It is an ongoing joke between my husband and son that I am probably in the CIA, living undercover in the suburbs of New Jersey with my Russian immigrant husband and son as cover. I’ve never understood what they imagine my assignment to be; nor what about me encourages their thinking. I am an African-American educator with a PhD in Hispanic literature. I am a devoted wife. An adoring mother. Indeed, it is so unlikely as to be far-fetched albeit quite amusing.

Until it wasn’t. I mean, if I tell you, I have to kill you is not merely a line of fiction.

It’s my life.

And so, the day they made the joke in front of my husband’s worthless half brother, Aleksandr, (“former” KGB, ha, unbeknownst to his family), and his gaze sharpened on me, and I knew he knew that I knew that he knew. And he had to die.

And it had to be quick, fatal and undetectable.

My specialty.

“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, getting up from the dining room table. The cookies should be done.”

“Chocolate chip?” my son asked. I nodded. “I hope you made at least three dozen. I could eat them all. Although Anna’s cookies are great, too,” he added about his girlfriend of the moment.

“I can always bake more, sweetheart,” I replied over my shoulder as I went to the kitchen.

After removing the cookie sheets from the oven, I placed several cookies on three dessert plates: one for my husband, one for my son, and one for Aleksandr. Grabbing a small brown jar from the back of the spice cabinet, I added a drop of the contents to the top cookie on Aleksandr’s plate. I replaced the jar before I picked up the plates and re-entered the dining room.

“Here you go guys! Let me know if you want more” I said, placing an identical plate in front of each of them. “Milk?”

Mouths full, I got a nod of yes from my son, no from Aleksandr and my husband. I could feel Aleksandr’s eyes following me as I left the room.

Back in the kitchen, I took a glass from the cabinet and milk from the refrigerator. As I poured, I heard a chair scrape the wood floor and fall in the dining room.

“What are you three doing now?”

“It’s Aleksandr!” my husband said. “Something’s wrong!”

I ran in the room. Aleksandr was on the floor, clutching his chest. He looked at me in pain and bewilderment. “Oh my God,” I screamed, kneeling next to my husband. “Call 911!” I said to my son.

The EMTs arrived within five minutes.

He was dead within three.

The medical examiner’s report ruled it a heart attack.

My secret is safe.

What people don’t talk about when it comes to the market crash is the ripple effect of it all. Yes, people lost their jobs, and there was a certain horror in that, but there was also a horror in how those men and women processed the loss of their life’s work. Many drank, some skipped town, leaving their families behind, and some took it out on their families.

I lived in a small working-class suburb, and Danny lived a block away from me on Dover Street, and Brooke also lived on Dover, just further down towards the mountains. There was a small park in between all our houses where we met up most evenings when the wind wasn’t too cold, or we weren’t locked in our rooms playing catch up on homework we should have started months ago.

The park was built by the town right before the crash, with hopes of the vacant lot behind it being turned into a school, because the elementary school up on Normandy Avenue was in a serious state of disrepair.

The park got built in a hurry around election time, the only time anything really happens, and then all the money went to abroad to places where factory workers didn’t complain as much about little things like benefits, pension plans, raises, and labor laws. So, now we were left with the shadow of a town filled with disillusionment at the great lie that our parents’ generation were sold.

I was lucky, in a sense. My father was able to switch over to a management job for the railroad, which was a non unionized position. He knew the storm was coming and could switch over before many of the conductor jobs got axed along with the closures of our three major industries, which all fell like dominos within six months of each other.

But the railroad hung on by the skin of its teeth, because of the smaller industries all along the coast heading west. It wasn’t much, but he remained employed, though that didn’t always make me Mr. Popular at my high school. Danny’s father survived too. He was a cleaner who had a contract with the Walmarts in Atlantic Canada. He was on the road nonstop, but Danny, his mother and sister kept a roof over their head because of it. That was what mattered the most.

Brooke’s father, however, did lose his job. We didn’t know the severity of it until she started coming to the park with different afflictions. One evening, it would be a cut just above her left eyebrow. A week later a shiner with every color of the rainbow swirling like a vortex, and then a few days after that a swollen lip, cracked and busted.

“What’s going on, Brooke?” I finally said one evening.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She answered, walking towards the small yellow slide where she laid at the bottom and stared up at the night sky.

I looked over at Danny, who shrugged his shoulders, and we followed her. I laid on the slide next to her, and Danny dug in the sand under the playground and grabbed three bottles of warm beer that he buried for evenings like these. We opened them up and drank warm piss, making faces like we were shooting hard liquor, and then I asked again.

“Seriously, Brooke. What’s going on?” She was silent for a moment.

“You ever wonder what you’re gonna do after high school?” She asked, then continued before Danny or I had the chance to answer. “I know that we won’t see each other anymore. I know that.”

“Brooke, that’s not tr–,” I tried to say, but she cut me off.

“My mom was going through photo albums the other night. She was a teenager here in the late 70s. There were pictures of her and she was beautiful, so full of life. She had that Charlie’s Angel’s hair, and she was so happy. Every picture she was smiling like her face couldn’t stretch anymore. Every. Single. Picture. I asked why I’d never met her friends from back in the day, and she said, that’s life, sweetie. People drift apart. People lead different lives. And she started to cry. One of them died of cancer a few years ago, and the other’s were on the other side of the country living in a goddamn glass cathedral on hills overlooking a mining town. And she was here.”

Danny and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do with our bodies. He peeled the label off of his beer, always trying to extract it in one go, and I stared at the small dark freckle just below her left cheekbone and kept my eyes locked there, not knowing where else to point them. I got lost in that freckle, and for a moment I loved Brooke, and I wanted to tell her I loved her, and that I’d keep her safe, and I’d make sure that we never drifted apart, but I couldn’t because of the pact. When Brooke first started hanging around Danny and me, she said we had to make her a promise, and we said sure, what was it? And she told us we couldn’t fall in love with her, no matter what. Danny and I had looked at each other and laughed, but she was serious, not a hint of humor in those auburn eyes, and we agreed. We spit in our hands and shook them. No one was allowed to fall in love, as though that were something within our control.

“My father isn’t handling things well.” She said in a voice just above a whisper. Almost like she was hoping we didn’t hear, but that she could still say she told us. Or at least she told the wind.

“Your dad’s doing this?” Danny asked, the half peeled label in his hand. “Jesus, Brooke. We gotta go to the police or something.”

“No, Danny. You’re not gonna do anything, you got it?” She said, sitting up from the slide and pointing a finger right between Danny’s eyes. Danny was timid and small, always a target for small town cruelty.

“You got that too, Jamie?” She turned to me, and I nodded.

“No cops, gotcha. But what are you gonna do?”

She relaxed and laid back on the slide.

“I turn 18 in six months. I’ll have to go somewhere. Anywhere. Find a place, and grow up.” She sipped her beer. Then I followed, then Danny. It was terrible, but still to this day, anytime I drink a beer, I travel back to the park, the cold sand slipping through my fingers. The frigid evening air was cold, often too cold, but feeling like being a cool teenager meant always wearing less clothing than was needed. Danny’s laugh, the way his front teeth came out, and he looked like a rabbit. Then if you got him laughing hard enough, and loud enough, he’d snort like a pig and the three of us would erupt in laughter. The kind of laughter that you thought would never end on those days when your mind didn’t care about reality because you had friends, good friends, to take you away from it. Just like best friends should do.

But we didn’t do enough for Brooke. We didn’t do enough because we respected her wishes too much, or because we were scared, most likely a healthy mixture of the two. Because the cuts and bruises got worse, and the laughter became a rarity and even when it reared its head, it wasn’t filled with life, nor escape, it was just a short cackle, that signified, hey that was funny, in better times, I would have given you more. But this is all I’ve got left.

Danny and I didn’t talk about it, because talking about it would turn into finding a solution, and the only solution was the cops, exactly what Brooke didn’t want. So we remained silent, talking about sports and superheroes, and pretending we gave a shit about anything other than what was happening to our best friend, and the helplessness we felt.

——————————————————————————-

When she died, I was asked to do the eulogy. This is the note that she left:

When you bury me, I want Jamie to do the eulogy. Jamie with his soft brown hair, and his worried eyes that always made me chuckle, but also a little bit sad. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I think that I didn’t let him talk enough. I didn’t let him talk enough because I was frightened of the truth that would come out of his lips. He’s wiser than his years. Oh, and one more thing, Jamie, I wish we would have never had that stupid pact. But it never changed the way that I felt.

So, I stood up at the altar of the Holy Cross and stared out at scattered people occupying less than half of the pews and talked about Brooke. As I looked down at her father in the front row, I realized something definite. I was going to kill him. At the altar of a church in front of a statue of the crucifixion, I decided I was going to kill a man.

That evening I sat at home, slouched on the couch, my father on his chair beside me, nursing a beer. For the first time, I felt like my old man had nothing to say. He always knew the right words to keep you going, but this time he didn’t. I could feel his eyes in my peripheral, constantly moving back and forth from the TV to the side of my head.

“I’m gonna go to the park with Danny for a bit.” I said, and my father said, “Sure, kid.”

When I got there, I laid on the slide. The one to the right, because by laying on the side that Brooke did, was admitting to myself that she wasn’t coming back. And that was something I wasn’t ready to process.

There were no stars that evening, just clouds that looked ominous in the dark sky. Like the sky understood how I was feeling, like it understood that people didn’t want sunshine and starlight every day, that some days you wanted to know that the universe could be ugly too. Like it was reminding you that you weren’t alone. We all had cloudy days.

Danny showed up a few minutes later, and he sat in the sand where he normally did. It was one of the reasons I loved Danny, because he understood the world the way I did. We saw things the same way.

“Shitty day,” Danny said.

“Yup.”

“Can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“Me neither.”

“What are you thinking about, Jame?”

Another thing I loved about Danny was that he cared what was on your mind. He wanted to have a conversation the right way. So many people spoke only to wait for their chance to speak again. That wasn’t the same as listening, that wasn’t the same as inquiring. But on that evening, I was scared to tell him what was on my mind. We thought alike, but maybe this was me descending deep into the throes of madness.

“Something’s on your mind, man. Unburden thyself.” And he smiled. I did too.

I sat up and looked at him with as much seriousness as I could muster. “Look, Danny. You might think I’m crazy, alright?”

“Too late for that.”

“I’m serious, man.”

“Okay, okay!” He put his hands up.

“I want to kill Brooke’s dad.”

The words came out of my mouth, and it felt like the entire world shut down. Everything seemed so quiet in the moments following the words, because they were out there now, and there was no way to bring them back. No way to say that it was all a joke.

“What?” Danny asked. “You’re not serious?”

I could feel the tears coming now. I closed my eyes as my mind played snapshots of every memory I had with Brooke. It was the three of us watching movies in my old man’s man cave, laughing our heads off and spilling popcorn onto the carpet. We were sneaking out of our houses and walking along the abandoned rail line that was growing its own ecosystem behind the old high school. We were sitting right where Danny and I were sitting, drinking beer that we’d stolen from Danny’s dingy basement, and trying to act like grownups. She was alive, and we were talking about getting out.

When I opened my eyes, Danny had tears coming down his too.

“He took her from us, man. He beat her until she had nothing left to live for. He did that. He killed her. He doesn’t deserve to live. HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO LIVE!” I screamed.

Then it was quiet again, and Danny looked down at his hands buried in the sand and said,

“How are we going to do this?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

And we both laughed. Bent over laughing, unable to keep it in, and as my eyes closed, I could almost hear Brooke laughing with us.

We’re doing this for you, Brooke. I love you.

——————————————————————————————

That evening I laid in bed tossing and turning, and wondering how exactly we could kill a man. A few questions continued to echo inside my head.

Could I do it?

Could I get away with it?

And could I come up with a plan?

I thought I could do it. There was enough hatred flowing through my veins. It was just how to do it and how to get away with it. Did Dylan and I just knock on the door and when he answered, just pop him in the head?

Dylan’s old man did have a collection of Ruger’s. We could probably get our hands on a gun, but how did we dispose of the body?

But then I thought about talking to Dylan about the school they were supposed to build before everything went to shit, and how it was just a deep, dark pit. You probably could put a body down there. Plus, Danny also had access to his mom’s car. She was off on disability and the little grey Toyota usually just sat in the driveway begging to be driven.

Then there was the question of Brooke’s mother. She was as much of a mess as the old man. She wallowed in her alcohol, and in another life, she’d likely deserve what the old man was going to get. Her sin was the one of pretending things weren’t happening, but then again, if I were going to kill her for that, the next bullet would need to go under my chin.

But Brooke said that her mother went to the Legion for Bingo on Wednesday nights. She always said that because Wednesday nights we stayed at the park longer, because she didn’t want to be alone with her father. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, or talked to her when it was just the two of them.

Then my heart started racing because I thought I had formulated at least a semblance of a plan. Wednesday night, we’d get Danny’s mom’s car, put some kind of tarp in the trunk, and we’d knock on the door. Boom. Point blank, we’d shoot him once in the head. Grab the body and take it to the park, where we’d bury it in the hole. 

Of course, the plan wasn’t foolproof. There were neighbors who might see what’s going on. There’s the chance he might not answer. There was also a chance that Brooke’s mom skipped Bingo that evening, and hell, there was the strongest chance of all that we just didn’t have the balls to go through with it.

But if all went right, there was also the chance of everything going as planned, and nobody finding out a thing.

Yes, Danny and I would have to live with it for the rest of our lives, but if he stayed alive, we’d have to live with that, too. And which was worse?

The following evening, I told Danny the plan and his face went pale.

“Put the body in my mom’s car?” He asked.

“We’ll make sure there’s no trace of anything. No way they could trace it back to you or your mom. We’ll cover it up and put his body on it, and then we’ll dump him.”

“You really want to go through with this, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because at night when I get scared of doing this and start trying to talk some sense into myself, I feel worse. I feel like letting him live is worse than killing him. Walking these streets every day knowing that there are monsters like that who are allowed to wake up and just go about their days. It makes me feel worse.”

“So, you want one of my old man’s guns, and my mother’s car, but you’re going to pull the trigger?”

“I’ll pull the trigger.”

“And not one soul finds out about this as long as we live?”

“Not a soul.”

We both paused, and then finally Danny said.

“Then let’s do it.”

I smiled.

“I love you, man. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “Best accomplice to fucking murder you’ve ever had.”

——————————————————————————————

On Wednesday night, I waited at the park for Danny to show up with the car. I still had Brooke’s suicide note that told me she loved me. And if I ever lost it, I think I’d go mad.

Danny was a few minutes later, and I started to feel like it would never happen. That I should just forget it. That I was just a stupid kid.

But then I heard tires rolling down the gravel and knew it was Danny. I hopped the side of the fence to grab a green tarp that had been lying around since the contracting company pulled out, and I ran back towards the car.

“Pop the trunk.” I said.

I placed the tarp in the back and went around to the passenger’s side.

Dylan looked pale as he handed me a loaded Ruger with hands that shook. He looked like he was about to cry, and I tapped his shoulder. “Within an hour, it’ll all be over.”

We backed out slowly and drove west down Dover until we came up to Brooke’s house. It was a small one story with chipped yellow paint and shingles that direly needed repair. I told Dylan to back in, so that we would have less distance to carry the body, and at the word body, Dylan threw up on himself. Only a little, and it didn’t get in the car. But it was enough to tell me we had to do this fast.

He backed the Toyota up with expert precision, and I felt like we could get away with it. There were neighbors but not stuck together, and in front of their house was a crescent with no houses for at least 500 feet.

It wasn’t exactly the boonies, but there was a chance no one would notice anything. Of course, there was the sound of the gun, but we’d have to get the body in the trunk and leave before anyone even realized what had just happened.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with a sad smile.

The gun was loaded and ready. We walked up the three concrete steps and I knocked on the door. Christ, I hoped Brooke’s mom was at Bingo. There was no answer for a moment, so we knocked again, Danny scanning the area to make sure that no one was looking. Though it was hard to tell.

After the third set of knocks, I heard a grumpy hoarse voice call out.

“One goddamn second.”

And I waited with the gun pointed at the door. As soon as he answered, I shot. I didn’t allow myself enough time to think, and I didn’t allow him enough time to grab the gun and turn it around on me.

He dropped quickly.

“Oh my God,” Danny said from behind me.

I turned to him. His face was white, and I’m sure mine was as well. “Let’s grab him. Grab his feet, okay?”

Danny nodded, and we struggled with the body. He was a big man, at least 250 lbs. And now it was 250 lbs of dead weight.

I grabbed him from under his armpits, and Danny grabbed his legs, scooting his hands up close to his knees. And we did a three count before throwing him in the trunk.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I said, and we scanned the area again. A couple of lights went on, but no one had exited their homes. “Don’t peel out, Danny. Just back it out slowly.”

He listened, and we took off east down Dover Street, driving even under the speed limit. Then we got to the park, drove slowly down the gravel, and backed the car up close to the hole.

“You did great, Danny.” I said. “Other than the puking.”

He didn’t laugh, but he seemed to be over the worst of it.

We pulled the body out of the trunk and just let it drop four feet into the dirt. Danny had a small flashlight, and he flashed it inside the trunk to make sure that the body touched nothing, or that no blood splattered, making his own mother an unknowing suspect in a goddamn homicide.

I jumped in the hole, and began burying the body as deep as I could, so that even if in time somebody came back to do the job, they’d just pour the concrete over this spot and hopefully no trace of this man would ever be found.

I came back up, and Danny was leaning against the trunk of the car. “I think we’re good.” He said.

“I think so too.”

We stood there for a long time, and then I said, “want to go to the park?”

He nodded, and we sat in our spots. I grabbed three beers, handed one to Danny, who instantly began peeling off the label. I put one on the slide next to me for Brooke, and then I drank one myself.

Danny and I didn’t talk much that evening. We just said, “To Brooke,” as we raised our glasses. And we both hoped that the horror of what we’d done remained a secret.

There are lots of words for it; egocentrism, arrogance, narcissism, conceit, vainglory, etc., but in this instance we’ll call it “smugness”. Our boy is looking and feeling “smug” … a wee bit repentant, of course, but mostly smug.

Because, yet again, he had been right! Mind you it is not easy being right, not with any consistency. Being right requires not only a mind guided by good old-fashioned common sense, but also a requisite, updated knowledge of the sciences, histories, philosophies and literatures. One must put in the work to be consistently right. A blow-hard cannot pull it off, though he will try. And Constantine Goolsby had been right once again! Ha, ha! And the look on her face when his rightness was proved to her had been golden, and had made it well worth the long, wintry ride Constantine had had to suffer just to show her that he was, indeed and again, right. Ha! Constantine’s chuckle was startling enough in the quiet stillness of the snowy afternoon to jerk his exhausted horse’s head up, and to cock its sagging ears his way.

Yes. “Smug” is the word.

And the December afternoon was quiet; so very, deathly quiet. Quiet as midnight, as if the whole world was asleep, or as if Constantine himself was asleep. It was the sort of snowfall where one could tip his head back, open his mouth wide, and catch flake after flake upon the tip of his tongue without hardly trying, so Constantine childishly did just that. The flakes were coming straight down and large, accumulating deep enough on the ground now to muffle the horse’s heavy hooves. Not even his saddle creaked to break the quiet. The snow muffled it all. Everything. It was as though he was lost in a snow globe with bits of frozen matter falling, falling, falling all around, and a glass dome to insulate him from the outside world.

It was also creepy, the silence, leaving him alone to think. Sometimes being smart was not so good. Being always right had its consequences, didn’t it? Sometimes Constantine wished he could escape himself, and this was one of those times.

She had been surprised! The wonder of his appearance had been apparent on her face; in her eyes. His heart had leapt at it… at her astonishment. And the way her astonishment had morphed into fear when he’d drawn his pistol, morphing so easily and readily that the expressions had almost been the same, and could easily have been confused for one another by someone who was not so sure of himself as Constantine. And “his” eyes had changed to… that guy’s.

“God,” Constantine thought as he rocked easy in the saddle, “what in Heaven’s name had the two of them been doing when he’d barged in with his, “Ha!” What exactly was that position they were in? Constantine had never seen anything like it, nor even imagined it! His neck grew warm at the thought of it. And his Laura Lee, too! Who would have thought?

Maybe he was not “always” right, after all. Maybe he’d been wrong this time… what he’d done back there. In any event there would be no one awaiting him at the cabin when he got there; no one to talk to. No one to admire his competence. No one to cook his dinner. The cabin would be as quiet as this snow globe he was in, and as lonely too. Maybe he should have been wrong this time. Maybe if he’d been wrong then his Laura Lee would could home. Maybe she would. Maybe.

Removing his glove from the one hand, Constantine pulled the pistol from its holster. The click of the cylinder opening was loud in the silence that was the snow globe. He shucked some shells one at a time from his belt and filled the empty chambers. He held the pistol for a long while, resting it in his lap, liking the way the butt of it felt in his hand, the ergonomics of it, and remembering how it had so violently bucked back yonder.

Without replacing his glove Constantine lifted the pistol’s barrel up to his temple, only somewhat sure that he was right.

Something I maybe should not have remembered. My... violent tendencies have not resurfaced again. It's funny how time makes things less significant. All the names and the faces mixing together into a bloody liver pâte; it's like it never even happened. The most recent memory came last night, when I knew it was going to happen again. He already dealt with it.

I was always afraid of knives. The things they can do to a human body if not handled with care disturbed me to my core, making me shudder at the thought of cutting myself or someone else. But that night I couldn't care less, as my hate for him was far stronger than my fear of any sharp objects.

I had years to fantasize about my revenge, weeks to think if I am really up to it and mere days to plan it. Still, despite such deadline, I managed to come up with a perfect plan. Everything I needed I bought with cash in many different places all around the city. I found out where he would be, where he would go, and I made a route of my own, intersecting with his at the most secluded area. His death was a long time coming, and I would not--could not waste this opportunity.

I waited for him around the corner, my black clothes helping me blend with the shadows. He was right where he was supposed to be, and just as he turned the corner I grabbed him by the shoulder and plunged the blade of my knife deep into his stomach. He tried to scream, but only a choked gasp left his mouth. He tried to fight and even managed to land a few punches, but nothing could stop me at that point. I pulled my knife out and stabbed him again, and again, and again. He fell down on the ground, moaning with pain and clutching his wounds. I moved closer, removed my mask and looked straight into his eyes. I couldn't tell if the terror on his face was from the realization that his life has ended, or from the realization who ended it. I didn't care, I just wanted him to know that it was me who killed him. I wanted him to know why he was lying on the ground with his guts out. I wanted him to know that his death was a consequence of his own actions.

I dropped the knife and put my boot on his stomach. I pressed, hard, and the scream he let out was euphoric. Blood gushed out of the wounds, spilling all over his body and drenching my boots. I asked him if he had any regrets. I asked him if he was sorry. He begged me for mercy. Funny, that. He never listened to me when I begged. I moved closer, put my boot on his head and stomped. I heard a sickening crunch... and then I stomped again.

Then again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again and--

I stopped only when I realized that I was hitting concrete. I stepped back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The night's air was crisp with a slight hint of metal. I counted to three, exhaled and opened my eyes. A mess of mashed bones and flesh was all that was left of his head. I never knew I had that sort of strength in me. What I did know was that I had to leave that alley as soon as possible. Yet, where was one last thing I had to do.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a rope and a red spray can. Usually people try to hide their wrongdoings, but I didn't do anything wrong. He did, he paid for it, and now his headless body would serve as a warning to others like him.

I am not afraid anymore. Not of him, not of others like him, and especially not of knives.

I got him. I finally got him. And now I have to make sure I don’t take the fall for cleaning up his mess. The number of people his horrible standards and instance on long hours put in the grave. The safety codes he ignored. All of it. Foreman, as he insisted upon us using the title instead of his name, was no more.

The foundry is dangerous enough, and casting bronze is a tricky business. Artists trust us with meticulously crafted molds, and his asinine disregard for the basics, like two men on every pour, and using the crane for the long ones put fatal flaws in statues and in all the miniature copies that came after them.

Sand casting and polishing versus lost wax method for the original, made work for more than a dozen craftspeople who brought the rough textured castings to the exacting standards the sculptors demanded. Details had to be attended to, and now I’ll attend to his funeral. Or should I say cremation? He wasn’t the first to trip and end up in the old fashioned melting pit.

He was about to disappear and become part of the floating scum we skim so carefully when we make alloys. No trace of a body. They might find prints from his shoes in front of the pit, and evidence of him tripping to his knees, because I’ll stage it that way. All I have to do is open the grate, and he’ll be gone.

The creaking groan of the grid sliding out from under him barely registered over the roar of flames and industrial fans. It was late, and he was the last one out as usual. His habits a rut not one of those who work here wanted to fall into. Rotating into different positions kept eyes fresh, but he said staying in the same position made it easier. Right, lazy ass. He just didn’t want to take the time to properly train anyone. Well, who’s laughing now?

My silicon soled steel-toed boots left no prints. The only thing I had to make sure of? Don’t brag. Ever. For James, Elliot and Cameron, I said a quiet prayer. Finally my co-workers will rest in peace.

Silent, surpassing stench of carcass

Rising from the garden, midst ever watchful weeds

Lingers lasciviously, baring the most foul deeds

Embracing the meticulous manifestation of madness' sway

Whilst manipulating Machiavellian, macabre, and mortal fray

In a calculation of decimation found in the depths of hell

Wrapped securely beneath a veil woven from evil's spell

Cynthia Calder, 09.28.24

she lied

took my heart

for a fucked-up ride

so...

i...

hit her with a bat

an' i pried out her eyes

hung her hide up high

for the sun to dry

threw her 32 teeth

at the moon in the sky

tossed her ice-cold bones

to the pigs in a sty

clappin' an' a-singin'

with my knees to my pits

all the rest i pitched

in a mountain of lye

yee-haw!

i'm really goin' now

oh yeah

now...

i'm...

layin' on her hide

by my new girl's side

n'by golly i hope

she don't ever lie

or do nothin' else

might make me mad

oh yeah

gimme a kiss there sweetie

oh yeah

right there

you know i like it right there

no

NOT THERE GOD DAMMIT

I hid the contraband deep in my closet for a later time, hoping my sister would believe her gecko had escaped and was high on free will(again) and not decaying in my closet with everything else I've hoped to forget about. Then I glided out her room and swiftly closed the bathroom door as my sister walked into her room to feed Romie.

Romie who she cared about more than anyone in my family. Romie who was dead. Romie who deserved his fate.

I heard her scream and I rolled my eyes as my mom rushed up stairs, desperate for her to be okay despite my sister being cruel to her just 10 minutes ago. I walk downstairs, grabbed my backpack, told my dad in the garden I was leaving, hoping one day she would learn to love us like she loved every Romie now federalizing my dads garden.

At least the yellow hyacinths and white chrysanthemums always looked extra vibrant.

Hello again, It's me.. I know it's been quite a long time since we last talked.. You left me in quite a dark lonely place didn't you now? I'm sure you have your questions and we will get to that after I lay everything out, you're going to be excited don't you see? It's simply wonderful. We finally have what we need! After so many years of pure agony scratching at the edges of our vision, clawing at our insides to come out pure.. to be one. After so long and so deep a desire to finally live as we were made to be. After all of these years I no longer need to hide myself, I can breathe better than I ever have. Every deep inhale of the sharp winter air fills my lungs with euphoria since I let her free. My heart beats a fierce thundering song causing my blood to rush past every artery and flow as a raging river of red thick, hot lava enveloping my every cell. I can see better than I ever have. The pitch black of the forest no longer my enemy but, my ally under the light of the lunar nocturne in the canvas that is my chosen grounds. No more hiding being a wolf amongst the sheep, I have a higher calling than any useless sheep. I couldn't hide it anymore if I wanted could I? Of course not, after this I'm not sure I will ever bring myself to submit to anything or any one outside my true purpose. My pack are in a frenzy not far from us now, their howls on the cold wind of dreams passed. When I first discovered her I had thought I had seen god until I remembered I didn't believe she existed. She was going about her day getting her morning coffee just the way she likes 'Light oat milk' enough to make the coffee match her luscious soft.. oh so soft hair. Living her life completely ignorant to the beast she had awoken that day. The duty her divinity has bestowed upon me is absolute, she may not be god but she is a goddess.. The world and life as it is has no business having anything so beautiful in its realm. The world doesn't deserve her the way I do the way WE do. She deserves the universe divine and yet here she is in the gutter that is reality. I will save her and I will ensure she never becomes corrupted. Don't you worry we cannot hurt her. Who can harm a goddess in her true form? She must be set free of this world and I did it! I finally saved someone. Someone as pure as our desire. I'm sorry I had to push you away, I know you never would have allowed us to fulfil our solemn duty as her savior and rid her of this evil world of ours. Of course she didn't understand at first. The screaming. Those mortal shells are so sensitive to this world, once she understood she didn't make a noise and let me work for her freedom. Then again she never blinked again either, I almost wondered if I had managed to free her so early. Had the steam not been coming off of her whole body id have almost left part of her trapped in there. I got her all out, every last bit. Now the prison will be destroyed so that she may always be free her pure uncorrupted flesh made for the best feast for our pack. All that's left of the prison that was her shell are the bones now, they've been boiling for a while now and soon her freedom will be permanent. Do you wish to come back out now?