who had asked him favours, but never asked to return them. A familiar melody ripped him out of his distraught mind. It was hummed by a woman with a heavenly voice. And yet, his whole body went rigid at the recognition. Only seconds later the figure belonging to the voice appeared in front of his cell. Slowly she turned around, the blonde, curly hair was loose. Her clothes consisted of a blouse and jeans, just like the last time he had seen her. When her blue eyes met his own a shiver ran down his already stiff spine. The flames of vengeance burned brightly in those hollow orbs. Not a word she uttered as they stared at one another. A soft breeze blew back her hair, revealing the marks on her throat. The marks he had left, that fateful night. Carver shuddered as the image slowly faded into nothingness. When he asked the guard on the next day, about a woman entering the prison. The man, quite surprised to be talked to by Carver after weeks of silence, only denied the knowledge of anyone entering the institution. Obviously worried, the policeman asked Carver if he was alright. To which the man replied that he felt fine, and probably just did have a nightmare. The guard cast him a sympathetic look mingled with the disdain people used to regard a murderer with. Carver slept soundly the next night, not overthinking the latest occurrence. It was not before a whole week had passed that a similar incident kept the prisoner awake. Awoken by the same melody, Carver found himself face to face with the ghost of his wife. And again, she glared at him, but this time he gathered the courage to speak. “You are dead,” he said with a hatred he had forgotten he harboured. “What do you want from me?” “No redemption for you,” she said with a gentleness that belied the vengeful eyes. “Only hellfire.” The certainty with which the spectre spoke, caused Carver to feel unbearably cold. A pit opened up in his stomach, setting free an uncontrollable rage. “Go to hell! Leave me be!” He screamed while rushing to the bars where the woman stood. Ignoring his anger, she placed a hand on his shoulder and smirked wolfishly. Carver suppressed a shudder as he stared in the maddening pools he once had loved. “I’ll come for you,” she whispered with an unsettling, growling undertone. At once her skin turned grey like the one of a corpse. Frightened, Carver stepped back as the entity in front of him decomposed. Unable to watch, he covered his eyes. The next time he looked, he was alone. Rubbing his face, he tried to explain the phenomenon with a rational theory. Perhaps the loneliness weighed on him, or the cell itself. He turned back to the place serving as a bed, when his heart stopped. Only inches from him the deceased’s uncanny face had appeared, with a monotone, ghoulish expression. With a shriek he stumbled backwards and fell. But the face had disappeared into thin air. Carver could feel how his life slowly but steadily spiralled downwards, if that was even possible after all he had done to himself. The vengeful spirit haunted him many a night, taking from him the ability to sleep. And if he managed to sleep, he startled awake, bathed in sweat and with a mind full of terror. The guards remarked often enough that he had screamed in the night. Eating too, he had given up and the theory of him trying to starve to death circulated among the policemen. By the time they called a doctor, his dead wife had already become a constant part of his day. Just as in life, she was now harassing him in death. Mocking him with insults or haunting him with grotesque images. “Who are you?” Carver asked from behind his blanket as a tall man in white entered. “He’s the one to take you away, silly,” his wife only replied delighted. “Shut up,” he only muttered towards where the spectre was sitting. “I didn’t say anything, mister Jackson,” the man in white said surprised. “I didn’t talk to you,” Carver apologized to the man he assumed to be a doctor. “Oh, my poor husband,” she continued. “He’s going to put you into a nice white cell. Then we can have even more fun.” A sinister giggle followed the comment. Carver only shot her a warning glance to which the doctor reacted. “Mister Jackson, are you with us?” “I am, I am,” Carver confirmed while nodding several times. But his scattered brain would not let him have his way. Elegantly the spirit rose and went behind the doctor. As if savouring every moment, she took a knife out of her pocket. Which was far too small to harbour such a long blade. Like a priest performing a sacrifice she gripped the hilt with both hands and raised it high. The end pointing at the doctor’s back. “Don’t you dare,” Carver only said sternly, to which the doctor only replied confused. “I have to examine you mister Jackson.” Still grinning like a hyena, the ghost fixed Carver with her maniacal blue eyes. Not waiting for the outcome, Carver jumped the doctor. But when he looked down into the face, it was his wife who was staring back at him. Overcome by frenzy he tried to choke the image. Before he could see the life light dim in the eyes of his victim, Carver’s vision went black. Coming back to himself he was questioned for the reason of his assault. The doctor whom he had tried to strangle had barely survived, they told him. Carver however, could remember no doctor. “My wife,” was all he managed to stammer. “My wife...” He fell silent as the spectre once again appeared behind one of the policemen in the room. Pointing at, to the other men invisible figure, he started screaming again. “There she is, the wretched demon.” Feeling his sanity slip away from him he got up, kicking over the chair in the process. His dead wife only smiled again, while laying her arm around the policeman’s shoulders. “But honey, I think they don’t see me,” she mocked in the voice of a spoiled child. Wielding the kitchen knife once again, she held it to the oblivious man’s throat. “No,” Carver exclaimed shocked as he ran to the officer. But this time he was too late. Holding the place where a cut had become visible the man in uniform sank to the ground. His colleague quickly reacted by pointing his gun at Carver. “His blood is on your hands, my love.” The woman rejoiced while walking up to the other man. “Stop this madness.” Carver started to plead at the coldness of the spirit in front of him. In the blink of an eye the other policeman fell over with the knife in his back. The spectre had disappeared. Trembling from head to toe, Carver sank down in the corner of the room, farthest away from the blood and the corpses. His claim, that his wife had killed and assaulted the man only gave the judge more proof of his insanity. The sentence was the last push for his already fragile mind to go over the edge. Seeing his life and sanity shattered, Carver started to laugh in a frenzy in court. He couldn’t name the reason for his sudden ecstasy; he just knew everything was so unbelievably futile. The man couldn’t but laugh at the dark twist his life had taken. Carver awoke in a padded cell restrained by a straitjacket. The sudden ecstasy had gone the same way it had come. Upon examining his surroundings, he saw his wife standing in front of him. Who else could it be? He thought ironically, all but the vengeful spirit of his wife had abandoned him. Like in the night of her death, she wielded the kitchen knife ready to attack. Carver only looked at her, asking in sincere sorrow. “Why did you want to kill me?” “Why did you love her more than me,” she countered with tears in her eyes. And then it dawned on him. It all had been a misunderstanding. “There is no her,” he replied. “I worked night and day so we could have a child. I was saving money for the future.” With a thud the knife fell to the ground as the spectre sank to her knees. “Oh darling, I destroyed our lives.” Sliding up to her on his knees, Carver tried to comfort his wife. “We both did.” A forgotten warmth spread through Carver when the ghost embraced him. Her skin didn’t feel cold, it felt alive and to her hair clung the smell of spring. And for a moment he thought the past year to have been a dream. She felt so real. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself with her in their kitchen. Out of nothing a sharp pain emerged from his back, causing him to gasp.


There used to be a weeping willow tree at the end of my Grandmother’s street. I’m not entirely sure if it’s still there, but I remember thinking that if I could just climb to the highest branch, I would be able to touch the clouds. My Grandmother and I went to the tree every time my family visited from when I was a toddler until I was fourteen. Whenever my grandmother and I visited the tree, she would bring her sketchbook and draw me sitting on the tire swing that was tied to one of the lower branches. Somewhere in a box there is a stack of drawings of a little girl on a tire swing. I wish I knew where it was now. I was eleven when my older brother started visiting the tree too. Sam was four years older than me. He had no interest in playing make-believe with his little sister under the willow tree. Sam had discovered vaping and realized that the weeping branches of the willow tree that concealed my “fairy land” could also hide his bad habit. There were only eight houses on my Grandmother’s street. My grandmother had just been diagnosed with cancer when the Smith family moved into the yellow house on the corner. A week later, we moved in with my grandmother. All I knew was that grandma was going to be sick for a while and that we needed to be there to keep her company until she got better. Sometimes I would see a few kids playing on the tire swing or climbing the lower branches of the willow tree. One of them looked to be a girl around my age. I was enamored with her long, blonde hair. She could have told me her name was Rapunzel and the tree was her tower and I would have believed her. If I had the guts to speak to her, that is. Growing up, I never made friends easily. I wanted to be friends with the pretty girl who looked like the princesses in the storybooks my mom used to read to me, but I didn’t know how. My grandmother was my closest friend for most of my childhood. Not too long after moving in, my grandmother wouldn’t come to the willow tree with me as often as she used to. About two years after we moved in, my grandmother stopped coming to the willow tree with me entirely. I didn’t know what it meant the first time my grandmother said, “Maybe later, dear,” when I asked her to walk to the willow with me. And two years later, I still didn’t see the things that would be obvious to me if I were seeing them now. The collection of pill bottles in her bathroom that had been growing since she was diagnosed suddenly dwindled down to only a few overnight. The time that she had spent at the hospital lessened and yet she didn’t get any better. After a day my grandmother had said “not today”, my parents would shut their door and have whispered conversation with furtive tones. On “not today” days I would go to the willow tree by myself and sit on the ground with my back against the tree and a good book. It felt wrong to sit in the tire swing when my grandmother wasn’t there with me, drawing in her sketchbook. If Sam had any such reservations, he didn’t show it. The tree wasn’t hallowed ground for Sam like it was for me. Rather, it was a place he could go to do illicit things with sketchy people. One of the not-so-sketchy people Sam met there was the girl I had dubbed “Rapunzel”. Her actual name was Rena and she was sixteen at the time, two years older than me. As much as I disapproved of what she did with Sam at the tree, I liked her and I was thankful that she was around when my grandmother passed. The day my grandmother died I was at the willow tree sketching the swing to show her later. She had given me a new sketchbook that morning and told me to fill it up with all the things that made me happy. I can still remember that day with perfect clarity. I was alone at the willow tree sketching the tire swing to show her later. It had just been that morning that she had given me the sketchbook I was drawing in and told me to fill it up with all the things that made me happy. I had been planning to draw my grandmother when I came home from the willow tree. Instead, I watched as EMTs carried her out of the house in a body bag. Rena came to the funeral and I saw her leave with my brother after the burial. My parents were thanking everyone for coming and I had been left to my own devices. I wandered the halls of the funeral home for a while, but eventually found my way back to the main hall. I stood in front of a table that looked like a weird kind of shrine to my grandmother. I say it was weird, because despite there being a framed picture of her, it didn’t feel personal enough to honor the woman that had been a core figure in my life for as long as I’d been alive. Daisies had been my grandmother’s favorite flower and, sure, there was a bouquet of them on the table, but my grandmother had always liked seeing them alive in the ground rather than cut off at the knees in a vase where they’d wither and die in a few days. What really caught my attention were the pamphlets that reduced my grandmother to three paragraphs. None of them mentioned the way she smiled and laughed and hugged me as tight as possible every time I came to visit. There wasn’t a sentence that told of how she kept a secret cookie jar just for the two of us in the pantry. And I didn’t read a single word mentioning the willow tree that had been our place. Maybe that was egocentric of me, thinking only of my relationship with my grandmother. After all, my mom had just lost her mom. I knew that. I just didn’t really understand it. Since the day of the funeral, I saw Rena almost every day for a while. She had a weird relationship with my brother, but I liked her nonetheless. I never heard her utter a mean word against anyone and she had a way of always saying the right thing. She liked to draw and I asked her to show me how to draw faces. I could never get the nose right, but she called it my signature style. If neither Rena or Sam liked vaping and they hadn’t been the only kids their age on our street, they would never have been friends. Even so, they were only friends over the summer my grandmother died and it didn’t last when school began. Sam played football and so did all of his friends. Rena drew in her sketchbook in her spare time. More to the point, Sam was popular and Rena was not. Sam and Rena didn’t meet at the willow tree anymore. They said hello to each other in school sometimes, but that was about it. Rena kept going to the willow tree, but now it was me she was meeting there. We brought our textbooks and sketchbooks and talked about making plans for homecoming, which was in two weeks. Rena and I never made plans, but we ended up going anyway. I think my parents said something to Sam, because he proposed the idea of the three of us going together, which I can’t imagine he would have done on his own. Homecoming came and went. Sam, Rena, and I had gone together, but when we got there, Sam disappeared. Rena’s friend drove us home and I didn’t see Sam until the next morning when he appeared at breakfast. For the record, I never snitched on him even though it was a dick move. Dick moves started becoming Sam’s thing after that. He fought with our parents constantly. Over what, I’m not sure. Our parents weren’t even remotely strict. Sam was allowed to come and go as he pleased for the most part. He didn’t even have a curfew as long as he told Mom and Dad where he was going to be. Sam was a junior in high school. He had good grades and played football pretty damn well. A few scouts even came out to see him play. Our parents were proud of that and told him so. It must not have been enough for him. Then again, there wasn’t much that was good enough for him. When he first turned sixteen, our parents bought him a beater car and told him they would pay for his gas during football season, but after that he needed to get a job. He complained that the car didn’t have Bluetooth built in. I kept my distance from him, which wasn’t hard considering that he was also avoiding me. I didn’t want to associate with him and he didn’t want people at school to associate him with me. That was fine. Although, I could tell it hurt our parents that Sam and I didn’t get along. I think it was the third week of October when I first heard the rumors. Though, I assumed the rumors had been going around before I heard them. That was the way of the rumor mill; the people closest to the rumor usually hear it last. Word was spreading that Rena had taken explicit pictures of herself and apparently those pictures had gotten out. My heart sank when I heard that, because in my mind there was only person that she could have taken them for and sent them to. My brother. The day I caught wind of what had happened, I flagged Rena down after school and tried to talk to her before she got on the bus. “Rena!” She stopped at the bottom step of the bus and turned to look at me. Her eyes were red and she looked like she had been crying. I waited a moment for her to step out of line and come over to talk to me, but she just turned back around and got on the bus. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to go home right then and there and figure out what exactly had happened, but I had a community service club I participated in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Looking back at it, I should have gone home. When I got home that night, I tore through the house and went right to my brother’s room, but he wasn’t home. My parents said he had gone out with some friends a few hours ago. I wanted to talk to them about what happened, but all I had to go on at that moment were rumors and the only confirmation I had was seeing that my friend was crying. For all I knew, the rumors weren’t true, but she was crying because everyone thought they were. The next morning the word “SLUT” was written on Rena’s locker in big capital letters. I stopped when I saw that she was standing right in front of it frozen. Her eyes were wide and there was a bright flush across her cheeks. I walked over to her and gently led her away. I could feel people watching us. Our school wasn’t that big. Everyone knew everyone. I’m sure that at that point, the only people who didn’t know what had happened were me, my parents, and the school administration. We made our way to the bathroom, which was empty when we got there. I pushed closed the door and locked it. If anyone needed to use the bathroom, they’d have to go somewhere else. “What happened?” Rena let out a shaky breath and a single tear spilled down her cheek. “Sam- Sam...” She broke off her sentence, but it was enough. I already had my suspicions that Sam was involved, but it still felt like a punch in the gut to know that my brother had done something to cause this. Rena told me how she had sent pictures of herself to Sam over the summer when they had been seeing each other. Sam had kept those pictures after they stopped talking and in the last month, sent them to a group chat he was in with some of his football buddies. An angry, burning sensation began growing in my chest. At myself for not knowing and at my brother and his doorknob friends for being such tools. Rena had been getting harassed for a month and I’d only found out yesterday. I didn’t even know how that was possible. Sure, we hadn’t seen each other as much recently, but I thought that was because we were both busy. I had my clubs and she had her art. I had no clue what to say. I scrambled to come up with the right thing to say, but Rena had always been the one who was good with words. Me, not so much. Her face crumpled and before I could say anything, she stepped around me and left the bathroom. I looked out for her the rest of the day, but I didn’t see her anywhere. I tried texting her, but she didn’t respond. She had mentioned in the bathroom, that stuff about her had been posted online and she had deleted her social media. It wouldn’t be so far-fetched for her to shut her phone off. Still, I worried. I knocked on her door after school and no one answered. Her parents weren’t home most of the time, because they were doctors, but Rena always answered if she was home. Something didn’t feel quite right, but there was nothing I could do from this side of a closed door. Or maybe that was just me trying to make myself feel better about being completely and utterly useless when my friend needed me. Early the following morning, a person walking their dog found Rena hanging from the willow tree. She had fixed a noose and tied it to the same branch on the willow tree as the tire swing before jumping off and breaking her own neck. I should have said something. I should have said anything rather than nothing in the bathroom that day she told me what had happened. I should have... I should have... I should have... Rena’s death was ruled suicide, but there was an investigation that revealed pictures of her on the phones of my brother and a disgusting number of people at our school. I’m not sure what happened to the other kids involved, but when Sam went to court, he received community service from the judge. It could have been a lot worse if he had been eighteen, but he was seventeen. Our parents weren’t nearly as lenient. They took his phone, his keys, and his privileges. He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere except school. He was kicked off the football team and so were a lot of his friends. There was a great deal of unrest in our town. Some people were upset that such a big deal was being made over Rena. The girl killed herself. No one else did. Why are our kids being punished? These were the parents of boys on the football team who had pictures of Rena and as a result, were kicked off the team. They complained that it was unfair. Then there were others that were shocked and horrified by Rena’s suicide and what had driven her there. This was the majority of people. There was a sense of not knowing what to do next and that hung over the town like a weighted blanket. It was a claustrophobic sort of sensation that the town was too small for something so big to have happened there. The willow tree itself was a source of contention for everyone. Should the tree be taken down because it is a reminder of what happened or should it be left up because it is a reminder of what happened? I was torn, because the willow tree had been near the center of my life for almost as long as I had been alive. It was the special place I shared with my grandmother and then with Rena. At the same time, it was the place Rena and Sam used to meet for a brief time. And now it was the place Rena committed suicide. What the town decided, I never found out. My parents decided it would be best for us to have a fresh start in a different town, preferably in a different state. We moved barely a month after Rena’s funeral. At the new house, there is a little tree in the backyard. It’s just a little oak tree. There’s nothing particularly special about it. I like to think that one day it will be tall enough for me to climb it and try to touch the clouds. For now though, I pull out the sketchbook my grandmother gave me, flipping past the sketches of the willow tree, and begin drawing the short but strong branches of the little oak tree.


"Ten years had passed in a blow", Leslie thought. It was this day but 10 years back now when she promised her best friend Kim that she will come back for him in this Skyscraper in ten years time to meet him again. She came first to the place but was a little amazed... Why? Because the Skyscraper had been broken down to a massive Love tower.... "what!!, cut the crap out of the thing I'm seeing" she said in her thoughts. "It was a big skyscraper from where the whole city could be seen, aww.. the people of this building were quite shy, I guess. Because no other agency would close down this picnic spot", she uttered between her thoughts. "Wait! This is a love tower but why isn't there any people?..." She went to the reservation counter and asked the old man"Uncle can you say why is the tower closed? It is not even Saturday.." The old man's voice was too harsh, Leslie wanted to run away from that man but she wanted to know the reason behind the tower being closed. The old man replied"Little Girl, if you want to go up on the tower you need to pay a reservation charge, so that no other couple cannot disturb your private time and you need to bring a partner for some discount". "Then uncle where are the couples who reserved this??" Leslie shot back. "See we have our online website and we do bookings online, a young man reserved this online, mailing us that he has an important meeting with his friend and wants to propose her there". "Thank you for the information uncle, see you later" she said this and turned back to find a spot to sit. A complete one hour had passed... Leslie felt very disappointed that her best friend didn't come and he had even forgotten her. A lone tear fell from her eye and she stood up, turned back towards the exit and started moving. Suddenly someone with pale and long fingers puled her towards him. BAM... She banged herself on the man's hard build body. She looked throughout his body"hmm, good figure maybe his face is also good looking..." She looked up in his eyes, while he was busy staring at hers. Suddenly a electric shock passed through her body. It was...It was...It was her best friend and her crush Kim. She couldn't believe it was her friend and after ten years he had completely changed. "oh, Gosh!! he's so damn hot", thought Leslie. She was lost exploring his body when Kim interrupted "Sweety, lets go..." "Huh! um... Where?", Leslie murmured waking up from her dream. "To the tower... A surprise awaits for you up there",said Kim in a little romantic way. "Are you really kidding??... The tower is reserved for some other couple...", she said laughing."The reservation uncle said me that some one had done the booking online." "Hmm... Its me !!", said Kim. Leslie became a little sad by hearing that because previously she had heard from the uncle that a man had booked the tower for proposing to a friend of him. By seeing Leslie's long and sad face Kim said"Why did you become sad sweetheart? Is anything bothering you?" "No... um...uh...nothing, I must be bothering you and your special friend. I am leaving first, hope you enjoy your day with her...", Leslie spoke while tears fell down her eyes. "I didn't get you clearly, could you explain me the whole thing?... I want to know what you know that makes you sad", spoke Kim. "The reservation uncle said me that a person booked the tower online, You said that its you, the uncle also said that the person has a meeting with a very special friend of him and he is going to propose her, so if you are the person you have another girl to meet and propose so I should be the one to bother you up... I'm so sorry ", Leslie said while crying. "So why are you crying and I think I can give her my time later", saying this he grabbed Leslie's hand, showed the pass at the counter and pulled her to the tower. The tower was decorated with twinkling lights, roses, Shining hearts and a marvellous centered heart with flower petals. Leslie looked around the tower a candle light dining table was also set up. "He really cares for someone else, see Leslie see its not for you, its for another girl and he really likes her...", Leslie spoke to herself. The tower was circle with a bigger area and circumference. The round sides were open like a balcony but the tower had a long closed ceiling. Leslie went to a place where she could see the river flow, it was their favourite childhood spot... Oh! Wait not their's but her and Kim's. Seeing her Kim went to her side hold her by her waist and said "This place belongs to us..." he couldn't complete his sentences when Leslie interrupted him"A little grammar mistake, not ours but mine and yours... You like someone else do not make her embarrassed by calling me and you as together like 'ours' ". "Yes I like someone... but the girl is ... you. I liked you since when we were young but I couldn't reveal it. I swear you, today will be the happiest day in your life". Kim said this and pulled her towards the center... Sat on his knees and said opening a ring box, "Will you be mine forever?... Will you marry me?... I will never leave you alone, I will walk by your side together through any struggle you or we both face... I will take care of you just like a mother, guide you just like a father, give freedom just like grandparents, help you just like siblings, have fun just like friends and love you just like a perfect lover or soulmate. I promise you to perform my whole responsibility as a husband". Said Kim in a eager and gentle manner. "You did all this for me, why didn't you say this at the first... I also like someone... and that is only you, I will be your forever. Yes! absolutely yes I will marry you, I will care, guide, give freedom, help, have fun and love just the same way you will do. I am sure to do up my duty as a wife should do". She said putting her hand into Kim's accepting the engagement ring. Kim put the ring on her finger which fit perfectly, it was shining too then he stood up and hugged her tightly, she too put her hands around Kim's waist and hugged him. Kim pulled her back and bent down towards her to kiss her... She also agreed and stood on her toes to kiss him back... As soon as their lips had touched a marvellous firework filled the sky. It was New Year's Eve. They both when small came to the previous Skyscraper building to see this perfect fireworks on every New Year's Eve. They still remember being together when they were young. A glimpse of the past years flew past their eyes and both of their eyes met each others. Kim bent down to kiss Leslie a last time that day and leslie too kissed him back again. They held their hands together, Leslie said "Today we are again standing at our favourite spot not as a best friend but as a couple...". Then she put her head on Kim's shoulder and enjoyed the firework and as well as Kim's company.


Prologue An Italian Villa Italy Her tiramisu now a decadent constellation of espresso-soaked crumbs across a vast nine-inch expanse of luxuriant eggshell Milanese Corel, the tip of her newly Botoxed tongue delicately savored the exclusive nespresso the Giardino Degli Ulivi shipped in daily from the Cluni di Vito Valley. She could be forgiven her cosmic meanderings - the renowned Dr. Tyson had addressed the conference this morning, and the former boxer and honorary doctorate in pugilistic romance had closed his keynote with a random prose recitation of When You Wish Upon a Star . Donatello, the muscular young waiter who’d earlier decanted her moscato with a deft twist and a tug, removed her dessert plate, accidentally touching her hand from the opposite side of the table. It lingered for a moment - the ristorante had earned five Michelin and four Goodyear stars for its exquisitely tacky raspberry drizzle. She yanked free first - she’d already enjoyed the favors of the bronzed and reticent boi di pool Leonardo, the masseuse con lieto fine Raphael, and village travel agent Michaelangelo, who’d sold her her Vespa rental policy. Tan aged muted insured tourists were normally her taste, but it was the off-season. “And how does the signora like the tiramisu Toscana di buoza con java a la madonna ciccione ?” Donatello purred. “I (***) it -- it called to mind my favorite pasteria cucina di casuale off the Newark Airport Turnpike,” she murmured, savoring the memory of perpetual zuppa and breadsticks and the quaintly homicidal calls of the Jersey villagers. “Ah,” Donatello smiled radiantly, squeezing her thigh in the continental manner as he replenished her water and swept the crumbs from the Napolese red-checked table cloth. “As my people say, when you’re here, you are like famiglia.” She looked down blushingly to retrieve her Discover Double Platinum card, but when she looked back up, he was gone, as was the local custom whenever one was ready to pay and vamoose . Though there were only three empty tables on the terrace and two inside and Donatello’s five brothers working the front of the house, she settled in with her ’22 Moscato for the customary 35 minute wait and gazed off at the Tower of Pisa and the Coliseum and Vatican City and Tuscany and the canals of Venice to the east. The woman appeared as if out of nowhere, like a wraith from the pearly gates of Hell. Bundled in cloak and shawl and an ankle length skit and blocky goat-leather shoes, the blocky, compact woman swooped in nose-to-nose with the four-time National Book-ish Prize winner. Her eyes, set in a flat froggish face, were goggly and dead. “You (***) your tiramisu?” she sneered. “You (***) your continental breakfast, your morning McCafe di Latte , your how you say conference bag of swag. You (***) the crazy tattooed man with the voce di una bambina and the Jiminy Cricket.” “Mike Tyson is a global treasure,” the author whispered. “ Basta fondu ,” the crone shrieked. “Your kind, you talk of (***), you write of (***), you fill the Hallmark and the Lifetime and the Prima di Amazona with (***), but you know nothing of it. You take all meaning out of it, you sell it like lire candy at a 100-Lire General or a Euro Tree. It is an obscenity from your torta hole. “No longer! By the gods of Daniella Steel, I curse your tribe, your famiglia, your entire genre and your publishing casas! Only death and misery will come to you who henceforth blaspheme this most sacred of words. Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!” “Hey, you!” a strong, ruggedly masculine voice roared. “How dare you terrorize this bella signora , the generosa tipper, this Rewards Club Triple Titanium member! Scram, you!” She couldn’t understand half of Donatello’s threat, but she felt a throbbing pulse of gratitude as the hag glared back and disappeared eventually after fumbling with the terrazza gate latch. Her eyes locked with Donatello’s, and their bodies quickly became as one on the checkered tablecloth until the first screams echoed from the Motel Sei/Boyardee Arena-Convention Center below... Chapter 1 Alexis Integra Chatt muted her office/parlor TV as the Best of CNN scanned across the Boyardee Center ballroom, littered with the corpses of 323 of the world’s premiere romance writers sprawled amid blood and mimosa. “I came to you as a sort of last resort,” “Bridgit Towne” admitted. She’d been a hometown gal-pal from A.I.’s cupcake scone days, but they’d drifted apart after Alexis severed all cozy ties and set up shop in Atlanta as a steamy-adjacent paranormal investigator and notary. After the tragedy in Italy, Brigit had gone off the grid and abandoned her famous nom de plume . “InterpolCon was going on at the Extended Stay Italia next door, some old Belgian detective was investigating a murder on an overcrowded gondola, and this meddling mystery writer from Maine was visiting her great-aunt-cousin in Tuscany,” Bridgit resumed. “But none of them had a clue. Why I came to you.” Alexis noticed the writer worrying a beaded WWJCD bracelet. She’d never been particularly religious before, aside from a controversial wooing scene between her heroine Shonda and a brawny, no-nonsense Anglican vicar in The Christmas Wood . “You think this woman was some kind of supernatural manifestation?” Brigit grinned sheepishly as she spotted A.I. spotting. “I know it sounds crazy except maybe to you, but I always ask myself, ‘What would Jackie Collins do?’ I think she’d want to consider the possibilities. The old woman had eerie, soulless eyes, and the restaurant patio gate had a fairly simple latch mechanism, but she couldn’t seem to work it. As if she’d never before encountered a human patio gate .” It seemed like flawless logic, but A.I. needed to dig in on the specific non-human entity with which she might be dealing. “Look, you want a glass of wine? I’m out of white, but Dvlknish found an old Amontillado behind one of the walls.” “I’d lo--, I mean, I would appreciate and enjoy some, but I gave up the booze after Italy. I’m a sloppy drunk, and I can’t afford to get loose-tongued - at least in the verbal sense. This thing has been a nightmare. We’re all running scared. I had to buy a Roget’s Thesaurus, and half my readers say they’re having trouble getting soft because of confusing synonyms and nuanced emotions. Try getting the juices flowing when Kristen looks deeply into Cody’s cobalt eyes and declares her ‘intense interpersonal regard.’ “Without beach reading, tourists are venturing too close to the sharks. Tastefully Aroused Mothers for Editorial Decency have boycotted the major romance publishers. The TAMED wackos said we’re now promoting ‘sex without buffers,’ and as a result, there’s an epidemic of embarrassing moments at afterschool waiting zones and on public transit.” “And just what do you want from me?” “Find that old witch and make her lift the curse,” Brigit demanded. Chapter 13 “So she what, smelled like an animal, had BO?” More and more woke were-creatures were going the Thinner / Drag Me To Hell route rather than simply dining and dashing.. I considered the possibility of full-moon shape-shifters until Donatello roared with earthy, robust, Old World laughter. “No, no, my lovely signora! When I was a foolish young man, I sought to become a fragrance millionaire, until I realized food service and customer seduction were my noble calling. And that the only, er, how you say, tail one finds in the perfume trade are financially strapped mid-life actresses. There is only so much Natalie Portman one can withstand, capisce? But I have retained one very specific talent -- the ability to identify any fragrance, from Stetson to Obsession 5: The Arousing. This old village woman fairly, how do you say, reeked of Pfish.” “Fish??” “No, no,” Donatello chuckled hononymically. “Pfish, by Zuckerberg. ‘Hack into her IP.’ It’s very popular with one of our Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abusers; as I said, musky. And there was a faint note of sulfur -- she reminded me of my precious Zia Maria in the village of Catania. Well, she was not precisely my ‘aunt’ -- more like my nonna Sbarra’s nurse. Well, nursing student, well, pre-nursing--“ “Whoa-kay!” Alexis sang, ringing off. Chapter 25 It was unusual to see the Italy area code on her phone twice in a single day. Dvlknish was an ursine lump next to her, rumbling in post-coital contentment somewhere between a badger with a deviated septum and a woodchipper snagged on a driftwood badger with a delicately carved deviated septum. The Syburslovenian hacker/plagiarist was a manly sleeper and an earnestly motivated lo--, er, partner. Now I’m doing it, A.I. thought. Then she remembered the phone call, and slipped into the hallway to connect. “Bon giorno, Signora Chatt?” the policeman inquired. “I am so sorry to interrupt your, ah, shift at the lumberyard? You talked to a Donatello Gnocchi today. I regret to inform you Signore Gnocchi was murdered this evening. With his dying breath -- well, his next-to-final breath -- he asked our responding officer to tell you he knew how it was done, whatever it was. “Sadly, with his actually dying breath, he died before he could finish his final message. He seemed to indicate his, how do you say, grandmama, committed these horrific murders at the Boyardee. From what his manager told us, Sbarra Gnocchi died in Catania in 1921, when Etna erupted during her weekly trip to the Mercato Della Spazzatura Sfusa a Buon Mercato, or as you call it, Costco. Crushed after knocking over a palette of panini makers - you cannot make sudden geological noises around the old, you know?” “But he was positive his grandmother was responsible for the deaths?” “He looked straight up at my officer - he had very striking azure eyes, as deep nearly as the Corsican coast, by the way - and moaned ‘Nana’ before perishing. We will miss our young Donatello - no man was more skilled or generous with the parmesan grinder. Or with certain other implements of his trade, if you catch my--” “Whoaaakay.” ** Dvlknish grunted as Alexis squirmed anxiously beside him on the couch she’d snagged at Lovecraft and Derleth’s downtown . He’d always looked forward to NCIS Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, especially after struggling all day with a new genre. Romance was the Syburslovenian immigrant’s meat - along with wild marmot, javelina, and ring bologna - and the growing wave of authorial panic had spread to the international bootleg underground. Her Knish had little knowledge of American law or justice, and he’d written himself into a corner following the Chapter 1 mandatory street execution of The Audi Attorney ’s jaywalking client. Syburslovenians were soft on toxic microchip dumps and bioweapons storage, but they respected the yellow lines and the thin blue line that protected them. As Alexis’ cheek and Dvlknish gnawed distinterestedly at his third heron leg, she became concerned over his peckish appetite. She patted his thigh, felt the hollow clonk of titanium, and patted the other one. They locked eye and eyes, and he grunted with a contrite grin, slurping heron skin into his maw. As the Eskimos have literally dozens of words for snow, so the Syburslovenians have more than 100 guttural expressions for that deepest of human emotions. More confusing, all meant roughly the same thing. A broasted marmot, a coral sunset, an adorbs feline video, A.I.’s fingers on the pelt of his shoulder, L.L. Cool J charging into a hijacked luau on behalf of an obscure law enforcement agency that, oddly, every cop and civilian alike seemed to recognize - all were articulated within the same spectrum of affection. A.I. knew from her recent brief experience as an investigator of the arcane and uncanny that there was no value in playing chicken with the unknown. She grunted her desire throatily, and suddenly, Dvlknish abandoned all hope of discovering who the poi smuggling ringleader was. During the commercial break, pulling a jagged Cool Ranch from her sweaty hindside, Alexis filled Dvlknish in on Donatello’s murder and the mystery surrounding the untraceable mass hemorrhage of the world’s most distinguished romance writers. Her soulmate stirred and grunted contemplatively. “I know,” Alexis said. “It bothered me a little, too. He’d called his grandmother Nonna during our earlier conversation, and yet he used the non-Italian term ‘Nana’ with the policia . And there was the matter of the old woman’s and, presumably, the killer’s perfume...” Dvlknish struggled from the couch and ambled for the bedroom. He returned a moment later flapping an Eastern European men’s fashion magazine, Coat and Coverings . Dvlknish located a center spread ad featuring a flamboyantly dead-eyed Mark Zuckerberg brandishing a slim flask of amber liquid, as a gaunt but blocky Syburslovenian supermodel fawned at his flank. Dvlknish scratched vigorously at the ad and pushed it into Alexis’ face. Her eyes widened. “Pfish,” she murmured. “I detect floral notes, an essence of lightly singed motherboard, but there isn’t anything remotely musky, as Donatello suggested.” Alexis paused. “But maybe Donatello was simply being more direct. And the vague side note that reminded him of his family in Sicily. Donatello’s nonna lived in the shadow of Italy’s tallest volcano.” A.I. bounced up and scrambled to her office laptop. Dvlknish attempted to reconnect with NCIS: Montpelier as she rapped away at the keyboard. Soon, Alexis reemerged bearing a sheaf of paper. “I got it! I jumped onto House Hunters’ list of dormant volcano-adjacent megahomes in the $1-$10 billion range. Donatello didn’t realize how on-the-head he actually had been. And there’s the final piece of the puzzle.” Dvlknish followed her index finger to the TV screen, where thanks to Amazon’s cutting-edge Fortuitous Network Crime Show Timing technology, a sturdy, bald man with an elaborate roommate-prank facial tattoo and the voice of some forgotten Warner Brothers cartoon character was hosting the Nobel Prize Awards live on Nickelodeon. As a rivulet of green slime doused a group of Stanford astrophysicists, he grunted excitedly. Chapter 47 Like most volcano lairs, mandatory safety exits were discreetly located at the base of the cone -you didn’t fuck with Micronesian building codes. The supervillain’s base was not terribly difficult to locate, thanks to the corporate logo carved into the side of the hardened lava slope. It was a Sunday, and she knew her prey was not about to pay overtime for a special forces-trained security detachment. The few dozen tech-slaves docked into their coding stations or playing foosball on their three-minute meal breaks were easy to dispatch or bribe with energy drinks and Takis. “I heard Mike Tyson was scheduled to officiate the Nobies, and I stopped to wonder why he hadn’t died with the rest of the romance writers,” I said to the man in the huge chamber next to the executive Starbucks, who peered at a bank of monitors now displaying dead and hyperactive Gen-plusser nerds. “Ms. Chatt,” Elon said, an Angora cat in his lap. He placed the steaming platter of feline au poivre on his mammoth desk, and his goggly dead eyes narrowed. “Do you realize how many Indonesian fifth graders I’m going to have to hire to make up for this loss in productivity?” “That’s why you did it, am I right?” Alexis forged on. “You dosed those poor simpleminded saps’ mimosas, but Tyson was keynote. Mike would never have drunk before a PowerPoint.” “My understanding was the authorities have been unable to trace the substance used,” the first man to ding the Moon with a recreational shuttle murmured. “Because it wasn’t a ‘substance.’ That sweet, hot cheese-grinder you murdered? His dying message suggested his grandmother had committed the conference slaughter, but I realized he was identifying the method of murder. Not Nana, nor Nonna, but nanobytes . You or your employees at Tesla’s Tuscan mimosery injected millions of destructive microrobots into the writers’ brunch booze. They deconstructed organ and membrane walls until the victims hemorrhaged to death, then exited through their capped and bleached orifices, blending into the eventually cleaned-up blood. “I knew we were dealing with some implausible tech-thriller weapon when I realized Donatello meant the old lady on the terrazzo smelled ‘Musk-y.’ SEC and CNBC filings show you bought and replicated Zuckerberg years ago - he’s so obviously AIed. As the staff at the Motel Sei will attest, Pfish is their sole Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abuser’s favorite fragrance.” “Very good, Ms. Chatt,” the Space X sky jockey and fire car maker purred. “Love -- exciting and new, right? Not for me. Employee families and external relationships, coitus in the server banks and cloning labs, three-minute lunches that turn into five-minute lunches as team members linger over their ramen and gruel and the latest Kristin Hannah or Celeste Ng or Susan Wiggs. Employees calling in sick to catch Hallmark’s third-quarter Christmas and first-quarter Valentine’s marathons? Love hurts - the bottom line. I cleared barely 18 figures this fiscal month, and the Dark Old Ones - er, I mean the board and stockholders - are extremely unhappy. Fortunately, you have no proof of your ridiculous allegations, so I won’t even bother to kill you.” Then Elon blinked as the item in my right hand glittered in the lair’s blue light. “You would have gotten away with it,” Alexis smiled tightly, “except the execution of a perfect mass murder and your role as the old village witch sapped your blood sugar and you grabbed a quick snack at the Giardino Degli Ulivi. Namely, their signature after-dinner Andes Mint. An Andes Mint degrades in roughly 3.14 minutes, or 10 seconds inside an expensive suit or pants pocket, and this wrapper from the scene of the curse is coveed with your chocolatey prints.” Before Elon could leap for his phone and his attorney’s programmed number, three dozen Mossad-trained, taurine-fueled TMZ correspondent and gossip wranglers rappelled into the volcano. “You forgot,” Alexis ginned. “When you’re at Giardino Degli Ulivi, even illicitly, you’re like family.”


The room was silent but for the occasional shuffle of uneasy feet and the impatient coughs of the prosecutor. She continued to stare intently at her hands almost pleading with them to stop shaking. But what good had pleading ever done? She could hear the distant echo of footsteps outside the courtroom, light, carefree and she longed, more than anything, to be one of those people, to have any other life but hers. She willed her heart to steady in an attempt to regain composure and slowly raised her head, forcing herself to look into the eyes of the prosecutor. “I’m going to ask you again Mrs. Edom, and must remind you, that you are under oath. Did you kill your husband?” She stared into his cold, merciless eyes and drew a deep calming breath. “Yes”. The darkness seemed to chase her as she ran down the system of alleyways, spurred on by sheer panic until it engulfed her completely. She had reached the bridge. The road was deserted. She felt her hand close around the hilt of the knife in the deep pocket of her coat and she withdrew it slowly. It glowed scarlet in the moonlight, stained with anger and resentment. She let it fall. The water cried out as the knife sliced through its surface and she watched as the ripples emanated from the wound until the surface calmed, burying her secret. She retreated back into the alley, back into the comfort of darkness. She collapsed beside a large puddle, the filthy evidence of weekend rain, and once again told herself it was self defence. This time she did not even convince herself. She wanted to remain a part of the darkness forever, hidden from the world but day was inevitable. Light would expose her sin. The court was a sea of murmurs, whispers of excitement, scandal. She remained still, out of place amidst the flurry of people watching the woman’s world collapse. Her gaze had returned to her lap where her upturned hands collected her tears in a little pool. She knew that her tears were deceiving. They were tears of relief. The release of a burden of silence. They were neither from shame nor grief as she knew they ought to be, there was no sense of regret. She felt no remorse. She was free. She had married him when she was very young, barely twenty. He was handsome, charming, with his hair falling over his eyes, a veil that concealed his many flaws. She had enjoyed the attention, the sense of companionship she had never known as a child, abandoned by her father when her mother passed away. She knew now that it was not love. It had never been love. She was not his wife. She was his trophy, his young beautiful prize. She had no life, no company outside his home, no purpose but to submit to his demands. The disgust and the repulsion she suffered in silence were better than the bruises defiance brought. She resented his touch, the sound of his drunken laughter at the television, but she kept her feelings hidden. The only evidence of her miserable existence, were the tears that drenched her pillows each night. The policeman eyed the woman with pity through his rear-view mirror. She looked so weathered, fragile. She stared out of the window at the schoolyard, at the children playing and chattering excitedly and she felt a pang of sorrow as her heart twisted with longing. She had always wanted a child, a family of her own. Her eyes welled with tears as once again her mind returned to the doctor’s office where his futile explanations and empty condolences were muffled by her anguished sobs. “I’m sorry. It happens sometimes. Any trauma sustained to the stomach can cause these miscarriages. I am very sorry” She stood in the kitchen over the sink and washed the remaining tears from her face. Her body was exhausted from emotion and she felt empty, hollow. She heard him swear as he tripped over the doorstep and her heart began to race. This time it was different, it was not from fear or dread, but fury, disgust. He swayed unsteadily into the room and looked at her with those cold, dark eyes. He grabbed her by the arm as usual to force from her the affection he craved and she plunged the knife, with the force of hatred, into his chest. She stared into his eyes which had widened in shock. There was no longer any power, authority but fear and fragility, humanity. He slumped to the floor in a pool of blood and shaking, she withdrew the knife. She would no longer be silenced. He had denied her a life, now she would deny him his. Her footsteps echoed around the corridor as the warden led her to her cell. She was tired and found herself hoping that the bed would not be too hard. She could not describe the way she felt as the door to the cell was slammed shut. Although she was confined, imprisoned, she felt a sense of freedom that she had never felt at home. She knew that she would be out one day, and then she would be free. She would have a new life, one that she would control. She allowed herself a slight smile as she lay down on the bed and began to hum quietly to herself until her voice overcame the silence.