Defenestrationism.net

by Jacob Anderson

Lovec
(publishing December 17th)

Krvavý
(publishing December 18th)

Upír
(publishing December 19th)

Lovec

I woke up late in the afternoon as the setting sun’s beams spilled between the motel room curtains. I sat up on the edge of the bed trying to shake off the haziness I felt. Everytime I do one of these late night jobs I always wake up like I just finished binge drinking. I was still wearing the clothes I did the job in last night, the specs of blood crusted over and the sweat made my flannel and jeans stick to my body in odd, uncomfortable ways. I finally reach down and pull off the boots I was too tired to ditch before I collapsed into bed last night, and get ready to get cleaned up before finishing the job. I dragged myself to the bathroom and started the shower and brushed my teeth while looking over my face for any marks. Just a few drops of blood managed to get on my face and were easily removed by some water. My eyes looked tired though. To be fair I have been doing a string of these late night jobs for the past few months, but hopefully that will come to an end soon. I heard of some weird goings on a couple states south, maybe in a couple months I could come back up here and make sure another brood hasn’t moved in. Last night should’ve been the last one, she seemed out of it and more rabid than the others. Oh well, on to the next one I guess.

A few months later I circled back to that town. I went back to the neighborhood I found that last pest in and did a few laps looking for any signs of a new brood. As I made my rounds I saw that the final residence I took care of was having an estate sale, I guess the city or someone was trying to make something off of that old bird. Walking through the house in this state was strange, before the place had been trashed with animal carcasses half eaten and strewn across the place. But, now it was spotless. Any evidence to what happened that night washed away and replaced with tables and tables of dusty and outdated knick knacks and sentimental objects. I walked around, dodging the early shoppers as they hunted for secret valuables hidden among the garbage, until I came around to what would have been her bedroom. A few things were set out for display, but nothing enticing enough for the bargain hunters to linger around. I poked around the place, she may have been another head to hunt but at some point she was a normal person and deserved to be remembered as such. I came to the wardrobe, it looked grand but really was just made of laminate and cheap wood. I was about to turn away and leave when out of the corner of my eye I spied something poking out from beneath it, I fished it out of the tight crevice and examined it. It was an old book, the covers worn and corners fraying. I flipped through the pages and realized it was her diary. There were some interesting tidbits I saw as I skimmed over a few pages and maybe this could lead me to whoever turned her in the first place, but I definitely needed to take the time to go over it carefully. I quickly went down to the person running the sale and gave them a few bucks before going on my way. 

I carried the diary with me while I checked for any signs of monsters around town. I don’t want to be back here next year and deal with another brood of vampires just because I got lazy. At the edge of town was a lake that was great for watching the sunset, so once I finished the rounds I pulled along the shoreline, sat in the bed of my truck, and started diving into the diary.

The pages were in good shape, but carried the musk of mothballs with it. It looks like she had been here for a long time, her kids growing up in this town before moving away. The entries were fairly frequent, the dates between were usually two or so weeks apart unless there was a major event she wanted to jot down. Suddenly there was a long break in her entries, almost 3 full years. Apparently, one of her kids had been in a bad accident and died. After that her entries went back to the bi-weekly pattern, and she started focusing on new hobbies to brighten up her life after her loss. Everything just seemed to be the ramblings of a normal old lady. Then I saw it, a few years ago she had been up late reading when she heard rustling in her backyard and when she checked it was a young man who looked like he was attacked. She brought him in and nursed his wounds, she even let him stay the night. He hung around for a few days and then disappeared in the middle of the night. From then on her entries were mostly about feeling hungry all the time. Then she started noticing dead animals in her backyard, assuming a coyote had left them there. As the entries continued they became less and less coherent, with only small glimpses of her real self showing through. That guy she brought in must have been the one to turn her, but it seems like she didn’t even know. Luckily I had gotten to her before she hurt anyone.

Unfortunately there wasn’t anything very descriptive in there about this vampire. I closed the diary and looked over the water as the sun finally disappeared from sight, and on the wind was the scent of cinnamon and incense, with a tinge of iron. I held up the book as I cocked my gun.

“I know you’re there. I assume you did this?”

Krvavý

June 23, 2017

It’s been awhile since I’ve done one of these. Ever since I lost Jackie a few years ago it has been a struggle to do anything. A few weeks ago I started seeing Dr. Trenton and she recommended that I start journaling again as a form of therapy, apparently having a routine like this can help me get back into the groove of day to day life but I guess we’ll see how that goes.

July 7, 2017

I’ve started sitting out on the porch in the afternoon and wave at the kids as they walk home. It hurts to know my kiddo won’t be walking through the gate, but seeing them run home all happy and smiley warms my heart.

August 3, 2017

I’ve been having a much better time lately. I started picking up books from the library and have really enjoyed reading my nights away. Sometimes I’ve been hearing some animal noises out in the backyard, hopefully there’s not racoons digging up my flowers.

August 10, 2017

I went and saw Dr. Trenton again today. She says that I’m starting to show signs of Alzheimer’s dementia. I would be lying if I said I was surprised, momma died of it and so did grandma. Well. I’ll just try and enjoy what time I have left.

September 18, 2017

Last night while I was reading I heard some loud noises from the backyard and when I went to check it was a young man! He was very beat up and was bleeding a little bit. I brought him in and helped him get cleaned up. I know I shouldn’t have but I let him rest here for a bit. He has been good company, he may be young but he has an old soul. He loves to listen to my vinyls and he has so many fun stories! I hope he sticks around for a little bit, I could use the company.

September 15, 2016

Unfortunately it seems that my visitor has vanished. He was a great help the last few days helping me clean the house and doing some other chores that I’ve started struggling with. The excitement of having company must have burned through my energy because I am so tired today.

Octobr 1, 2017

I don’t know what it is, but I have just been so hungry the last few weeks. No matter what or how much I eat I just can’t get enough. I should go see Dr. Trenton soon.

October 30, 2018

The Dr says it’s probably nothing, just a side effect of the medication I’ve been taking or maybe I’ve been forgetting meals. She said if I eat a little more red meat it should keep me fuller longer. I guess I’ll try that.

January 12, 2018

I’ve started seeing dead animals in the backyard. It looks like a coyote or something has been dragging stuff in, hopefully it gets run off soon. Also, it looks like the Dr was right, just a change in diet and I haven’t been so hungry lately!

Janary 29

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Jackie, and she won’t pick up my calls. I am starting to get worried. It doesn’t help that something has been leaving dead animals in my backyard.

Feb 8

Why is that man always looking at me, it’s like he is planning to break in. I keep trying to tell Jackie about it, but she won’t answer my calls. Hopefully, she’s not mad at me, it looks like I forgot to send a birthday message so I hope she gets my sorry text and reaches out.

It hurts so much, why won’t the hunger stop, I just keep eating and eating and eating. I need to get better before Jackie gets back, it’ll be a shame if she sees me in this condition after coming home from her friends house

Upír

Holy hell. I knew Larric was strong, but that bastard did a number on me. I limped through the streets, covering the gash in my ribs hoping the flesh would start to mend soon. Dodging street lights to remain unseen became a challenge in my condition, but I saw a house with its lights off and it looked like the family might be gone. I meandered down the side of the fence until I was hidden from the street and clumsily threw myself over it into the backyard. I hit the ground and tumbled forward, bouncing off a shrub and landing hard onto my back. Definitely not my most graceful landing. As I struggled to catch my breath and composure, unexpected footsteps hustled to the rear door. Oh great. An older woman walked out and when she saw me she hustled over and helped me to my feet, fussing about getting me cleaned up. I tried to break away but she was insistent, and honestly, her determination to help me was refreshing. So, I did as she said and she got me bathed and fed, even going as far as stitching up the gash in my side. Apparently  she had been a seamstress when she was younger, remarking that skin was just the cloth of the body. Very macabre, but I still found it very endearing. 

We got to talking and I explained that I was “jumped by some no good goons.” Not a total lie, Larric and his band of half-breeds certainly ambushed me and are quite goonish. She offered me her couch for the night, or for a few nights if I still wasn’t feeling well tomorrow. Her kindness was warming, it was clear that she was missing company and someone to dote on. From the pain in her eyes she probably lost a child, but it is not my place to ask.

The next day I repaid her kindness by fixing some broken items I saw around the home and cleaned where I could. She had well maintained vinyls of Marvin Gaye, and with those spinning the work was done in no time. She eventually woke up and greeted me and we spoke more, she loved hearing my tales from ages past. We spent hours and hours chatting, reliving our glory days. She was a wonder. Kind and strong, enduring all the hardship life threw at her with a smile. She eventually did mention the passing of her daughter Jackie. She talked about how hard life was after she lost her and she even thought of ending it all, but she decided against it. Deciding that since Jackie didn’t get to live her full life, she would take on a few more years to make up the difference. It was a beautiful sentiment.

I stayed another night and the next day went much the same, I did a few chores and we reminisced and listened to oldies. That night she said goodnight and went to bed, and I sat on the couch thinking. She deserved to live a full life and carry on the legacy that Jackie would’ve wanted. So, as she slept I snuck in her room and gently as I could, as not to wake her, I began to blood her. This would give her the chance to live long enough to fulfill her wish. As I finished the process I could hear some raucous outside, when I peeked I saw that it was Larric and his goons again. I carefully slid out the back door and made my escape, leaving enough clues to drag Larric away from that poor woman’s house.

I spent the next couple months knocking Larric and his brood down a peg and regaining control of my territory. Unfortunately, this whole process kept me away from seeing my new progeny come into her own, but I would make my way to her soon and indoctrinate her properly. Alas, that never came to fruition. I was called to visit a colleague a few states over and during that time I felt a tinge in my heart. That old, familiar feeling of when someone close to you has their chapter closed. My presence was required by my colleague and delayed me from investigating her death.

When I finally came back, I was greeted with an estate sale at her home. I had been gone far too long and now I may never be able to avenge her. But, I caught a whiff of someone with an overt garlic odor, and I saw a man walk out of her home with her ragged diary in his hand. I followed him that day and waited for my time. He parked by a lake and sat on the bed of his truck as he read through her journal. I waited as the sun set, and once it dipped below the horizon I made my way to a tree closer to him.

“I know you’re there. I assume you did this?” He said.

“Nothing gets by you hunters.” I laughed as I stepped out of the shadows. “I assume you’re the one who killed that lovely woman.”

“When I found her she was nothing more than a rabid dog.”

“You will not speak about her that way. You bastards would never know a pure soul like hers.”

“That old bitch was just another pest like all of you.”

I instantly closed the distance, knocking the gun out of his hand and holding him in the air by his throat.

“All you hunters are self-righteous bastards with no sense of morals, and I will not stand for it.” I said as I snapped the bastard’s neck and dropped him to the ground. I looked up at the rising moon.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Viera.”

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by Tracie Adams

[this is the third in the three part series–
read A Life in Seasons from the beginning]

Ghosts of Autumns Past

I woke up this morning with the sensation of falling. Not a startling jolt, but a gentle drifting down, down, down. Like the yellowed leaves of tulip poplars outside my window, weightless and free to wander without limits, landing softly without a sound. I have not always felt this way. But things have changed. It has been over a decade since I flew into a rage, even longer since I have smashed anything. I can ride in elevators and stand in the crowded subway without having a panic attack. My kids can wreck the living room, building forts with pillows and blankets, and I just breathe through the tightness in my chest at the sight of chaos. I step over the wreckage on my way to the kitchen to scramble the eggs, calling out spelling words to my youngest while I pack everyone’s favorite sandwiches for lunch.

The nightmares are gone, not replaced with dreams of poppy fields or soaring birds, more like nothingness, an absence that doesn’t crush me. When I hear a marching band or smell Brunswick stew cooking over a fire, I don’t feel like crying like I used to. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like nothing, nothing at all. I don’t waste my thoughts on all the regrets, the deficits and losses, the not-enoughs. I barely remember the screams, the crashes, the bruises, the pleading. There’s no haunting of ghostly memories of a life teetering on the edge of danger. Now I just keep moving forward, taking the next safe step, doing the next right thing. And breathing. Lots of breathing.

I’m no longer caught between two worlds, trapped in time, wrestling with myself. I am a mother, so it is their world now, not mine, and that’s all that really matters. I fold the laundry, I cook the meals, I check the homework and sign the permission slips, I read the bedtime stories, and I say the prayers. If it hurts, I do not feel it. If it’s sad, I do not grieve it. Apathy is the new depression. I just keep falling, floating, flying through the days, the years.

“Mommy, did you see me? I did a cartwheel!” My daughter’s face is full of hope.

“Yes, I see you. Mommy sees you,” I tell her as I watch her tumble over and over. 

When the carousel at the state fair carries my giggling daughters round and round, I do not mourn dreams I never dreamed or thoughts that never grew up into actions. I just watch them ride. And if I find myself wandering the desolate hallways in my mind, I just grab hold of that thread of thought, following it out of the labyrinth. And there I am, right back where I started, right where I left off.

Autumn’s show of muted colors and cooler temperatures speak of a job well done, a soft place to land after a long, hot summer. The sun is a cracked yolk spreading across the horizon, a golden center flipped and suspended in clouds. I reach out to touch it, to hold it, but it slips through the fingers of my outstretched hands. Amber, copper, and honey melt in the distance. My oldest son comes to take my hand, and together we watch, and we listen to the squeals of laughter as the girls go around. When he sees me twirling my hair, he asks me why I am sad. I tell him I’m not sad, but he doesn’t look convinced. I stand completely still as everything rotates, always returning to me. 

I don’t think about the words I never spoke, the friends I never made, the dreams I never dreamed. And it does not hurt to smell the cotton candy, to hear the marching band, or watch the sunset. It doesn’t feel like anything at all. As the pink and purple horses go up and down, I smile and wave at the girls, and they wave back on each rotation like it is the first time.

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by Tracie Adams

[this is the second in the three part series–
read A Life in Seasons from the beginning]

Sunshine Daydream

The child has become a woman, wild and overgrown like summer branches reaching for light, reaching for the mother vine. She lashes out, grabbing hold of anything, everything, nothing at all. Night after night, she searches for something to stop the throbbing in her chest. The men numb her pain. They are all the same, but she is different. They need her, at least for the moment, but she doesn’t need anyone or anything. She has discovered her superpower. It was still dark outside this morning when she collected her clothes from the floor and tiptoed away from another sleeping stranger. The deep breaths were helping the rush linger, so she could savor it for as long as possible. The high was even better than the cocaine she binged last night.

On the drive to her apartment, she sings along with the radio, speakers rumbling with the bass, and memories begin to rise with the sun, looming straight ahead with blinding light. Pressing the gas pedal with bare feet, she watches the world go by at eighty miles per hour, trees blurring into the sides of buildings and yellow cabs melting like butter. Everything is in motion. Gripping the steering wheel, she blinks away an image of her mother singing karaoke to an audience of disinterested drunks. 

“Did you hear them laughing?” Her mother’s tears had left bare streaks through her impeccably applied makeup. 

“They weren’t laughing at you, mom. They’re just drunk,” she had offered, trying to console her mother.

“You don’t think I know when I’m being mocked? Humiliated? You’re twelve. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”  

Her mother had been wrong. She did know what she was talking about. Still, her mother’s accusations always cut deep. While her entire world had shifted like sand beneath her feet over the past decade, her mother refused to evolve. She didn’t see the need for it, especially when there was nothing in it for her. She turns up the volume and sings louder, drawing up breath from deep in her diaphragm. 

When her stomach growls, she relishes the feeling of emptiness. Starving herself empowers her, assuring her she is good at something. The sun continues to climb high in the atmosphere, the earth tilting toward its warmth. But she clings to the lesser light that lives inside, the only thing she trusts. She doesn’t even try to bridle the energy anymore. She is in control, and it feels good. 

After dark, she applies the red lipstick without looking in a mirror. Slipping bare feet into her favorite heels left by the door, she grabs keys from the cluttered coffee table. As she slips her phone into her purse, it buzzes. It’s her mother. The familiar ache tugs at her but she cannot bring herself to answer it. The road between them is littered with obstacles, words left unspoken too hard to hear. They try to meet in the middle, but words stick in their throats so they swallow them instead. There are hills too steep to climb in this kind of heat, pregnant pauses and breath held, silence hanging in the thick air. 

She wants to love her mother and to be loved, but spaces fill with disappointments, disillusionment, delusions. She remembers the sound of her mother crying alone in her room every night, mumbling the same mantra of regret behind a closed door. As a child, she would stand outside that door night after night, her hand resting on the paneled wood, reaching for something she could not name. Sadness is a language they both understand but cannot speak.

She turned twenty-six this year, and now the panic attacks were coming at a steady pace. Her mother once asked her why. “Because of the trauma,” shesays. “What trauma,” her mother asks. The distance between them is measured in unfulfilled dreams and countless unforgiven sins. “It is just too far from you to me, me to you,” she whispers to the ringing phone. 

As she steps out into the humid night air, she crushes the cigarette with a stiletto heel. She lifts her head toward stars partially covered by clouds, moving swiftly with the warm wind. She adjusts her skirt with one hand and flips her hair with the other. She would sing that song tonight, the one her mother taught her, the one that always got the crowd going. They would ask for one more, and she would give them what they wanted. The applause would linger while she walked out holding tight to the arm of another stranger with vodka on his breath.

It is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year.

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by Tracie Adams

The Days Grow Longer
(publishing December 14th)

Sunshine Daydream
(publishing December 15th)

Ghosts of Autumns Past
(publishing December 16th)

The Days Grow Longer

When I say that she emerged like a seedling in the thaw of frozen soil, what I mean is she popped up like a weed, uninvited. In our chaotically cultivated home, I had not yet learned to be a real mother to my toddler son. And now a daughter’s shrill screams demanded my attention. I was still a child myself, only pretending to be grown by working two jobs and washing loads of cloth diapers. At twenty, I was a single mother, perpetually tired and angry. My need for order had overtaken my sense of humor. Counting towels as I folded them provided soothing relief. I started counting everything—the stairs I climbed a thousand times a day to clean up the clutter of toys, the carrots I chopped for dinner, the steps I took to the mailbox to collect the bills, and the ticking hands of the clock on long, sleepless nights.

Something about my daughter’s invincible spirit and the sound of her laughter mocked me. What the hell made her think we were having fun? Surviving is not fun. It’s surviving. I tried to teach her that lesson by sitting her in a corner while her brother played upstairs. For hours each day, she sat like a statue in the small, wooden chair. To keep her from escaping into slumber, I screamed at her to sit up straight, just the way my mother had taught me. When she tried to make a game out of it, I snapped. “I could have been famous. Like on-the-radio famous,” I said proudly. The child just swung her legs, tapping her bare feet on the carpet and counting the taps without a care in the world. My own mother had told me that happiness is not a human right. She must have said it ten thousand times. It worked.

As my daughter grew, she was full of questions and insecurities, always drilling me on the schedule, demanding to know what came next. “What time will you pick us up? Where are we going when we leave here? Will you be working late tonight?” One question bled into another, and she was never satisfied with the answers. Her nervous energy was restrained only by the pulling of her thin hair while rocking quietly back and forth. At first it was strands, then handfuls, until the back of her head was almost bald. Each night I taped the mittens to her hands and tied the hat around her chin, but every morning was the same. The hat and gloves would be on the floor beside her bed, and her pillow would be covered in a mess of tangled, dark hair. I did everything I knew to do. I tried to love the child, but she was determined to be unlovable. 

Unlike her brother, she was discontent. He didn’t ask for seconds at dinner. And when I read them a book, he didn’t insist that I change my voice for every character. I could skip every other page, and he did not complain. He didn’t ask for more than what he was given. She was a reminder of everything I tried to forget. She just wanted too much out of life. Like stubborn weeds in the spring garden, she just kept coming back for more.

I could still hear my mother yelling at me “Child, put that doll down and go tend to the garden!” When I complained that I was having fun, she lowered her voice and growled, “There is no such thing as fun. And those weeds ain’t gonna pull themselves!”

Sunshine Daydream

The child has become a woman, wild and overgrown like summer branches reaching for light, reaching for the mother vine. She lashes out, grabbing hold of anything, everything, nothing at all. Night after night, she searches for something to stop the throbbing in her chest. The men numb her pain. They are all the same, but she is different. They need her, at least for the moment, but she doesn’t need anyone or anything. She has discovered her superpower. It was still dark outside this morning when she collected her clothes from the floor and tiptoed away from another sleeping stranger. The deep breaths were helping the rush linger, so she could savor it for as long as possible. The high was even better than the cocaine she binged last night.

On the drive to her apartment, she sings along with the radio, speakers rumbling with the bass, and memories begin to rise with the sun, looming straight ahead with blinding light. Pressing the gas pedal with bare feet, she watches the world go by at eighty miles per hour, trees blurring into the sides of buildings and yellow cabs melting like butter. Everything is in motion. Gripping the steering wheel, she blinks away an image of her mother singing karaoke to an audience of disinterested drunks. 

“Did you hear them laughing?” Her mother’s tears had left bare streaks through her impeccably applied makeup. 

“They weren’t laughing at you, mom. They’re just drunk,” she had offered, trying to console her mother.

“You don’t think I know when I’m being mocked? Humiliated? You’re twelve. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”  

Her mother had been wrong. She did know what she was talking about. Still, her mother’s accusations always cut deep. While her entire world had shifted like sand beneath her feet over the past decade, her mother refused to evolve. She didn’t see the need for it, especially when there was nothing in it for her. She turns up the volume and sings louder, drawing up breath from deep in her diaphragm. 

When her stomach growls, she relishes the feeling of emptiness. Starving herself empowers her, assuring her she is good at something. The sun continues to climb high in the atmosphere, the earth tilting toward its warmth. But she clings to the lesser light that lives inside, the only thing she trusts. She doesn’t even try to bridle the energy anymore. She is in control, and it feels good. 

After dark, she applies the red lipstick without looking in a mirror. Slipping bare feet into her favorite heels left by the door, she grabs keys from the cluttered coffee table. As she slips her phone into her purse, it buzzes. It’s her mother. The familiar ache tugs at her but she cannot bring herself to answer it. The road between them is littered with obstacles, words left unspoken too hard to hear. They try to meet in the middle, but words stick in their throats so they swallow them instead. There are hills too steep to climb in this kind of heat, pregnant pauses and breath held, silence hanging in the thick air. 

She wants to love her mother and to be loved, but spaces fill with disappointments, disillusionment, delusions. She remembers the sound of her mother crying alone in her room every night, mumbling the same mantra of regret behind a closed door. As a child, she would stand outside that door night after night, her hand resting on the paneled wood, reaching for something she could not name. Sadness is a language they both understand but cannot speak.

She turned twenty-six this year, and now the panic attacks were coming at a steady pace. Her mother once asked her why. “Because of the trauma,” shesays. “What trauma,” her mother asks. The distance between them is measured in unfulfilled dreams and countless unforgiven sins. “It is just too far from you to me, me to you,” she whispers to the ringing phone. 

As she steps out into the humid night air, she crushes the cigarette with a stiletto heel. She lifts her head toward stars partially covered by clouds, moving swiftly with the warm wind. She adjusts her skirt with one hand and flips her hair with the other. She would sing that song tonight, the one her mother taught her, the one that always got the crowd going. They would ask for one more, and she would give them what they wanted. The applause would linger while she walked out holding tight to the arm of another stranger with vodka on his breath.

It is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year.

Ghosts of Autumns Past

I woke up this morning with the sensation of falling. Not a startling jolt, but a gentle drifting down, down, down. Like the yellowed leaves of tulip poplars outside my window, weightless and free to wander without limits, landing softly without a sound. I have not always felt this way. But things have changed. It has been over a decade since I flew into a rage, even longer since I have smashed anything. I can ride in elevators and stand in the crowded subway without having a panic attack. My kids can wreck the living room, building forts with pillows and blankets, and I just breathe through the tightness in my chest at the sight of chaos. I step over the wreckage on my way to the kitchen to scramble the eggs, calling out spelling words to my youngest while I pack everyone’s favorite sandwiches for lunch.

The nightmares are gone, not replaced with dreams of poppy fields or soaring birds, more like nothingness, an absence that doesn’t crush me. When I hear a marching band or smell Brunswick stew cooking over a fire, I don’t feel like crying like I used to. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like nothing, nothing at all. I don’t waste my thoughts on all the regrets, the deficits and losses, the not-enoughs. I barely remember the screams, the crashes, the bruises, the pleading. There’s no haunting of ghostly memories of a life teetering on the edge of danger. Now I just keep moving forward, taking the next safe step, doing the next right thing. And breathing. Lots of breathing.

I’m no longer caught between two worlds, trapped in time, wrestling with myself. I am a mother, so it is their world now, not mine, and that’s all that really matters. I fold the laundry, I cook the meals, I check the homework and sign the permission slips, I read the bedtime stories, and I say the prayers. If it hurts, I do not feel it. If it’s sad, I do not grieve it. Apathy is the new depression. I just keep falling, floating, flying through the days, the years.

“Mommy, did you see me? I did a cartwheel!” My daughter’s face is full of hope.

“Yes, I see you. Mommy sees you,” I tell her as I watch her tumble over and over. 

When the carousel at the state fair carries my giggling daughters round and round, I do not mourn dreams I never dreamed or thoughts that never grew up into actions. I just watch them ride. And if I find myself wandering the desolate hallways in my mind, I just grab hold of that thread of thought, following it out of the labyrinth. And there I am, right back where I started, right where I left off.

Autumn’s show of muted colors and cooler temperatures speak of a job well done, a soft place to land after a long, hot summer. The sun is a cracked yolk spreading across the horizon, a golden center flipped and suspended in clouds. I reach out to touch it, to hold it, but it slips through the fingers of my outstretched hands. Amber, copper, and honey melt in the distance. My oldest son comes to take my hand, and together we watch, and we listen to the squeals of laughter as the girls go around. When he sees me twirling my hair, he asks me why I am sad. I tell him I’m not sad, but he doesn’t look convinced. I stand completely still as everything rotates, always returning to me. 

I don’t think about the words I never spoke, the friends I never made, the dreams I never dreamed. And it does not hurt to smell the cotton candy, to hear the marching band, or watch the sunset. It doesn’t feel like anything at all. As the pink and purple horses go up and down, I smile and wave at the girls, and they wave back on each rotation like it is the first time.

Back to the 2025 FLASH SUITE Contest
What’s New at Defenestrationism.net
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by Monti Sturzaker

[this is the third in the three part series–
read Madeleine’s Wife from the beginning]

Madeleine’s Mountain

Puy De Sancy, France
May 1, 2005

Dearest Madeleine,

I can scarcely believe I’m writing to you from that secret spot on the mountain we discovered together, Darling, all those years ago  — between the way my memory has been troubling me of late, and the state of my knees — I was convinced I wouldn’t make it. 

I often wonder what that tailor at Saks who fitted us for our wedding dresses would make of my body now, given her anguish at the state of my legs. Of course, female leg hair was regarded as a crime then — never mind how you and I conducted ourselves! You should know, Madeleine, that I’ve brought Clem with me. She didn’t approve, of course, but she let me win anyway. 

It’s colder now than when we were taking our summer hikes around Europe. I daresay the Puy De Sancy was your favourite, wasn’t it, Darling? Awfully hard to compare — the delightful softness here is such a different atmosphere to, say, the sheer grind of Mt Eiger in Switzerland or the wild edge-of-the-world of the Seceda in Italy. Easier for you to have a favourite, perhaps, given you were born not five miles away. 

Do you remember our first time back to France after the war, our little Clem having passed the bar and me finally, actually retired – those mountains so huge and sun-scratched before us. You wept, if I recall correctly? Yes, alright Madeleine, I wept too. Perhaps we’d neither expected to see your motherland again, at least not as it was. Not with that bomb-free sky so clear and oceanic blue.  

Never sticklers for rules, us, we were ever so stealthy in our escape from that hiking group – trekking through tussocks as high as our buttocks (I’m picturing you giggling at the rhyme, Darling) – and discovering that breath-taking waterfall? My memory’s awash with the song of your laughter as we clutched each other and picked precarious routes across lichen-kissed stones. Only one ankle wetted, I do believe! We picnicked on the other bank; pocket-warmed sandwiches, cold tea and English biscuits. It’s curious how I still recall that, Darling, and yet I’m often losing track of what day it is now, or what I ate for breakfast. 

We were perfectly alone, the way you only can be in nature. My memories are underscored by the sweetness of your lips, your tongue – I know, I know, I’m far too old for such talk now, but we were old then too, Darling! Too old to let it go further. Not for fear of being caught, of course – you and I have always been too bold for our own good – but rather the inability to walk home, backs bruised from the uneven ground. Oh, but I reminisce about it so fondly all the same and wish we’d let the repercussions come as they may. 

Retrospectively, you were right – don’t be too shocked! – we should’ve retraced our steps to the path. At the time I was too pigheaded (as always) and I never apologised. It seemed like the correct decision, you see, bee-lining to catch up with the group. I wasn’t to know about the patch of brambles. But I did pull you through them, thorns tearing up your favourite white dress – and the replacement we bought wasn’t the same, I concede – scratching trails across our legs and tangling our hair. I am sorry, Darling. Truly.

I have apologised to Clem as well, you should know. She’s too like me for her own good, and we have been flailing a bit since — well, since. And she’s never quite forgiven me for the bad example I set for her in her youth, always away on ‘work’ trips she wasn’t able to explain to her friends. Did you know she was telling people I was a spy? Of all things, really!

Oh! Do you recall the expression on the guide’s face, how absolutely fuming he was with us for disappearing? I couldn’t look at you for fear I’d begin giggling and be quite unable to stop. So child-cross, with his waggling finger and hands on hips, while we tried to feign the appropriate remorse. Poor young man, had not a chance against us two old ladies with our decades of experience upsetting authority figures!

I’ve rambled on too long, as usual. But it’s important you understand why I insisted on this place. I hadn’t the slightest clue how to explain it to Clem, as she’s never been and you always were better at talking to her than I – when I picture you two it’s with your matching blonde heads entangled, sharing thousands of whispered secrets. I never minded how she was closer to you, though, Darling, you’re so easy to love. 

I’ve become so frail, my hands paper-thin like those stale old women we promised never to become. Clem fought tooth and nail for the nurses to let me come – she is an excellent lawyer (though we’ll have to share credit for her ‘negotiation’ skills) – and the travel was utterly exhausting. We thought we were old then but, Darling, we had not the faintest!

Your ashes are with me, in the sapphire-blue jar Clem picked out. It’s become our colour really, and it matches the glacial waters of the creek. She won’t let me cross it, not this time – despite all those near-death experiences while I was teaching her to drive, she’s surprisingly adverse to being responsible for the end of me now – now that I’m finally ready, irony that it is! You don’t have to say it; her obstinance is mine. 

We’ve sat awhile already, and Clem’s insistent we get back before dark. Perhaps I’ll take her back through that bramble bush, teach her from whom she inherited her impatience. But first, I must let you go, return you back to the soil from whence you came, the land you’ve always loved. I’ll leave this letter for you too, Darling. 

See you soon, my love.

Yours as always,

Sylvia 

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by Monti Sturzaker

[this is the second in the three part series–
read Madeleine’s Wife from the beginning]

Sylvia’s Retirement

São Paulo
February 8th, 1979

My Dearest Madeleine,

How grateful I am that you insisted I go on this solo trip, Darling! I do now see how disruptive my empty nesting must’ve been for you, especially when our Clem is doing so brilliantly at Harvard. I’m missing you terribly, of course, but it has been a wonderful adventure, reminiscent of our youthful romps around Europe before the war. You were right (as always!), retirement has been splendid. I wonder – has the Times covered the passing of one Wolfgang Gerhard, by way of stroke? Perhaps he is too insignificant to have made the New York news.

Darling – yesterday was the most glorious day of the trip so far. The sun has never been so dazzling, the sky so breathtakingly blue. On such days, the tourists all conglomerate in Bertioga. It is no wonder, with its postcard-perfect beaches and sapphire waves. I do so loathe the beach, Madeleine – there’s absolutely no way to keep intimates free of sand, is there? Nonetheless, I packed my small bag (with Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man, sunscreen, a few cruzeiro and a hypodermic needle) and joined in on the frivolity. Not even ten in the morning and it was already crowded! Positively bursting with hourglass-figured young women (exactly as we once looked), families huddled under vibrant parasols, and altogether too many men. 

Oh! But I have not told you why I was even on that ghastly beach. You see, four days ago (not long after I landed in Brazil) I received a call to my hotel room. The mysterious caller uttered only a dollar value and a single name – not Gerhard’s, by the way – repeated himself and hung up. I suspected his accent was Israeli, perhaps even that lovely Mr Navon we met several years ago at the embassy – I hear he’s even president now, isn’t that nice? Well. Assassinations are more your specialty, Darling, but I simply couldn’t resist the thrill (and the money)!

Anyway, yesterday. By the time I spotted my target – instantly recognisable from the lopsided moustache worn under similarly lopsided eyes – it was well into the afternoon, the sun charring any beach-goer who dared leave the safety of their parasol. Unfortunately, he could not be dealt with from under the umbrella, and as it was too hot for the sand I was forced to wade towards him in the water, my little bag suffering from the lashings of spray. I shan’t be able to finish the book now – but not to worry, it was utter drivel written by a terribly boring man.

Can you pinpoint the exact age we turned invisible, Darling? I refuse to believe anyone who gazes upon you isn’t awestruck by your beauty – you’re even more radiant now than when we were young, like a fine French wine. It’s the reason I forget, I think, that men no longer notice me – and the reason (as I waded towards my target) that I was struck in the face by a volleyball. The teenaged boy who threw it gave only silence by way of apology, as if he couldn’t see me at all! I have a deep aubergine bruise today, Madeleine, the perfect match for that gorgeous velvet dress of yours. 

Much to my annoyance, when I regained enough vision to resume stalking my target, I was aghast to find him removed from his cerulean parasol. In my agitated state, I splashed about so that a lifeguard (whose face bore a striking resemblance to a pig) appeared and forced me from the water! Concerned about a repeat performance once I had my target under thumb, I decided to first find a suitable distraction.

It took me longer than I care to admit. By the time I did, my knees were protesting and I had begun to wonder if you were correct in your assertions that retirement necessitated no further work on my behalf. It was a relief, therefore, when I spotted an attractive bikini-clad young lady sleeping under an umbrella quite close to the lifeguard’s watchtower, a pair of exquisite lace gloves on the blanket beside her. As you well know, arthritis has been giving me some trouble these days, but my fingers are still very sticky and it was inconsequential to wander past and acquire her gloves. Ignoring the pain in my legs, I clambered up the watchtower and showered the guard in gratitudes while I slipped the gloves under his plastic throne. After, I returned to gently nudge the chartreuse umbrella over, awaking the lady. Discovering her gloves’ misplacement, she let out a squeal (indistinguishable from a pig in heat), summoning the lifeguards. 

The thick crowds, while oft an aid for this sort of mission, slowed my progression back to where I’d last seen my target – thrice I spied a person of similar impression, spending valuable minutes to ensure they were indeed different men (aren’t they all so boringly similar, Darling!). Eventually I uncovered him a little ways offshore, having graduated from sunbathing to swimming. He was only slightly older than I – but still male – so to him I was practically invisible and he utterly failed to notice my approach. Perhaps I should give him more credit – at the time, a pretty lady on shore was wailing accusations about pig-faced lifeguards pinching exquisite lace gloves.

I was ever so surprised by the speed at which rat poison injected into the man (if you were here, Madeleine, no doubt you’d have dreamt up a more sophisticated method) completed the job – he was breathing water and sinking before I’d even left the ocean. A fitting end, I think for Josef Mengele, given the war crimes of which Auschwitz’s ex-doctor was accused. Of course, the papers all believe him to be Gerhard, as that’s the name he’s been using lately.

You know, retirement is far more thrilling than I anticipated, and perhaps I shall retire after all. Next time, however, let’s holiday together, my love! 

Always yours,
Sylvia

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by Monti Sturzaker

Madeleine’s Sapphire
(publishing December 11th)

Sylvia’s Retirement
(publishing December 12th)

Madeleine’s Mountain
(publishing December 13th)

Madeleine’s Sapphire

London
August 28th, 1939

My Dearest Madeleine,

I trust that what I’m about to detail to you will be kept in the strictest confidence as, if word gets out, I may find myself imprisoned for the rest of my natural life. Yet, it is worth the risk to share with you the excitement of my latest adventure. 

It was early Thursday morning this last week when the animals escaped – perhaps you’ve read in the Parisian papers? The Lemurs were first and of great importance to the rest of the plan, causing havoc around the enclosures, stealing keys from guards’ belts and unlocking cages left, right and centre. Once the Elephants were out, the police were notified, and – 

I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve been honestly employed – yes, honestly! – as a secretary in the offices at London Zoo and, where needed, supervising patrons in the Children’s (petting) Zoo. I was actually there that Thursday! But, let me first tell you of something that happened six months prior. I would’ve told you sooner, of course, darling, but I did not wish for you to leave your job in Paris to assist me.

A Prince had come from Saudi Arabia in possession of one of his Country’s great riches, a sapphire of not insubstantial size. He believed there was a plot to steal it and as a friend of Lord Onslow, the Zoo’s president, he wished to store it in a safe on the grounds. In return, he promised to bequeath us a pair of Hamadryas Baboons. Onslow practically leapt at the opportunity; he is a great lover of Darwin’s ridiculous theory and would likely have given his left kidney to gain possession of such an unusual primate. 

You must be wondering why I would choose to work in such a place, when I dislike animals so. This job enables me to move money through Zoo finances, you see, as the authorities are woefully ignorant as to the quantity of food needed to sustain full-grown Elephants. Ah! But it is a terrible job, Madeleine, I had not anticipated the horrors of such a place. The smell, Darling, oh, the smell! There is nowhere else on Earth where the distinction between Man and Beast is so clear. 

Anyway, the sapphire. I caught a glimpse of it as it was being delivered. I could picture it around your neck as clearly as if you were standing before me, its marvellous hue the exact colour of your eyes. Oh, Madeleine, Darling, I just had to have it. The safe was kept hidden at the bottom of the pond in the turtle enclosure within the Children’s Zoo, invisible to anyone who did not know it was there. Luckily for me, Onslow was barely aware of any woman’s ability to function beyond that of a child, and it was fairly straightforward for me to find his safekeeping plans in the office. 

Taking the keys from a keeper’s belt was like taking cocaine from a baby, a skill you well know I am accomplished at from years of petty pickpocketry. As there is no time of day when the Zoo is completely empty, much as a prison is never without guards, I chose an early morning – not so early my presence would be suspicious, but before the patrons were admitted for the day (and let me tell you, Dear, the only thing worse than the animals are the patrons, especially the children which rampage like wild beasts). 

I entered as usual through the Main Entrance, greeted the gateman, Norbert – the only man I’ve ever met more likely to sling shit than the Monkeys – and strolled towards the Children’s Zoo. As I passed the Monkey House, I found myself drawn trance-like towards the bars. A Blue-Eyed Black Lemur (I’ve even learned their ridiculous names, Darling!) stared at me, her hands clasped around the bars and wearing the saddest look you’ve ever seen. I must confess, she looked a lot like you, Madeleine, with her oceanic eyes and red hair. There was something distinctly human about her pleading expression, and I imagined you in her place, caught in one of our schemes. 

I let her out. 

It wasn’t what I had planned and you must think me foolish, but she seemed grateful. Along with her companions, she had the keepers running about like headless chickens and, in truth, it provided me the perfect cover. While she released the Ostriches and the idiot men scrambled to subdue them or reclaim their keys, I sauntered unnoticed to the turtle enclosure and unlocked the gate. I stripped to my undergarments and dove into the muddy waters. 

I’d never lock-picked underwater, but the safe was too heavy for one woman to drag to shore and I was forced to hold my breath and hack, near-blinded, at its machinery. I surfaced for air twice, on the second occasion finding a Pelican making off with my hat. It was the one you had acquired for me from Liberty’s, when that girl-child distracted the store’s grey-haired guard with a perfectly-timed spitball, allowing us to escape unnoticed. A shame to lose, but I had more important things afoot. The gem was in my hand mere seconds later. I dressed immediately, and picked a careful route back to the Main Entrance, the sapphire hidden amongst my skirts. Norbert stopped me this time, concerned about my disgraceful smell and dampened appearance. I feigned hysteria about a rampaging Hippopotamus and he let me leave without a further word of protest. 

London was awash with animals (and Police, the former not unlike the latter) and I must confess a part of me hoped that they would avoid capture. I happened upon that sweet Lemur as I made my way home and she now sits upon my kitchen counter, a spitting image of you. As soon as things have calmed down we will catch the next ferry to Paris and to you. 

Until then and love as always,

Sylvia

Sylvia’s Retirement

São Paulo
February 8th, 1979

My Dearest Madeleine,

How grateful I am that you insisted I go on this solo trip, Darling! I do now see how disruptive my empty nesting must’ve been for you, especially when our Clem is doing so brilliantly at Harvard. I’m missing you terribly, of course, but it has been a wonderful adventure, reminiscent of our youthful romps around Europe before the war. You were right (as always!), retirement has been splendid. I wonder – has the Times covered the passing of one Wolfgang Gerhard, by way of stroke? Perhaps he is too insignificant to have made the New York news.

Darling – yesterday was the most glorious day of the trip so far. The sun has never been so dazzling, the sky so breathtakingly blue. On such days, the tourists all conglomerate in Bertioga. It is no wonder, with its postcard-perfect beaches and sapphire waves. I do so loathe the beach, Madeleine – there’s absolutely no way to keep intimates free of sand, is there? Nonetheless, I packed my small bag (with Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man, sunscreen, a few cruzeiro and a hypodermic needle) and joined in on the frivolity. Not even ten in the morning and it was already crowded! Positively bursting with hourglass-figured young women (exactly as we once looked), families huddled under vibrant parasols, and altogether too many men. 

Oh! But I have not told you why I was even on that ghastly beach. You see, four days ago (not long after I landed in Brazil) I received a call to my hotel room. The mysterious caller uttered only a dollar value and a single name – not Gerhard’s, by the way – repeated himself and hung up. I suspected his accent was Israeli, perhaps even that lovely Mr Navon we met several years ago at the embassy – I hear he’s even president now, isn’t that nice? Well. Assassinations are more your specialty, Darling, but I simply couldn’t resist the thrill (and the money)!

Anyway, yesterday. By the time I spotted my target – instantly recognisable from the lopsided moustache worn under similarly lopsided eyes – it was well into the afternoon, the sun charring any beach-goer who dared leave the safety of their parasol. Unfortunately, he could not be dealt with from under the umbrella, and as it was too hot for the sand I was forced to wade towards him in the water, my little bag suffering from the lashings of spray. I shan’t be able to finish the book now – but not to worry, it was utter drivel written by a terribly boring man.

Can you pinpoint the exact age we turned invisible, Darling? I refuse to believe anyone who gazes upon you isn’t awestruck by your beauty – you’re even more radiant now than when we were young, like a fine French wine. It’s the reason I forget, I think, that men no longer notice me – and the reason (as I waded towards my target) that I was struck in the face by a volleyball. The teenaged boy who threw it gave only silence by way of apology, as if he couldn’t see me at all! I have a deep aubergine bruise today, Madeleine, the perfect match for that gorgeous velvet dress of yours. 

Much to my annoyance, when I regained enough vision to resume stalking my target, I was aghast to find him removed from his cerulean parasol. In my agitated state, I splashed about so that a lifeguard (whose face bore a striking resemblance to a pig) appeared and forced me from the water! Concerned about a repeat performance once I had my target under thumb, I decided to first find a suitable distraction.

It took me longer than I care to admit. By the time I did, my knees were protesting and I had begun to wonder if you were correct in your assertions that retirement necessitated no further work on my behalf. It was a relief, therefore, when I spotted an attractive bikini-clad young lady sleeping under an umbrella quite close to the lifeguard’s watchtower, a pair of exquisite lace gloves on the blanket beside her. As you well know, arthritis has been giving me some trouble these days, but my fingers are still very sticky and it was inconsequential to wander past and acquire her gloves. Ignoring the pain in my legs, I clambered up the watchtower and showered the guard in gratitudes while I slipped the gloves under his plastic throne. After, I returned to gently nudge the chartreuse umbrella over, awaking the lady. Discovering her gloves’ misplacement, she let out a squeal (indistinguishable from a pig in heat), summoning the lifeguards. 

The thick crowds, while oft an aid for this sort of mission, slowed my progression back to where I’d last seen my target – thrice I spied a person of similar impression, spending valuable minutes to ensure they were indeed different men (aren’t they all so boringly similar, Darling!). Eventually I uncovered him a little ways offshore, having graduated from sunbathing to swimming. He was only slightly older than I – but still male – so to him I was practically invisible and he utterly failed to notice my approach. Perhaps I should give him more credit – at the time, a pretty lady on shore was wailing accusations about pig-faced lifeguards pinching exquisite lace gloves.

I was ever so surprised by the speed at which rat poison injected into the man (if you were here, Madeleine, no doubt you’d have dreamt up a more sophisticated method) completed the job – he was breathing water and sinking before I’d even left the ocean. A fitting end, I think for Josef Mengele, given the war crimes of which Auschwitz’s ex-doctor was accused. Of course, the papers all believe him to be Gerhard, as that’s the name he’s been using lately.

You know, retirement is far more thrilling than I anticipated, and perhaps I shall retire after all. Next time, however, let’s holiday together, my love! 

Always yours,
Sylvia

Madeleine’s Mountain

Puy De Sancy, France
May 1, 2005

Dearest Madeleine,

I can scarcely believe I’m writing to you from that secret spot on the mountain we discovered together, Darling, all those years ago  — between the way my memory has been troubling me of late, and the state of my knees — I was convinced I wouldn’t make it. 

I often wonder what that tailor at Saks who fitted us for our wedding dresses would make of my body now, given her anguish at the state of my legs. Of course, female leg hair was regarded as a crime then — never mind how you and I conducted ourselves! You should know, Madeleine, that I’ve brought Clem with me. She didn’t approve, of course, but she let me win anyway. 

It’s colder now than when we were taking our summer hikes around Europe. I daresay the Puy De Sancy was your favourite, wasn’t it, Darling? Awfully hard to compare — the delightful softness here is such a different atmosphere to, say, the sheer grind of Mt Eiger in Switzerland or the wild edge-of-the-world of the Seceda in Italy. Easier for you to have a favourite, perhaps, given you were born not five miles away. 

Do you remember our first time back to France after the war, our little Clem having passed the bar and me finally, actually retired – those mountains so huge and sun-scratched before us. You wept, if I recall correctly? Yes, alright Madeleine, I wept too. Perhaps we’d neither expected to see your motherland again, at least not as it was. Not with that bomb-free sky so clear and oceanic blue.  

Never sticklers for rules, us, we were ever so stealthy in our escape from that hiking group – trekking through tussocks as high as our buttocks (I’m picturing you giggling at the rhyme, Darling) – and discovering that breath-taking waterfall? My memory’s awash with the song of your laughter as we clutched each other and picked precarious routes across lichen-kissed stones. Only one ankle wetted, I do believe! We picnicked on the other bank; pocket-warmed sandwiches, cold tea and English biscuits. It’s curious how I still recall that, Darling, and yet I’m often losing track of what day it is now, or what I ate for breakfast. 

We were perfectly alone, the way you only can be in nature. My memories are underscored by the sweetness of your lips, your tongue – I know, I know, I’m far too old for such talk now, but we were old then too, Darling! Too old to let it go further. Not for fear of being caught, of course – you and I have always been too bold for our own good – but rather the inability to walk home, backs bruised from the uneven ground. Oh, but I reminisce about it so fondly all the same and wish we’d let the repercussions come as they may. 

Retrospectively, you were right – don’t be too shocked! – we should’ve retraced our steps to the path. At the time I was too pigheaded (as always) and I never apologised. It seemed like the correct decision, you see, bee-lining to catch up with the group. I wasn’t to know about the patch of brambles. But I did pull you through them, thorns tearing up your favourite white dress – and the replacement we bought wasn’t the same, I concede – scratching trails across our legs and tangling our hair. I am sorry, Darling. Truly.

I have apologised to Clem as well, you should know. She’s too like me for her own good, and we have been flailing a bit since — well, since. And she’s never quite forgiven me for the bad example I set for her in her youth, always away on ‘work’ trips she wasn’t able to explain to her friends. Did you know she was telling people I was a spy? Of all things, really!

Oh! Do you recall the expression on the guide’s face, how absolutely fuming he was with us for disappearing? I couldn’t look at you for fear I’d begin giggling and be quite unable to stop. So child-cross, with his waggling finger and hands on hips, while we tried to feign the appropriate remorse. Poor young man, had not a chance against us two old ladies with our decades of experience upsetting authority figures!

I’ve rambled on too long, as usual. But it’s important you understand why I insisted on this place. I hadn’t the slightest clue how to explain it to Clem, as she’s never been and you always were better at talking to her than I – when I picture you two it’s with your matching blonde heads entangled, sharing thousands of whispered secrets. I never minded how she was closer to you, though, Darling, you’re so easy to love. 

I’ve become so frail, my hands paper-thin like those stale old women we promised never to become. Clem fought tooth and nail for the nurses to let me come – she is an excellent lawyer (though we’ll have to share credit for her ‘negotiation’ skills) – and the travel was utterly exhausting. We thought we were old then but, Darling, we had not the faintest!

Your ashes are with me, in the sapphire-blue jar Clem picked out. It’s become our colour really, and it matches the glacial waters of the creek. She won’t let me cross it, not this time – despite all those near-death experiences while I was teaching her to drive, she’s surprisingly adverse to being responsible for the end of me now – now that I’m finally ready, irony that it is! You don’t have to say it; her obstinance is mine. 

We’ve sat awhile already, and Clem’s insistent we get back before dark. Perhaps I’ll take her back through that bramble bush, teach her from whom she inherited her impatience. But first, I must let you go, return you back to the soil from whence you came, the land you’ve always loved. I’ll leave this letter for you too, Darling. 

See you soon, my love.

Yours as always,

Sylvia 

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— Paul-Newell Reaves, owner, co-editor

Chantelle Tibbs, co-editor:

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What a contest, everyone, what a contest.

Never one to waste an instant, the winners are:

Grand Prize: the Burn

Runner-Ups: “My Dog Dies Today” & “In Hot Water”

We had a tie for first place, so, as always, the Fan Vote was the tie breaker.

How the Judges Voted: (a Grand Prize vote is worth two Runner Up votes)

Glenn A. Bruce: Grand Prize– “the Burn”, Runner Ups– “My Dog Dies Today” & “In Hot Water.”

Lady Moet Beast: Grand Prize– “In Hot Water”, Runner Ups– “Leopardus” & “My Dog Dies Today”

Aditya Guatum: Grand Prize– “My Dog Dies Today”, Runner Ups— “Feng’s Way” & “the Burn”

Fan Vote: Grand Prize– “60 S 150 W”, Runner Ups– “Leopardus” & a tie between “the Burn” and “Frozen Asset” (both were awarded a runner-up vote)

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