Thinking back, there were birds. I remember a blue jay's strident comment and the cardinal musically interjecting. There are always sparrows. A robin announced her presence to any other robins who might be nearby. A soft reminder of her territorial claim.

A breeze came up out of the south. I heard it disrupt the leaves on the maple trees and then woosh through the white pine tree's needles, nudging some of the brown ones to the earth, nestling into the long grass.

I think there was a lawn mower somewhere. A car drove by. I think the tires needed alignment as it wobbled on the pavement. Did I hear a dog bark? I'm not sure. It was a nice summer day until it wasn't.

Anybody who hasn't been in a war zone doesn't have any idea of the concussive blast a bomb makes when it hits the earth. Was there a screeching sound just before the explosion, or am I remembering scenes from war movies? I don't know.

It's hard to imagine that a high altitude bomber could inadvertently drop a massive bomb in the middle of Wisconsin. I'm glad it didn't land on any buildings, but our cornfield now has a very large and deep crater in it. The shock waves from the explosion knocked me down, but I wasn't hurt, except for my ears.

I hear the sound of a referee's whistle all the time, night and day. The doctor said it might be temporary. That's not very encouraging.

Now I sit in the yard and look at the birds and the cars driving by. I watch the leaves and I feel the wind. I imagine there is a dog barking.

I try hard to remember all those last sounds I heard that day. I think I remember how my wife's voice sounded as she spoke quietly to me in bed. I feel like I can hear our child's tender voice.

In a way, losing my hearing all at once is like having something you never really thought much about suddenly die. And, as with the death of a dear one, you wonder if you'll forget what it was like to be near them.

There are investigations and hearings -- ironically -- and all sorts of talk about the bomb being dropped. I can't hear the talk, of course, but I can read about it. I guess it is important to make sure it doesn't happen again. They say that next week trucks will be coming in to replace the soil that got blown to smithereens. I like that word. I wish I could hear somebody say "smithereens," but I can't.

It's funny: I never thought the memory of hearing a robin calling could make me cry.

The early morning envelops the city in a gentle half-light, and I, shivering as I wrap my scarf tighter, climb into a taxi. The cold air still clings to my fingers, but the thought of seeing her warms me better than any heater ever could. I pull out my phone and, smiling to myself, type a message: "I’m on my way, please make me some coffee." I send it and gaze out the window, watching the sleepy streets flicker by, already anticipating the cozy warmth of her apartment.

When the taxi finally pulls up to her familiar building, I pay quickly and nearly run to the door. She opens it with that same smile—half-asleep, a little mischievous, but so dear that my heart can’t help but tighten with affection. I step inside, shrug off my coat, shake out my hair still chilled from the wind, and ask with a hint of eager anticipation:

“Where’s the coffee?”

She looks at me with wide eyes, as if I’ve just said something utterly unexpected.

“What coffee?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

“But I texted you!” I reply, already laughing as I reach for my phone to show her the proof.

She grabs her own phone in a flash, opens the messenger, and… before I can even blink, she not only reads my message but also likes it. Her fingers freeze over the screen, and then she looks up at me, her expression brimming with genuine bewilderment.

“How did I do that?” she mutters, staring at her phone as if it’s just revealed some grand universal secret.

I can’t hold back my laughter, and she, catching my smile, heads to the kitchen. She sets the kettle on the stove and turns to me, leaning against the fridge. Her eyes—warm, a little drowsy, but so full of love—gaze at me with an inexplicable softness. I nod toward the stove:

“You forgot to turn on the gas.”

She blinks, then flushes and laughs—a bright, slightly embarrassed sound, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

“I forget everything!” she exclaims, but there’s no trace of annoyance in her voice, just a light, self-mocking tone.

And it’s true—her forgetfulness is something extraordinary. She can forget not only to turn on the gas but also that her shoe size is 38, not 41. As a result, she buys herself oversized slippers, her tiny feet sinking into them like they’re fluffy clouds. I don’t know how she manages it, but there’s something wonderfully natural in her clumsiness, something that makes her so… real. She does it with such grace and ease that I can only shake my head and smile tenderly.

“You’re the sweetest when you get so flustered,” I say, looking at her with warmth.

She smiles back—that smile that turns my insides upside down—and turns to the stove again. She clicks the lighter, but then pauses, stares at the kettle, and realizes the gas still isn’t on. She hurriedly fixes it, and finally, a cheerful blue flame flickers to life beneath the kettle. She turns to me with a triumphant grin.

“See?” I laugh. “The coffee’s coming after all.”

She nods, still smiling, and whispers softly:

“It’s just that you distract me…”

Her words hang in the air, simple yet so significant. I look at her—at her slightly tousled hair, her gentle gaze, her slender fingers still clutching the lighter—and realize there’s nothing more precious than these morning moments. These forgotten messages, kettles on the stove, slippers too big for her feet. Because in her absentmindedness lies all her tenderness, her warmth, her love.

There was another moment like that, too. Once, I went to her workplace and called her:

“Where are you? I’m here.”

Suddenly, I hear her voice behind me:

“I’m right here.”

I turned around, end the call, and there she is, standing close, smiling at me. And then she lifts the phone back to her ear. I stared at her, puzzled:

“Who are you talking to now?”

She doesn’t answer, just gives me that enigmatic smile and slips the phone into her bag with a graceful motion. And how could I not love her after that? She catches my gaze, smiles—and in that smile is my entire world. I look at her and know: her absentmindedness is the stars lighting up my life, and her love is my home, the place I’ll always return to.

Victoria Lunar. 2025.

The yellow dress was neither her most expensive nor the prettiest, but Alisha was well aware of what baits her trap held and the yellow dress flaunted those feminine enticements in spades. It was the same dress, in fact, that she’d worn to catch Nat Duncan’s eye those years ago. This yellow dress had won her man then and it would win him now. Not long after his sentencing Nat had affirmed to her in a letter (which she’d read ragged) that his desire to give her “everything she’d never had” was what had landed him on the “inside”. It stood to reason that if his desire for her had put him in, then might her own yearnings for him not pluck him back out again?

Alisha (thirty years old) was no flouncy child, so when she’d looked into the warden’s eyes that last time the price she would have to pay for Nat’s freedom became obvious. It was certainly not a debt she relished paying, but the warden’s unspoken, non-monetary suggestion to her was coincidentally the only form of payment she currently had the means to render, making the offer seem fair enough, and was the only reason she considered it. Besides, need her jealous-hearted Nat ever even know?

So, after very little deliberation here she was, her yellow dress carefully folded beneath her knees to cushion them away from the industrial tiled floor.

Not knowing who was there was painfully awkward for her when the door’s latch clicked open behind her, creeping a cold draft up her unclothed back, though the hand gripping the back of her head prevented her from turning, prompting the continued humming from her that this sordid work necessitated until it finally became obvious to both people involved that the job was satisfactorily completed. And as the hand relaxed from its dissolute pull she was permitted a curious peek back to see who was there, a peek which revealed to her Nat’s naturally expressed revulsion at the sight of it; the sight of her unexpected nakedness and obsequious posture, that is. Made sick herself by her love’s blatant and obvious disgust in her Alisha wretched back up what had just gone down. At that Nat turned away from her, his ogling guard in tow, their clanking chains the only voice given to his rejection of her as he shuffled away forever into the prison’s bowels, a disconsolate Alisha trailing behind, crawling along the filthy floor in distressed, if useless, supplication.

And further back behind her the warden chuckled apathetically at her plight as his rapacious hands reached for her, their fingers sinking into her g form about it’s warmly rounded hips, his grip not only checking her progress, but also bodily lifting and dragging her disconsolate form back into the room for his continued depravity.

“It appears the sentence will be thirty more years, Mrs. Duncan,” Nat’s trustee counseled as he petted. “Thirty years or life… with time deferred for good behavior, of course.”

Today too, I wait for her at the school entrance.

I still vividly remember how she gasped in joy the first time she saw me waiting for her here, how her face beamed with pure bliss, how she hurriedly came and grabbed my hand and dragged me with her. She felt this comfortable with me only. As we held hands, we chatted about trivial things and laughed our heads off as if there was no one around us. We were like this every single day.

She had no one else waiting for her, and I had no one else to wait for.

Neither my family nor my friends accepted me for who I was. But that girl was the only one who was happy to be with me. Who liked me the way I was.

I knew how lonely she was. I wanted to be by her side for a long time and make good memories together. But in the end, I, too, betrayed her and left her alone.

I see her coming this way, hoping that she will brush past me. But to my surprise, she looks at me. My eyes meet hers.

She can't see me, I know. But I see her. In the gaze of her widened eyes, loneliness and pain of loss are clearly reflected. She stares at the place so hard that I have this intense urge to grab her hand or hug her.

Finally, she turns away. I silently follow her. She called this place 'the entrance of friendship'. At the end of long school hours, this short time we accompanied each other were the best time we had. This place was full of our memories. We left invisible footprints on this road. I guess she is being haunted by those memories.

While getting into the car, she looks at me once again. For a second, I wonder if she can really see me. Well, she once said we're soulmates. Maybe that's why I'm still lingering around her? Because she can't let me go just yet.

In that case, I'll wait for her tomorrow too, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that...

‘‘Whoa— there- don’t be afraid, child. C’mon in. All are welcome in this humble abode!’’

The radio static like voice startled the kid. But soon after recalling that there might be some tasty snacks/treats in here, the child stepped into the abandoned building. Pieces of glass were scattered all about the floor. The place had no lights on. The only light that was present was the one that seemed to pour in through the cracks on the roof. The walls of the building looked as if someone, or something had been chipping away at the paint. There were a bunch of cigarette butts that were lying around in random corners of the old building. The kid wondered if someone, or a bunch of other folks had been around here not too long ago.

The child stared at the random still life Dutch paintings- and one in particularly kinda looked like the building, but it seemed to be a throw back to what it might have been like back in its glory days. The more the kid gazed at the painting, the more it seemed to come to life. What kind of trickster was pulling this off?

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching brought the kid back to the present moment. Then a pair of hands landed on the child’s shoulders, and the child let out a scream. Turning around to face the person, or whatever the thing was, the kid came face to face with an elderly person. The older folk smiled, and then revealed a pair of beaver teeth.

The cries for help from the abandoned building could not be heard by any other person around. The child had not listened to its parents warning. The kid had wandered too far away from the village, and ended up lost in the middle of thether world.

The elderly woman rubbed her hands together, and hummed along to the sounds of the spectres playing lively jazz music in the parlor. She bowed her head, and one of the spectres came along to dance with her. They spun around in circles— while waiting for her good and traditional famous hot dish to be ready that she liked to call: Petit Oiseau. She would enjoy and have the meal all to herself.

The spectres did not need to eat anything anyway…well what they enjoyed was something much more tasty. The elderly woman would need an extra boost of strength first before she set out to gather what the spectres liked to devour.

#CORVUS (All Rights Reserved)

Lundi, 10.03.2025

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=MDbYmImkKMg

At last, Saturday afternoon arrives. The line of teen-agers and wannabe teens on the sidewalk stretches all the way from the box office window to the end of the block. And kids are still coming.

Fortunately, I am third in line for the Atlas Theatre’s Horror Movie Spectacular. That is enough to irk the kids directly behind me. And they go ballistic when I give cuts to my two younger brothers, Larry and Arty. A freckle-faced boy shoves me. His friend yells, “Back of the line, dudes.” But armed with a growth spurt and the heady pride of a fourteen-year-old, I stare down the shorter whiners. There is no need to say anything, but Larry feels compelled to explain to the kids that we had been taking turns in line since this morning.

It is one-thirty p.m. and the line begins to move. Brimming with excitement, my brothers and I pay for our tickets, skip the concessions, and run into the dimly lit theater. The only two kids in this giant place are in the front row; it’s like we have the Atlas to ourselves. But more kids pour in, so we three grab primo seats: in a row that is a third of the way back, and on the aisle. We have a great view of the screen and the ability to make an easy exit to get candy or take a leak.

Empty seats are all around when a shadowy figure stops in the aisle and glares at us.

“Don’t look at him,” I whisper to my brothers sitting on my right and left.

I see out of the corner of my eye that the figure is that bully at the end of our street. Everybody calls him “Big Bill.” The tough guy is wearing his high school letter jacket. He recently made Arty pay to cross his sidewalk, and threatened to make me suffer the same fate as Tommy Blair. Tommy and his family used to live on our street until they mysteriously disappeared.

“Ahem.”

The figure clears his throat, but we do not look up.

Another voice approaches. “What’s the holdup, Big Bill?”

Bill loudly tells his toady, “Some punks are in our seats.”

Bill reaches into the aisle seat, grabs Larry by the shirt collar, and growls, “I’m gonna count. When I hit three, you three kids better be gone—or else. … One, two…”

“We are not moving!” I hear myself utter as I look straight ahead.

Big Bell comes into our row and sits on my lap. He says, “Did you say something?”

Now I am looking into the back of Big Bill’s neck. But I say loudly, “We are not moving, are we Larry and Arty. … Larry? … Arty?”

Big Bill stands up to let me leave.

I slowly walk back up the aisle to search for Larry and Arty. And hope that I have another growth spurt.

He had more money than God and more secrets than the devil. He was a tough nut to crack even if you brought down the hammer. Stickier than toffee and slicker than silk. A guy like that was made to make trouble for a guy like me, and damned if I didn't like it.

The chain cord of my desk lamp was teasing me like a feather does a cat: I just had to tug it. The office was dark, damp, and starting to smell. Just like everything in this city. If I could afford a better place, I still wouldn't, though. What can I say: I'm a sucker for black mould.

The dark helped me think. Not that I'm not a fan of that beautiful buzz of fluorescent lights, but if I had to see one more word on my pages about that man then it would just blind me. Something about not seeing the wood for the trees, you know how it goes. Nah, I had to know him better than that. Better than a file, better than my supervisors, and better than his fucking wife. I'd eat, breathe, and sleep with this man, if I could just pin him.

Opportunities come like taxis, so long as you alight them properly. I was actually waiting for a taxi when I got my first lead on him.

Rain was coming down in sheets, and the little umbrella I stole from a coworker weeks ago finally breathed its last under the weight of it. I tossed the crumpled mess of aluminium and nylon into the gutter, and turned up my drenched collar as if that would make any difference. I could've just gone back to the office: it's not like I haven't slept there before. But something stubborn in me kept holding out my hand to the street, waiting and waiting until I would've gone in any car that so much as slowed down near me. The yellow streetlights always flickered when there was a downpour like this, and it made my shadow jump out and retreat back against the pavement. Something I'd never do. Once I have my sights on something, I cross the word "retreat" out of my dictionary.

And then the car came. Cadillac, I thought. Not the taxi I was after, but sure as hell the ride I was looking for.

"Detective Cohen, the weather's quite poor today. I must insist on giving you a lift."

"How considerate: I'm of the mind that you should let street dogs drown, but I'm not complaining."

"Even dogs wouldn't be out in this. Get in."

"Woof-woof."

I climbed in the car, all urgency and no grace, and shamelessly let myself soak the seats as I shook the water out of my hair, playing the part of the pup. "Business must be slow these days, is the minister still giving you a hard time?" I asked. He turned from the passenger seat to look back at me with a raised eyebrow. "Just figured things must be tight if you're having to pick up shifts as a cabbie."

"Well, my meter runs faster than your mouth: I'll make the money back with one job. Where to?"

"Your place?"

"I don't have pets on the estate, I'm afraid. Stop barking and I'll consider it."

I shrugged into a laugh. "Meow?"

He turned away from me and gave his driver a simple wave of the hand, telling him to go. The rearview mirror didn't show his lips, but I saw a smile in those eyes.

I'd been at his heels for months, a dog indeed, though we'd never spoken much before this. The waters were tested: hell, I'd just been soaked in them. Now I just had to figure out how to push further.

I kept my face neutral, but the fact that he actually took me back to his place was enough to get my hackles rising. I staked this place out enough, to no effect. And bribed enough of his guards, to the effect of my empty wallet. But I never set foot in it. I already knew pretty well how many people that went in there were found with cement shoes later on. Never anything actually connecting the incidents, of course, but just enough to catch my interest. Enough to be feeling a cold sweat mix with the rain down my back when I got out of the car. At least my face is already so wet that he wouldn't notice if I started to cry, I thought pleasantly.

"You're dripping everywhere," he complained, handing his overcoat to a subordinate who waited, bent at the waist, for the order to come. "Bring detective Cohen a towel."

"You're gonna wrap me in a towel?"

"What else would I wrap you in?" His eyes were daring.

"A rug." My eyes were about the only daring part of me left, so I had to match him with them.

He laughed then. God, what a laugh. "You read too many horror stories. Why waste the rug?"

"I'm not worth a rug?"

"You were hardly worth the drive."

My turn to laugh. Just being polite. I had a gun in my belt and a knife in my boot, but he had everyone in the damned building. I didn't have enough security to play nice, so I thought about playing nasty. "My feet are too big for cement shoes: they'd never fit. But the ones we found on Eric Longwood were so nice I was almost jealous. Wasn't he your business partner? Heard your sister was gonna marry the bastard next spring. What, not worth the dowry?"

"Eric was a good man," he said flatly. I started to notice how all the people milling around the place had vanished, leaving us alone. If it was one-on-one, I fancied my chances, but I'd still have to get out of the place afterwards. "I thought detectives were supposed to investigate these things, but this is the first I'm hearing about it. From the official channels, at least." He waved a hand towards me. "It's not even been in the news yet. How nice of you to tell me personally."

"You're admitting you already knew," I pointed out.

"It wouldn't have been a good threat if I didn't know about it."

I blinked at him, outwardly dumbfounded but inwardly letting my gears turn.

"Richardson?" was all I asked.

"If I knew you could think that far ahead on your own, I wouldn't have invited you over." He sighed, and waved a hand again, this time summoning back the lackey with a towel for me. "Let's talk over tea: I wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

We talked through most of the night, and I got the jist of it. If I hadn't already spent all my waking moments and most of my sleeping ones trying to decipher this man then I would have been led in circles just listening to him, but as it was I was decent enough at mind games myself. He was very good at keeping secrets, and he wasn't going to happily show his hand to me even though he was asking for a favour. What's more, for every secret I learned, I found ten more under it. His was an empire built on blood, and it kept raking in the money. Sure enough, I wasn't the only lowlife in the city trying to take him down, but I was the one he turned to for help that day. For all he could offer me, I'd have done it for free. But I wasn't about to tell him that.

"I'm just a dog, right? Throw me a bone and I'll chew on it."

"No need to chew Richardson," he cautioned.

"Not in my business to let other guys take my quarry. If you're putting me on him then he's mine."

I watched him spin his glass. We'd gone from tea to wine to scotch in the time we talked, and cigar smoke mingled with the alcohol in the air.

"You must leave a string of jilted lovers behind you on every case."

"I don't mean to boast." I drained the last of my scotch. "But what's that got to do with this?"

"You've had your eyes on me for months, but just the hint of another man and you're leaving me behind."

"You couldn't pay me to leave you alone, even after Richardson. Don't get too lonely: some of the boys from the brass will keep watching you."

"But they aren't as easy on the eyes."

"Well, they're all married, they let themselves go. I see your wife isn't around tonight."

"Oh, was I married?"

"Last I heard."

"Louise is in France."

I could've asked why, but I already knew. As if there was anything I didn't know about him. Still, if he wouldn't show his hand then I was gonna keep mine just as close to the vest. "So the cat's away? Is that why we're getting to play tonight?"

"I thought you were the cat." He gave me a meaningful glance. "We can play whenever you want, detective, what's my wife got to do with it?"

"Wow, my jilted lovers must have nothing on yours."

"We can compare numbers if you'd like."

"Don't tease me too much, mister Gillingham, or I'll get jealous."

"Why so formal? Call me Bruce."

"Fine. Bruce it is."

Richardson was a more or less upstanding citizen, squeaky clean by all accounts. No one was looking into him before this, and no one would help me with it now. He wasn't like Gillingham, who stood out so much he glowed, and had crime and law alike looking at him. Nah, Richardson wasn't anything like that, which was why he could pull off even worse shit than we were accusing Gillingham of. The only reason I guessed it was him who was threatening my man was because they were competitors for oil rights a while back, and Richardson was the only one rich enough to look at Gillingham without bowing his head.

The more I dug into Richardson, the more I learned about Gillingham, and that was all the motivation I needed. It was just a matter of de-clawing the tiger before slaying the dragon, or so I thought.

No one on my side knew what I was looking into, so I'd discuss findings and theories with Bruce. Yeah, always “Bruce” when we met after that night. I don't remember when I stopped being “detective” and started being “Paul” but he sure was smooth about the transition. Getting all this face time with the guy I’d been obsessing over was just kindling to the flames, and damn if I didn't blaze when it came to Bruce.

I was staking out one of Richardson’s boats by the dock when it all went south. The waters were so turbulent that night, I should've known I was in for it. Afterall, I knew better than anyone how the people close enough to Bruce to enter the estate all got those cement shoes, and here I was as the guy who knew him best just offering myself up to the chopping board. Richardson’s goons got me. I was trussed up and half-pummeled before I even knew what hit me, but they made one fatal mistake: forgetting to shut my mouth.

“Detective, I’m sure I don't know what this is about,” Richardson said.

“Check tomorrow's paper and you’ll hear all about it,” I bluffed. “I sent over my findings a few hours ago. Backup’s on the way for me.”

“If that were true, why would you come alone in the first place?”

“I live close by.”

“Bruce’s estate is on the other side of the city: I’d hardly call that close.”

“Since when do we live together?”

“Oh? You spend enough time with him I was sure he would put you up. Better than the flat on the high street that you scrape by for rent each month.”

I grinned at him, not letting any panic show, but I couldn't bullshit him forever.

“Oh, Paul, you could’ve told me if you were struggling,” an overly familiar voice floated over, and the way it calmed me is something I’ll take to the grave. “Move in anytime: I’d be a very fair landlord.”

“I couldn't afford you,” I found myself saying, barely registering the bullets flying over my head.

The bodies were down, the moonlight making the blood look black against the ground. Now there was just me, on my knees, and Bruce, on his feet. Ain't that typical.

“I don't need your money,” he was saying, speaking to me like he always did, as if we weren't surrounded by corpses.

“Want me to pay with my body, then?”

“You’ve practically paid for yourself tonight.”

“Finally worth a rug?”

“For you? The whole carpet.”

I hung my head and let a sigh escape into the wind. Rather than a barrel and a bullet on my brow, I got his hand instead. Petting me like the dog I was.

“‘Hero detective bravely uncovers Richardson’s dirty dealings and takes down captors’.”

“You come up with that yourself?” I asked, not raising my head yet because there wasn't any rain that night to hide my tears.

“I’ve got someone drafting the article as we speak. The boys used a service revolver, so the bullets should match yours just fine.” He crouched down then, and made me face him. “I said “practically” paid for yourself: I’m not done with you yet. Get that body of yours moving already, I think I deserve a tip for tonight's expenses.”

I knew him. God, how I knew him. But he could still surprise me. My turn to surprise him, then.

He was already so close, it only took me moving an inch and I’d finally capture him. Capture my real aim, for who knows how long: those lips.

In a small university town, where autumn leaves rustled underfoot and old brick buildings held the scents of books and coffee, two women lived whose paths crossed through their shared love of words. Anna was an English teacher at the local school—young, with sparkling eyes and a gentle smile that appeared when she explained Shakespeare to her students. Elena, on the other hand, was a professor of English literature at the university—reserved, with a sharp mind and a habit of tapping her pencil thoughtfully on the desk while dissecting the nuances of Jane Austen.

They met by chance at a literary evening in a cozy library. Anna was reading a passage from Wuthering Heights, her voice trembling with emotion, and Elena, seated in the front row, couldn’t take her eyes off her. Afterward, they struck up a conversation—first about Brontë, then about poetry, and eventually about how the library’s coffee always had a slight bitterness that, for some reason, didn’t bother them. Between them, something warm and intangible sparked, like the opening lines of a good book.

Days turned into weeks, and their meetings became a ritual. Anna would visit the university campus with a basket of homemade pies, and Elena would invite her into her office, where stacks of books towered to the ceiling. They talked about everything—from grammar to feelings that defy description. Anna taught Elena to relax and laugh at herself, while Elena introduced Anna to the world of academic depth, where every sentence was a work of art.

One rainy evening, as rain pattered against the windows, they sat in Anna’s small apartment. An open volume of Emily Dickinson’s poetry lay on the table, and the air carried the scent of cinnamon tea. Elena took Anna’s hand in hers and said softly, “You’re my most unexpected plot twist.” Anna laughed, but her eyes glistened with tears. “And you’re my favorite chapter,” she replied, “one I want to reread again and again.”

Their love grew like a river—calm but deep. They supported each other: Anna helped Elena prepare her lectures, and Elena attended Anna’s school plays, quietly clapping from the back row. Sometimes they argued—about whose interpretation of Hamlet was correct—but even in those debates, there was tenderness, as if each wanted the other to shine brighter.

A year passed, and one spring day, when blooming trees scattered petals across the streets, Elena proposed to Anna. Not with a ring, but with a book—an old edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray, on the first page of which she had written, “Will you be my eternal prologue?” Laughing and crying at once, Anna said “yes.”

They didn’t chase grand gestures. Their happiness lay in the little things: grading students’ essays together, walking through the park with a poetry book in hand, Elena adjusting Anna’s glasses when she fell asleep while reading. Their love was quiet but strong, like words that linger in the heart forever.

And though the town went on with its ordinary life, for Anna and Elena, it became an entire universe, where every page of their story was written with love.

Victoria Lunar. 2025.

Plip!

Millenium of ear piercing war cries and the prayers of the desperate, yet precipitation is what greeted me back into the world.

Color bounced from the jagged walls of the cave in which I kept myself entombed, a self made prison. The vibrant deep green flora and bright flowers awaited my gaze, like actors awaiting a show.

Or, that’s how I imagined it.

Instead, I was welcomed with darkness, my eyes long gone to the curse of a cruel being.

The pristine form I took pride in was reduced to a forgotten statue, cold and heavy. The old air wrapped around my lungs, filled with an uncomfortable humidity that caused my garments to clamp to my skin, and the aged scent of packed earth.

The air constricted around me, the bandages of my tomb that kept me in this cask. With the waters still, my thoughts became deafening in their loudness.

The rock on which I stood was surrounded by clear waters, lily pads scarcely scattered across the surface of the liquid, and was a solid stump in the large lake, smoothed by time. Silence stretched over the stone walls, a small sigh brushing my lips.

The expensive fabric draped down my forearms, cold and damp to the touch of reality. The space dripped with humidity, an earthy smell sticking to the walls, and the air old with time.

I had no sense of time, no purpose to propel my forward. Forced to lay dormant in an enclosure as the world flourished without me.

My story was tossed to the books, a life once sharp with adventure and conquest, was now a monochromatic and static existence. I wished for excitement, to reignite the spark that kept me moving previously— the thrill of the unknown.

They say curiosity killed the cat. I never died.

I am instead stuck; rewatching the film of the universe as it burns into my mind like an unending fire. Which is not only worse in comparison, but forces my hand to actively take part in reality, a reality who was a lover to me, and destiny my paramour.

But I have no need for such earthly desires, because if knowledge was power,

I was divine.

Yet I felt more godlike when I had a specter that casted doom upon my enemies, a gaze that made the most mighty tremble, and a cult of admirers. I derailed my heroic, linear destruction story of failure— taking in all the universe had to offer for an eternity of suffering.

At first, the proposal was enticing. Over time, I learned my one perk was the chance to live— rather than die as a coward. Yet forgotten and forsaken, I was a distasteful beast to historians, not that their ignorance chipped my image.

Not a long rest— but a time to regroup, as retaining eternal life was one easy feat. Though, even my slumber was haunted by thoughts— thoughts that were not even human, but pure bred information.

The only comfort I took from slumber was an expectation for a minor existence. But it was now cut short, revived by a

raindrop…

Remaining underground seemed my only option after the disorienting experience. A hollowing yell cut through my thoughts. I was breathless despite the internal struggle, the dusted air aging my lungs as anger burned.

Why? A raindrop awoke me of all things. Something so… insignificant?

Outrageous.

Did I mean so little to the universe that I could be awoken by something so simple?

A kingdom in my name was pitched across the valleys. I conquered land and sea, like wild animals in need of trainers. My armies were vast and ever expanding while I sat upon a throne: a throne carved from the most precious stone.

I was subjected to an unprecedented evil— a torture that forced me to memorize each millisecond in the expanse of time, and now I was being discarded? Bullshit.

The longer I stood idle, the more I wished to rip apart the being that cursed me to such a fate. Redemption and revenge crawled through my veins.

I was forgotten and discarded, the universe was jeering with reality and destiny, a trio that despised my being, finding entertainment to my expense.

How dare they.

A sharp exhale sliced the silence, a once well oiled machine rusted to a porcelain doll. My limbs were strung to my torso, weak without use.

Yet anger coiled within my stomach.

My body moved with little but the purpose of destruction. Whether that be of civilization or the universe, I did not know yet.

I would crawl my way back to the surface if I must, Zaphira would be carved into the bones of the earth, a testament to my survival, to my greatness.

I refuse to be discarded.

I will make the universe remember, reality fear me, and destiny plead to me once more.

Sore and tired, my muscles strained to prop up my wings. The large black feathers were slow to spread, the stolen flesh was mounted to my body, melted into my nerves, and made my own.

Time passed as water did a river, it was unclear to me how long my struggle lasted. My back twitching with sweat dripping to my brows. The air was sliced, mixed and renewed as black feathers danced in the water, my body lifting from its static state.

My breathing had grown labored, thoughts white noise as I struggled to steady myself, my back spasming. Pathetic.

This was a mere moment of weakness, none were to follow from now till… death. And upon the fateful day my soul transcends this Earth, the heavens will bellow under my might.

I refused to be forgotten once more— not till I died.

title: echo chamber

genre: psychological horror, fiction,

word count: 959

After my husband died, he appeared in a dream. He seemed healthy and relaxed, his long white hair glowing, and he sat on our couch in the living room.

I sat down next to John. "You're here! You're really here. And I can touch you." I hugged him for an eternity, wanting his touch to last forever on my skin.

We released each other, and he took my hands into his and looked into my eyes. "I have been here all along."

This is wonderful, I thought. Now, we can really communicate with each other whenever I wish, the veil of death no longer an issue.

When I was just about to form the words to work out a communication plan with my husband in spirit so I could speak with him whenever I wished, the movement of my mouth woke me up. I had no idea I was sleeping, but the warmth of my husband's touch remained, as fresh as when he was alive.

My children and I trudged on without him. Grandchildren, decades of birthdays and holidays all passed in what seemed like a moment, creating many years of happy memories while John stood by our side, felt by us but not seen and occasionally heard.

After a lifetime, I woke up and saw my husband again. He looked even better this time, like he did when we first met, his dark hair on the long side, his eyes electric blue and no longer clouded with pain as they were in life. I looked down at my hands. They were unlined and young. I felt my face, and the skin was smooth.

He smiled at me with a perfect row of teeth. "You're here."

Instead of his touch, a feeling of peace enveloped my body, a wholeness and completeness. My miniscule life, although long by earth standards, paled in comparison to eternity—a flash in the pan, like a dream, and no less real than spending the rest of time with my best friend.