《Flash Fiction》 Flash Fiction - On the Lake The wind carves waves into the water, dark and glittering like obsidian. I push myself along with the paddle, floating along the lake a few yards from shore. A gust of air at my back breaks the silence, whipping around my sides and blowing my hair in my face. I relinquish control, letting it wash over me and guide me forward. As it fades I look to my left, staring up at the tall cliff faces beside me. They tower over me like monuments of ancient pharaohs, the sons and daughters of gods from times long past. I feel vulnerable, small. I surrender to the sensation. The lake water is fresh, clear, filtered by the reeds lining the shores. An outcropping of stone banks catches my eye, and I paddle towards it, gripped by a desire to explore. I round the corner into a small cove, surrounded by boulders of sedimentary rock and tall bunches of reeds. My small vessel slows to a halt just on the edge of a small beach, catching on the rough surface of the stone with a short scraping noise. I disembark and drag it to shore, lying back on the hot stone surface and taking in the sun. The wind washes over me again, dusting the heat off my skin and blowing my hair back. Sunlight stings my eyes, and I remove my overshirt, using it to cover my eyes. I inhale. I exhale. My anxiety goes away with the wind. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Life has not always been kind to me. When I¡¯m at my worst, I ruminate on it for far too long. Too many of my nights are sleepless, tainted by the pain in my body, the endless machinations of my mind. My thoughts are so loud that sometimes it feels like I¡¯m hearing them aloud. They steal my rest, rob me of sleep. At times there doesn¡¯t seem to be an end, and that¡¯s why I¡¯m here. This place is my escape, a refuge from misery. The sounds and sights center me, bring me back to the present. I am grounded in a world I rarely see. For a while, I can abandon the drudgery of the mundane, relinquish my suffering, bring myself to the present. The nightmare does end, and I have the power to end it. Once again, the wind blows the cover away from my eyes, and the sunlight warms my face. I wake up at last, and I remember that I am alive, in a world that wants me in it. My Immortal, Chapter 1 Slush battered my dorm room window, half-rain, half-snow, existing somewhere between two states of matter. Siblings of a sort, meshed in disharmony, coating the campus outside in its misery. I watched as the pretty-in-pink girls with their fluffy faux-leather boots and paper thin leggings slipped and struggled their way across the courtyard. Suffering. I loved it. One of them, a girl in garish Aeropostale garb, caught my eyes, and her face twisted with bitterness. Her minions gathered around her, ¡°are you okay, Brittney? What¡¯s the matter, Brittney?¡± but she didn¡¯t answer them. A petty impulse gripped me, and I raised a single night-painted nail, baring my teeth in a wicked grin and making sure all of her friends saw the crude gesture. Brittney and her entourage stormed off, and I waved them away with self-satisfaction. I returned to my vanity, picking out bottles and jars and palettes of Hot Topic-brand makeup. My tastes were simple, but refined. Unlike the baby blue and bubblegum that all the other girls wore, I understood the need for contrast. Where there is heat, you need cold; where there is light, there will be dark. White foundation, black lipstick. And, perhaps, a bit of eyeliner and some red eyeshadow for flare. Black is an essential part of my wardrobe. It¡¯s how I stand out from the mindless masses, how I tell the world that I¡¯m not like other girls. I find variety through texture¡ªlace for my corset, leather for my miniskirt, stitched canvas for my combat boots. Any colors I use are bright, but they¡¯re carefully placed. Pink for my fishnets, red and purple highlights for my long ebony hair, neon bright like patterns on a poisonous frog. 2006. My seventh and final year at Hogwarts. It was hard to believe I had made it this far¡ªfocusing on your studies isn¡¯t easy when you¡¯re always the center of attention. I had men tripping over their heels for me left and right, an intensely annoying phenomenon. I could spell it out for them a million times, that they could never handle me, that I don¡¯t want to talk to preps and normies, and still they simper, my words like olive oil sliding off their brains. The fact that I was a vampire apparently wasn¡¯t enough of a deterrent, nor was the hatred behind my icy blue eyes. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I walked outside, the cold air like a cooling balm against my pale skin. There was rarely any sun in Hogwarts during the winter months, the ideal environment for me. I was almost sad this was my last year. I took a deep breath, then walked out into the courtyard, with little more than a lacy parasol¡ªblack, like always¡ªto shield me from the slush. Once I reached the middle of the courtyard, I saw him. Draco Malfoy, standing in an adjacent walkway speaking to a few of his friends. Blond hair whipping in the wind, almost blending in with the frost. One of the few men at this school that I could tolerate. I recalled the day I met him, our first day in Potions class. The teacher spoke my full name when calling attendance, ¡°Ebony Dark¡¯ness Dementia Raven Way.¡± A mouthful, but one I owned with pride. He called the name of the boy sitting next to me, ¡°Draco Malfoy.¡± He turned to me once we broke off to work in groups. ¡°Your last name is Way?¡± he said, a glint of curiosity in his captivating hazel eyes. A mischievous grin split his face, and he said, ¡°You wouldn¡¯t happen to be related to Gerard Way, would you?¡± That wasn¡¯t the first time I heard the comparison, but it was also how I knew Draco wasn¡¯t like other guys. He was actually cool. ¡°I wish,¡± I said, "because he''s a major fucking hottie." ¡°You look more like Amy Lee,¡± he replied. I was charmed. I couldn¡¯t help it. For the first time that day, I actually smiled. ¡°You can call me Ebony,¡± I replied. ¡°Like my hair.¡± He spotted me in the courtyard, and his hazel eyes lit up. ¡°Hey, Ebony!¡± he said, waving eagerly. I felt myself blush as he approached me. ¡°What¡¯s up Draco?¡± A small breath escaped his lips, as the sound of my voice seemed to bring something out of him. A short burst of exhilaration, perhaps at hearing his name spoken on my lips. A shade of longing passed over his face, and he was suddenly shy. ¡°Nothing,¡± he finally said, still staring at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but I paused, noticing my friend Willow behind him waving at me and calling my name. The bell for class rang, an infuriating interruption that made my stomach drop. Reluctantly, Draco and I parted ways. Nobody Newsie So I¡¯m there with my camera lining up my shot, and Jane is standing next to me, the two of us crammed in at the front of the crowd and watching with bated breath. I check my watch, ¡°Ten o¡¯clock,¡± I says, ¡°any second now.¡± I look over at her, with a big stupid smile on my face. She smiles back at me, and I swear my heart¡¯s going to beat right out of my chest. The whole skyscraper lights up like a golden beacon, big and dazzling and spectacular like the Big Apple itself. Even the Roman Emperors ain¡¯t had nothing like this. The searchlights on the spire shine down on us like a beam from heaven, and I take my shot¡ªI take several shots. I lower my camera, and Jane and I watch it with stars in our eyes. ¡°We¡¯re the kings of the world, doll,¡± I tell her, ¡°and now everyone and their mother knows it.¡± Jane jumps up and down with a huge grin on her face, and she says, ¡°Oh, Rory, it¡¯s the most beautiful thing I ever seen.¡± And I look at her, her dark curly hair and candy red lipstick and rosy cheeks, and I tell her, I says, ¡°it ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ compared to you, doll.¡± She blushes, and between giggling she says, ¡°you¡¯re such a charmer.¡± When we make it into the lobby, Jane blows her wig, and so do I. And we stand there staring up at the glittering golden inlays and polished marble and star-shaped chandeliers, our mouths hanging open like a couple of bozos. I see the mural at the other end of the lobby, and I point to it and I tell Jane, ¡°I want to see it up close.¡± She says ¡°I want to see it too,¡± and we push our way through the crowds to get there. I take my pictures for the Times, then Jane walks up to it and touches it, running her fingers over the embossed surface. I snap a candid picture of her next to it, not for the paper, just for the memory. When she realizes I¡¯m taking photos of her, she turns and smiles, her pearly whites reflecting the glow of the incandescent lanterns. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. When she returns, she says, ¡°Rory, if it wasn¡¯t for you, I woulda never seen this place on the opening day.¡± She looks up at me, and her aquamarine eyes capture me and take my breath away. I take off my hat and put it over my chest, and I look at Jane and I pour my heart out to her. ¡°I¡¯m dizzy with ya, doll,¡± I says. ¡°Head over heels, obsessed I tell ya.¡± She blushes again, and her face glows brighter than the Empire State Building itself, and I feel like the richest man in the world when she says to me, ¡°how would you feel if I told you I felt the same,¡± and I tell her, I says, ¡°I¡¯d be over the moon.¡± And then she grabs me and kisses me, right in the middle of the lobby. I feel like I¡¯m on the silver screen, and for a moment I think I¡¯m going to hear the crowd in the lobby burst into applause. But this is New York, and any old New Yorker ain¡¯t never gonna care about some nobody newsie and his sweetheart. We¡¯re all too busy reaching for the sky, see. And today, we made it. All it takes is one elevator ride to shoot you up into the stars. Stained Glass Saints Tall windows arch over him Stained glass Saints reflecting the glare of candles Like a thousand glowing eyes. Mother¡¯s pearl white nails clutch his collar Young knees buckling Small feet stumbling to keep up Marching down the aisle Voice cold as steel, cutting like scissors, she Demands he pray for forgiveness Fear winds up with longing, Twisted, layered, twisted again and again, Knotted threads becoming rope. He kneels at the altar Prays If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Begs His words repent to the divine But his heart means it for his mother If the Saints could forgive him, perhaps she could too The Vicar preaches the Saints'' love like a mockingbird mimicking a call The boy''s attention slides away Floats up into the ribs of the vaulted ceiling When he sees those looming Saints Casting their judgment from above Urchin spines crawl up his throat He learns this must be what love means, But he never feels the bliss That the Vicar''s empty sermons promise. Past his third decade He runs to the chapel again Throat hoarse with scabs of angered words Cheek stinging where his wife¡¯s hand Met it minutes ago Where it met him so many nights before Crumpling before the altar Wooden floorboards bite his knees The Saints greet his pleas for mercy with wordless contempt The silence burns Years of guilt crumble around him Like pillars of ancient ruins An arrow of clarity pierces his skull The Saints will never answer They were never there to begin with. A dark cloak drapes him in loneliness, an abyssal fear so vast and foreign and dreadful He doesn¡¯t know Whose forgiveness He¡¯s really seeking. Helena He sings softly at first. His lips barely graze the microphone as he cups his hands around it, his voice somewhere between a melody and a whisper. He¡¯s damp with sweat¡ªface shining, red ascot loose on his neck, white blouse and black skirt clinging to his skin. The guitarist behind him picks swiftly at a single string like a fluttering heartbeat. Recognition hits us like a cannon shot. The crowd explodes with cheers, their hundreds of hoots and cries briefly drowning out the music. The singer runs a hand through his long dark hair, shaking like a man gone mad as he utters his lyrics. We all feel the rush, a cocktail of dopamine, adrenaline and cortisol setting fire to our veins. The sound drives into our chests, wrapping its white hot fingers around our hearts, gripping our souls. The rest of the band kicks in, shattering the air with a blast of guitar and drums and rattling my bones. The buzz travels up from the ground, enveloping my entire body and compelling me into the mosh pit. I lose myself in the rabid frenzy, so exhilarated that I can¡¯t pull air into my lungs. When the song slows, I jump out into the crowd and try to catch a glimpse of the stage. A group I never thought I¡¯d see, together again after twelve years. To my generation, the news of their return felt like a divine miracle. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. I jump back in when the second verse hits. A larger man¡¯s elbow collides with my jaw, and for a moment, I see a galaxy. It simmers into sparks, then melts into the flashing of strobe lights on the stage. Another blow snaps me back to reality, and I shove him in kind, ready for more. I weather blow after blow, taking more hits than I give. I want it this way. It''s empowering. Every day I wake up with raw nerves and creaky bones, feeling like I¡¯ve been marinated in acid and wondering when I¡¯ll finally escape this mortal husk. In my darkest moments, I find myself wishing I could tell my parents how much I hate them for bringing me into this world. Right now, it already hurts¡ªit always hurts¡ªand I know jumping in a mosh pit will make it worse. And yet, I have to. The bruises I gain here are not like my fibromyalgia. They inflict a kind of pain that I welcome with open arms. Pain which I was given the chance to consent to. When the song ends, my blood is hot with adrenaline, and I stand at the edge of the pit catching my breath. A cooling wave of euphoria washes over me, sinking beneath my skin and cleansing me down to my marrow. I feel more alive, more present than ever before. For a single moment, the sorrows of the past and the uncertainty of the future faded into nothingness. I existed only in that instant, a tiny dot on the endless expanse of space and time. Red Skyline Arch-chancellor Kemet Nova traced the release latch with his finger, staring at the button beneath the clear plastic shield. He briefly entertained the grim possibility that, should he decide to press it, he would go down in history as the man to bring about the end of the world, an idea which sent a stab of pain through his gut. He looked out the window at the dim, once-bustling metropolis of Hallas, ancient capital of the Astenethan Empire. His country in ruins, due not to conquest, but to the dying embers of what used to be the sun. He realized it didn¡¯t matter how he went down in history. Soon, there would be no history. He tossed the key to the latch aside and leaned back in his chair, adjusting the collar of his red kurta. He sighed. Parliament had convened two days ago, and they still hadn¡¯t finalized their rulings on the new emissions protocol. The Disciples of Yevenna had spread their influence too far and too fast, and their ideas had infected even some of the highest ranking officials in government. They wanted to keep digging into the ground with reckless abandon, searching for a promised land near the core of the planet which would shield them from the sun¡¯s radiation¡ªnot caring what kinds of toxic fumes they pumped into the atmosphere in the process. The science was out on this, it had been for decades. Put simply, anyone who knew anything agreed it was a bad idea. But, as had always been the case since the dawn of civilization, crisis bred conspiracism. And for doomsday cults like the Disciples of Yevenna, nothing was better for business than a real, actual apocalypse. People were at each other¡¯s throats, battling over their plans to save the world. The result¡ªthe entire species was accelerating its own demise. Which brought Nova back to the button. It would be so easy to pull the plug on it all. No more conspiracies, no more riots, no more death, no more anything. Just an all-consuming nuclear winter to put everyone out of their misery. An off switch for the planet. There was a knock at his door. Arden Voleth, the Astenethan Minister of Ecology and long-time personal friend of Nova¡¯s, stepped into his office. He wore an indigo silk cape with seven silver buttons trailing down the right side, draped over a Tyrian purple kurta and bronze pants. Elegant but conservative, with a tasteful amount of gold embroidery appropriate for a man of his rank. He held up a blue folder containing a packet of papers. ¡°Sir, we finally received word from Parliament about¡ª¡± He froze when he saw the button on the Arch-chancellor¡¯s desk. Nova followed his eyes to the button, then looked back, giving Voleth a cold stare. ¡°What were you going to say, Minister Voleth?¡± Voleth swallowed, then gently closed the door behind him. ¡°Whatever you¡¯re planning on doing,¡± he said, ¡°please think it through first.¡± ¡°It might help to know what Parliament decided on,¡± Nova replied coolly. Voleth exhaled, his brow knotting as he examined the Arch-chancellor. ¡°Kemet,¡± he said, dropping all formalities. ¡°Tell me what¡¯s on your mind.¡± Nova ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair, exhaling roughly. He gestured to the chair across from him, and his old friend lowered himself into it, as if expecting a land mine beneath the cushion. ¡°People don¡¯t listen to reason,¡± Nova said, his forehead wrinkling. ¡°They don¡¯t care about the evidence, no matter how many times we map it out for them. And even if they did, the solution with the most scientific backing would only extend our livelihoods for a few more decades. In less than a hundred years¡¯ time, we¡¯ll be extinct.¡± He threw out his hands in exasperation. ¡°Short of sending a spaceship out and gambling on finding a habitable planet, there¡¯s no future for us.¡± Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. As Nova spoke, Voleth¡¯s face hardened into a stern glare. ¡°You act as if a few more decades doesn¡¯t constitute a future,¡± he said tersely. ¡°There are still people out there, living their ordinary lives. There are scientists working towards more solutions, historians coming to new understandings of society, artists and writers and musicians all capturing the mortal experience and bringing people together. There are babies being born as we speak, to parents who still hope for something better. Do they not deserve the little time they have left?¡± Nova narrowed his eyes. Voleth¡¯s implication that Nova didn¡¯t care about the lives of Asteneth¡¯s citizens was an unanticipated insult. He banged his fist on the table. ¡°They would have more time, if everyone would just make the rational choice!¡± A few drops of sweat formed at Voleth¡¯s temples. ¡°No one, in all of history, has ever made a purely rational choice.¡± He swallowed, glancing at the button. ¡°And I don¡¯t think you¡¯re any closer to making one than the rest of us.¡± ¡°Arden,¡± Nova said with a sigh. ¡°I know you mean well, but¡­look at everything that¡¯s happening. We¡¯re spiraling towards our own demise. Wouldn¡¯t it be better to just end it quickly?¡± ¡°No,¡± Voleth began, stroking his graying beard, ¡°I can say with absolute certainty that launching nukes on everyone wouldn¡¯t ¡®end it quickly.¡¯ Many people in rural areas would survive the blast, possibly even for a few more decades if they can work around food shortages. While it would kill everyone faster than the dying sun, it wouldn¡¯t kill them all at once. They would only go extinct after years of famine, war and disease. As your Minister of Ecology, I would be remiss to point out that the decision to nuke the planet as an ¡®act of mercy¡¯ is not supported by any measurable evidence.¡± Nova was about to open his mouth, but Voleth raised a finger to silence him. ¡°As your friend, however, I would tell you this one thing.¡± He placed the folder containing the brief from Parliament on the Arch-chancellor¡¯s desk. ¡°Before you go pressing that button, talk to your granddaughter first.¡± The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees. Voleth went back to his own office, leaving Nova alone at his desk. Button on the right, folder on the left. He glanced out his window again. Protestors stood waving signs outside the fence, as they did every day, wearing their yellow and white linen robes and shouting about the seven prophecies of Yevenna. Beyond them, the sun was setting, smoldering like a pit of embers in the black sky and illuminating all of Hallas in a dim, red glow. It used to be bright blue¡ªso his history textbooks had said, anyhow. But even when he started school sixty years ago, the sky looked more or less the same. Celestial death took a long time. He wondered how many living things, on how many planets in this vast and ever-expanding universe, had experienced the same view of the skyline. By sheer law of large numbers, there had to be some other planet with life forms like him, staring out their alien windows and watching their alien suns slowly crumble into galactic ashes. Did they not matter? Did nothing matter? Nova blinked, then turned back to his desk, tapping his fingers. Arden¡¯s advice echoed in his head. Talk to your granddaughter first. An image of her, Khasbeth, materialized in his mind¡ªgripping her favorite stuffed tiger, dark hair wound into braids and gilded with glittering beads, eyes like the emerald waters of the Astenethan coastline. A memory of lifting her into the air, hearing her peals of laughter like a hundred little bells. A smile crept up on the Arch-chancellor¡¯s face, and he pulled his communicator out of his left-hand drawer, scrolling down to his son¡¯s contact line. For now, Khasbeth still had a future. And he was intent on keeping it that way. Wax Donna stirred the stainless steel kettle and placed it on top of an oven mitt, a bit of wax spilling on the counter. She cursed her shaking hands. For the first time in many months, it wasn¡¯t because of the medications. When she stopped taking them, the tremors went away, which meant she could do crafts like making candles again. She could also hear the messages from her angels¡ªshe felt so empty without Splenditello and Cantore''s voices guiding her. She didn¡¯t regret the decision. The clarity was a relief. Her current unsteadiness had a different cause, a fear she was doing everything in her power to bury. She knew she was spending too much on wax and pigments and essential oils, but she had found other ways to save money. Instead of buying more jars, she could take cans and bottles out of her neighbors¡¯ recycling bins and cut the tops off. She also constantly burned candles, both by her angels¡¯ guidance and also because it allowed her to clean them out and re-use them¡ªto make more candles, of course. The worst part was waiting for the wax to cool down to the right temperature. If she poured it out at any hotter than 120 degrees, the candles would warp and crack. She found ways to distract herself while she waited¡ªcutting bottles, cleaning jars, counting all of the knots in the wood panels on her walls. Anything and everything to keep herself from looking in the backyard. In the first few days after it appeared, the memory of seeing it would rerun over and over in her mind¡ªpudgy limbs splayed out on the ground just beyond her porch, blood leaking out of its wounds and clumping up the dirt beneath it. Glassy eyes, staring right at her. It made Donna shiver. As they both watched it, Splenditello placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, ¡°it¡¯s not a girl, it¡¯s a shapeshifter. See how it doesn¡¯t rot?¡± If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. At the moment, there were no more bottles and cans to cut. Donna gripped her thermometer, checking the wax again. 154, again, 151, again, 149. She scoffed and tossed the thermometer aside. She couldn¡¯t concern herself with that. Her angels would reassure her. They always kept her safe, always knew best. Even when she missed her doctor¡¯s appointments, the time somehow escaping her, they came to her side, caressing her with a kind of love she could never find anywhere else. She checked the wax again. 148, 145, 144. Too slow, always too slow. She rearranged her jars. She rearranged them again. She ignored the back window. She checked the wicks, adjusted their clips. She counted her remaining wicks, 43, 44, 45, 46. She ignored the back window again. She paced around the house, counting her steps, 21, 22, 23, 24. She glanced at the back window. Splenditello warned her again, ¡°don¡¯t look, light another candle.¡± She lit another candle. Cantore spoke to her this time, stern as always. ¡°Check the thermometer again.¡± 122. ¡°That ought to be close enough,¡± Donna said. ¡°No," Cantore hissed. "It must be exactly 120.¡± She groaned, checked it again. 121, again, 120.9, again, 120.8, again, 120.7. She nearly ripped her hair out. Splenditello placed his hand on her shoulder, protective as always, and a warm feeling blossomed in her chest. ¡°I know how you can fill the time,¡± he whispered. ¡°Buy a second kettle.¡± In the Pines I built my first bonfire when I was ten years old. My granddad and I set four logs into the cobblestone fire pit behind our family¡¯s cabin in Camp Verde, making a nest of twigs and newspaper and two torn up cereal boxes in the center. I wanted to find more things to burn, so I wandered a ways off the wooden patio and started picking up pine cones. When I returned, my granddad snatched them out of my hands and tossed them back over the short flagstone wall. ¡°Never burn pine cones, Ginny,¡± he said. I pouted. ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°They make too many sparks.¡± He went to retrieve a box of matches. ¡°You¡¯ll start a forest fire that way.¡± We lit the kindling and stoked it with the antique cast iron poker that lived in the cabin since before I was born. Behind me, my uncle Roy started up the grill, already on his second vodka screwdriver. Me and my two cousins, Phil and Kayla, gathered around the fire to roast marshmallows¡ªor rather, they roasted marshmallows, while I just set mine on fire because I thought it was funny. My mom, ever the quiet type, sat watching us in the old wicker chair in the corner, her bright red hair contrasting against the dusty, sun-bleached cushions. Her acoustic guitar rested in her lap, and with her acrylic pink fingernails serving as picks, she strummed a slow and gentle tune which would eventually become the soundtrack to my most bittersweet childhood memories. My girl, my girl, don¡¯t lie to me Tell me, where did you sleep last night? In the pines, in the pines Where the sun don¡¯t never shine I shiver the whole night through Fourteen years later, I find myself pulling into the driveway of that same summer cabin. I crank the gearshift of my red ¡®95 Camaro into park, pull the emergency brake up so it doesn¡¯t roll down the hill, and step out into the cool mountain air. It looks more dilapidated than I remember¡ªthe wooden lattice beneath the deck is rotted out, and the oak handrails on the stairs are too dry and splintered to touch. I grab my groceries out of the trunk and climb the cobblestone steps leading up the hill, winding around to the back door. The key is hidden beneath a loose flagstone on the back patio wall, same place it always has been. I let myself in, and my gut clenches, twisted by grief that I didn¡¯t know I felt. It¡¯s dustier than I remember, although I suppose that¡¯s to be expected when no one visits a place for two years. A bland IKEA couch occupies the center of the living room, a cheap replacement for the now-broken striped mid-century modern sofa that once stood in its place. No one wanted an IKEA couch¡ªincluding the aunt who bought it¡ªbut after the Great Recession, we didn¡¯t have any other affordable options. When I finish putting my groceries away, I make the small trek down to my car and continue unloading. I packed light, only having planned to stay up here for a weekend¡ªa few changes of clothes, some basic supplies, my iPod Nano, and my guitar. My dinner is a humble meat and potatoes medley, seasoned with the few spices I find in the pantry and fried in an cast-iron pan. As the sun sinks lower in the sky, I spend my evening hours making myself at home, drowning my thoughts out with music so I don¡¯t have to be alone with them. As I finish off the remaining bland chunks of ground beef on my plate, my iPod freezes. I frown, then tap the buttons a few times. The song plays, but starts skipping after less than a second. The song it¡¯s stuck on is Misery Business by Paramore, looping the same 1 second clip over and over again. To steal it all away from you¡ªto steal it all away from you¡ªto steal it all away from you¡ªto steal it all away from you¡ª I tear my headphones out of my ears, yank the cord out of the audio jack, and toss it on the couch. I thought I could at least get some catharsis from a song about jealousy, but apparently I¡¯m not even allowed to have that small pleasure in my life anymore. The memory of hearing her voice on the radio is like a rattlesnake bite, flooding my veins with envy. My eyes burn until I can see steam, and soon I¡¯m sobbing, lava-hot tears streaming down my face. It was supposed to be me. I wrote that song four years ago in these very woods. In my family¡¯s cabin, with my guitar, and my lyrics, dedicated to my mother. I perfected it hardly a few months after she died. And now Melissa was making millions off of it. After wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I get to work outside. The firewood is stacked under the windowpane where the back wall meets the patio, most of it bone dry from this year¡¯s drought. I pick a few that are about the same size, then arrange them the way my granddad taught me. Using a few torn up bits of my paper grocery bags as kindling, along with some twigs from the surrounding area, I stoke the fire until it reaches a comfortable blaze. When I¡¯m done, I collapse into the wicker patio chair, a cloud of dust puffing out of the cushions. As the twilight fades, the glow of the bonfire illuminates the patio in shades of red and gold, its gentle warmth banishing the crisp night air. My eyes flutter closed, and I breathe deep, turning my attention to the crackling and spitting of the fire. Fleeting images and half-snatched memories echo in my mind, a cacophony that invades the silence like a virus. I see Melissa¡¯s face, and my jaws clench as if I¡¯ve swallowed pure arsenic. I gasp and open my eyes. I have to expel this poison. When I pull out my guitar case, one of the stickers for Melissa and I¡¯s former band, Manic Pixie Drug Mules, catches my eye. I scowl, then rip it off and throw it in the fire. I take a deep breath, then another, then another. Finally, I throw open the latches. It¡¯s a Gibson Dreadnought acoustic guitar, once belonging to my mother. She gave it to me after the tremors got too intense for her to play anymore. On Christmas morning that year, I woke up to find it placed on its stand next to the tree with a red ribbon tied around the neck. It filled me with a number of emotions I couldn¡¯t parse at the time. With shaking fingers, she gestured to it, her smile painted over a black hole of grief. Seeing the deep loss behind her eyes brought something out of me that I had never experienced before. It forced me to reckon with the truth¡ªthat I really was going to lose her. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. I pull it out of the case, then sit back, placing it in my lap. I don¡¯t need a pick¡ªlike her, I¡¯ve learned to use acrylic nails. As I tune it, I close my eyes and focus on the vibrations of each note, listening as the hearty tones pulse through the night air. E, then A, D, G, B, E. I strum them all at once when done, then begin to play. I wrap myself in a blanket of sound, a chord progression I¡¯ve come to know more intimately than my own voice. E major, 6/8 time¡ªE major, A7, G major, B7, back to E. My girl, my girl, don¡¯t lie to me Tell me, where did you sleep last night? I gaze into the fire, feeling heavy in my chair. The flames dance seductively, growing brighter until everything else fades around them. The progression repeats, E major, A7, G major, B7, back to E¡ª In the pines, in the pines, Where the sun don¡¯t never shine I shiver the whole night through As the notes whisper through the trees, something inside me vanishes. I feel as though my soul is rising out of my body, leaving behind a leaden husk. E major, A7, G major¡ª My girl, my girl, where will you go? The hot air warps around the embers as they glow and flicker, curl and beckon, B7, back to E¡ª To the place where the cold winds blow? My eyes sting. I can¡¯t close them. The red coals wriggle like worms on a roadkill vomitorium, reveling in rot, E major¡ª In the pines, in the pines They pulse like intestines, A7, G major¡ª Where the sun don¡¯t never shine The heat desiccates my eyes, dissolving them into ash, B7¡ª I shiver the whole night through I let the last E major chord ring out, and the night swallows it. The woods are dead silent. No crickets, no owls, no rustling of leaves. Somewhere along the way, I fell out of reality, and into this liminal space. I glimpse a trace of motion, and I try to look to its source, only to discover that I can¡¯t turn my head. Instead, I have to strain my eyes to track it. At last, I find its source¡ªa single hand, black as the void, rests on the trunk of an old pine tree. A shadow with nothing to cast it, reaching out from the dark. It taps its fingers on the bark, and the glow of two red eyes pierces the murk. I¡¯m petrified, at first. But something reaches inside me and erases any fright I might have felt. I realize at once that it means me no harm. Without thinking about it, I place my guitar back in its case, letting my hands hang limp at my side. Reduced to a husk, I submit to whatever awaits me. My vision twists, flickering like skipped frames on a video tape and trapping me in endless vertigo. The fingers of flames reach for my face, showering it with butterfly kisses, then grip my eyelids and climb inside. The embers twist into red coils, bright and loud like the curls of Melissa¡¯s hair. I seize up with envy, wracked with convulsions which tangle my ribs together. I choke and sputter, trying to draw air into my constricted lungs, but each vision of her face renews my hatred. As I fight to close my eyes, I¡¯m subjected to scenes of the first night we spent in this very cabin, jamming together, writing songs¡ªmemories that might have been happy, were they not poisoned by her treachery. Every time she smiles, a brand new blade twists into my gut. My blood runs black with toxic sludge, a rage so violent it makes me nauseous. My hands clench and twist, and I desperately wish they were wrapped around her neck. Never have I understood why people murder each other until this moment. Whatever force is keeping me glued to my chair right now is the only barrier between me and a killing spree. I ache to drain her blood and hack her to pieces. The feeling subsides, snuffed out by the shadows. The creature steps out from between the pines. I¡¯m still unable to turn my head away from the embers, but I can see it better now. Its arms are stretched out and slack like melting rubber, and I see the silhouette of long pointed ears, or perhaps horns, on its head. It makes no noise, but I come to understand that these visions are its attempt to communicate. It knows what Melissa did, because it remembers her. The nights she and I were here, it was here too. As if to confirm this, I see another flash of her face in the fire, sitting in the very same wicker chair that I¡¯m chained to now. Its long black fingers gesture to the fire, and a new odyssey begins. I see myself playing solo on a dive bar stage, singing a song I¡¯ve never heard¡ªno, a song I have yet to write. And it¡¯s beautiful, haunting, commands the attention of every person in the room. The embers roll through more visions¡ªme and my band performing at 924 Gilman St, recording a new album, selling out stadiums. A marquee that reads ¡°Genevieve Durand¡± in flashing lights. A poster, with me as the headliner, and Melissa as the opener. The vindication tastes like white wine. I imagine how much it would sting to be her in that timeline, to make a career being an untalented hack, then be shown up by the person she stole from anyway; to realize she was so hungry for fame that she was willing to exploit the death of her best friend¡¯s mother; to know she had whored herself out to her most shallow and disgusting impulses. All for nothing. The thought gives me a buzz, and a thirst for more. For months I¡¯ve wondered how she¡¯s able to sleep at night, knowing what she¡¯s done. But if this future became a reality, I wouldn¡¯t have to wonder. I could make damn sure she lies awake at night stewing in her own shame. As the visions fade into the flames, the silhouette next to me sits on another patio chair and crosses its legs, its red eyes gazing patiently at me. I understand what it¡¯s saying¡ªit can give me the revenge that I ache for, the blood I long to taste. I think of the last moments I spent with my mother in hospice, holding her trembling hand, her veins visible through her translucent, jaundiced skin. The memory Melissa stole, just to make money off it. The black figure anticipates my next question before I ask it. The embers twist again, and I see myself standing at an empty crossroad. Across from me is a man sitting on a bar stool, with a broad-brimmed hat and an acoustic guitar in his lap. He smiles wide, then plays a riff I recognize¡ªthe beginning of Cross Road Blues. I realize the man in front of me is Robert Johnson, the blues guitarist who sold his soul. At once, I know what the black figure wants in return. I consider it, and to my surprise, I don¡¯t mind it as much as I expected. Stories about musicians doing the same thing in exchange for fame are part of the glamor. Perhaps I¡¯m still drunk on visions of revenge, but it adds to the appeal. It¡¯s a legend that will last long after I¡¯m gone. Something tears my shirt open. I yelp as it draws a razor sharp claw down my chest, splitting my flesh from between my collarbones down to my solar plexus. It cracks my sternum in half, prying my ribs apart, and I bite back a scream. Fingers wriggle their way into the opening, and I realize with mortification that they¡¯re my own. I already know what I¡¯m searching for before I realize it, grabbing it with conviction. It¡¯s wet and pulsing in my hand, the slimy texture making me gag. The veins and tendons stretch and snap as I pull it loose, then hold it up to the fire. It¡¯s still pumping, each beat growing ever slower as it leaks blood down my arm. I hold my heart over the fire. I¡¯m sweating from the heat, and I feel dizzy. I want it so badly. I want to make her hurt, and witness the look on her face when I do it. But something else speaks to me. A distant voice at the back of my mind, an echo of a memory. Never burn pine cones, Ginny. You¡¯ll start a forest fire that way. I swallow. The black figure taps its fingers on a nearby tree. I hear a low rumbling noise, then it lumbers back out into the woods, slinking into the shadows while I stare at the beating heart. I blink, and all the sounds and sensations of the woods return¡ªthe crickets, the wind in the trees, the smell of pine. My shirt is intact, my arms are no longer covered in blood. And in my hands, I¡¯m holding a small pine cone.