“At long last!!!” I said, jumping onto stage from an unknown origin, “Thanks, Dr. Strange,” I whispered behind me. “I don’t know about you guys, but it has been a really long month. I checked three times in December to see if I actually did this challenge in December, and I checked again in January to make for absolutely positive… I did. I even checked again a second ago. I have no idea why this last month has felt so long for me, but it did.

“But enough about me, I am assuming everyone knows why I am here. To talk about War and Peace! Okay, so, there is this guy, Count Bezúkhov, and he is super sick and dying. All of his family has their undies in a bundle over who is going to get his fortune: will it be split between his two eldest children, Prince Vasíli and the eldest princess? Will it be given to that rascal son Pierre that everyone seems to dislike, but Count Bezúkhov clearly thinks differently? Or has Anna Mikháylovna convinced her son’s godfather (the count) to give her the fortune? I don’t know, I’m not done yet. All the while this is happening, you have these three girls who act seven but are around the age of thirteen who are head over heels in love with these three guys who also act seven but are supposed to be around the age of seventeen, I presume, as all three of them are about to enter into the military. One of the girls, who is twelve, kisses Nicholas, the godson of the count. Relevant to the situation? No, I was just pointing it out. That scene weirds me out. I know that it was a different time and all that, but good gracious, man. She’s twelve! Though normally they act seven, there are other times where they act forty-nine. What else…

“I have read twenty-four chapters of this immense novel. And… Wait, you guys aren’t here to hear me talk about War and Peace? Oh. Wrong crowd, I guess. Well, in that case, PEN TO THE PAPER IS BACK, BABAAAAYYYY!!!”

I started receiving letters from a dead woman about four months ago.

At first I thought it was an error on the postman’s part-- after all, moving is a tangled web of confusion for everyone involved, and letters and parcels can be misdelivered months after new homeowners arrive. Relatives forget the new address, old friends show up to the wrong door during surprise visits while they're in town, and mailworkers are often perplexed to find a fresh face connected to a house that had been on their route for years.

So when a lavender-scented notecard pristinely sealed with a beeswax kiss wandered  inside my mailbox, I didn’t think anything of it at first. To whom it may concern was scrawled across the top in calligraphic letters, the ink faintly tinted with a mulberry hue and written with a seasoned hand. What piqued my attention, however, were the two empty corners at the top: there was no sign of a return address or lick of a stamp.

Aren’t letters required to have that before they’re approved to be shipped? I pondered to myself. Unless the writer hand-delivered this letter to me, there’s no way this could’ve made it into my mailbox unmarked.

Feeling the anise breath of October in my bones, I wrapped myself in the wings of my cardigan and bounded inside my new house with the letter. Boxes lazily slept on the floor like bodies as I pushed a big crate aside to make room on the kitchen countertop. After taking another moment to admire this anachronistic wonder, smelling of sweet maplewood and ripened clove, I tore wrapping to shreds so I could finally read the riddle inside.

October 5th, 1985

Hello my darling,

I understand how strange this may seem to you. You’re receiving an unmarked post after moving into your new home in a new neighborhood without any connections to the residents here. I assure you this is not written with malintent, nor is it meant to come across as something intrusive or threatening, if that’s what you were thinking. Rather, this is simply a friendly introduction from someone who’s been here for decades now-- somebody excited for new blood in an overwhelmingly droll part of town.

I saw some of your boxes when you unpacked the other day, and I wanted you to know that Keats and Woolfe are two of my favorites as well. Do you study literature often? I’m inclined to say yes in the hopes that we’d have that in common, but I want to refrain from making judgments lest I get my hopes up for no reason. Just know that you have good taste, at least coming from me.

I hope this letter finds you well, and I especially hope it did not come across as a voyeuristic stalking. I’m simply excited to make a new friend here, and I hope you can find one in me.

Best of luck with the rest of your unpacking xx

Belle Greenley

I was nonplussed after reading, and rightfully so.

I overturned the letter in my hands like an artifact now, being careful not to accidentally bend or wrinkle any of the corners. The eggshell paper was delicate as the brittle leaves dancing outside, all-over stained with a whisper of amber. Amidst the musk of autumn, I detected notes of a lavender perfume on the letter itself, something I would later recognize as Belle’s signature scent.

All the while a question was pounding in my brain with the rhythm of my heart, a resounding thud that grew quicker and harder the longer I ogled this mysterious note. I couldn’t help but wonder who the hell wrote this, and why?

My immediate thought was that it must’ve come from a neighbor who spotted me unpacking through a window the other day-- someone enthralled by the prospect of a new plaything. If this Belle was a literature student or teacher herself, she may be viewing me as a book to be read, a sentient novel with chapters dedicated to each phase of my life, allusions and symbols ensconced deep in my psyche.

Or perhaps the old owner was a grouch, a curmudgeon-y crone who never put out holiday decor and let their dogs defecate on other people’s lawns. Someone who forwarded ominous chainmail and pretended not to notice when others said hi.

Either way, a part of me felt uneasy. My eyes quickly fluttered across the room, hunting for the culprit, a set of far-away eyes wistfully blockaded by the layers of glass in between the houses. I spun from corner to corner in a frenzy, drawing my shades as I went along, encasing my world in blue chevron fabric at the risk of wandering glares.

After locking away the smoke-colored sky, I returned to the letter once more. A conglomeration of fear, intrigue, and admiration bubbled up inside my gut at the thought of being a secret admirer-- a trope that only seemed to happen in the movies. I could only hope that one day I’d be able to catch this Belle Greenly in the act of delivering her sylvan sweet nothings.

________________

Her letters began to arrive in a steady flow by the third week of October, always signed and sealed with a lavender kiss. After the fourth one arrived I vowed to track her down, itching with an irascible case of curiosity after she began to comment on the intricacies of my life only someone who lived with me could know.

Belle would casually offer reading suggestions as soon as I finished a book, drop the name of a nearby park or garden when she noticed I was spending too much time indoors, and would even comment on how I took my coffee (black, with two sugars). Most people, I assumed, would’ve felt encroached on by such intimate comments, but I strangely found it endearing. Belle had become this sort of pseudo-guardian angel in my mind, an omnipresent being always looking out for me and keeping my best interests in mind. I trusted both her opinion and ability to take care of my mental health when I prioritized other things.

So one morning I decided to bake some sugar cookies as a guise to go around ringing doorbells and gather intel on the elusive Belle Greenley. Scrouncing up the year-old flour and the only baking pan I had, I whipped together an unevenly-measured batch of goods and prayed that they were edible enough to pass as human food instead of dog treats. After plating my goodies in a wicker basket to hide their misshapenness, plucking out the duds as I went along, I adorned myself in my Sunday best and stepped out into the golden light.

My first stop was the house next door.

“Belle Greenly, huh?” An old man who looked like an off-duty Santa Clause scratched  his ski-slope beard. “Nope. I don’t know who that is. Never heard the name before. Truth be told, I don't keep up much with who’s living where. I keep to myself mostly.”

“That’s okay. Thank you for your time.”

“No problem, sweetie. I appreciate the cookies.”

Slightly frustrated but with spirits still high, I tried for the house across the street.

“Belle Greenly?” A woman spat the name back at me with venom. “You makin’ up names or something? I’ve lived here for fifteen years and I’d never heard of someone like that. You better not be pullin’ my leg.”

“I’m not. Sorry for bothering you.”

“Wait!” The woman held a hand out as I pivoted to leave. Hoping she was magically struck by some divine intervention, I stared at her with fatuous naivete.

“What is it?”

“Actually, since you’re still here, would you mind giving me two more cookies for my grandchildren?” She stared back at me with a rouge embarrassment. “It’s my job to watch them after school and, uh, I’d be a pity if they came home without a tasty snack.”

Begrudgingly, and appalled by this woman’s unabashed guilt trip, I placed two of the most unsightly cookies into her hands and stormed down the steps with iron rage.

Finally, after making my way down the rest of the block and back again, I tried one final house at the crest of the road in the hopes that its owner would serendipitously exist to provide all the answers. To my dismay, there was a giant foreclosure sign brandished in the window and not an inkling of life stirring inside the wizened Victorian. It ogled me with cracked window eyes, lid-curtains navy and drooping, surviving off the dust-ridden oxygen souring inside.

With a shank in my gut and a near-empty basket, I plodded back home with a crumb-riddled doily, a pair of tired arms, and an intrigue that burgeoned like an unruly weed.

I began to think that Belle Greenley might be a pseudonym of sorts, an identity crafted by a timid romantic too meek to reveal their true identity. But then again, that sort of candied-over fantasy was never more than a chicane troupe created by lovesick writers.

Whatever the case, he or she had to be living somewhere within viewing distance of my house--how else would they be able to comment about what I did at home? But then again, my cookie-peddling scheme revealed that most of my immediate neighbors were over the age of sixty-five, and at that age-- bitter, retired, and probably widowed-- it would be senseless to keep tabs on a thirty-five year-old mouse living in the smallest and most dilapidated house on the street.

I was confused, undoubtedly. Confused, frustrated, and perturbed by the fact that I was catching wisps of feelings for someone I may never be able to meet. I spent the rest of my morning-turned-afternoon picking at the cookie crumbs and wishing I had just picked up a pre-made batch at the store.

________________

I was off on Halloween, so I decided to make a trek to the library to do my own research.

My bike wheels shattered the discarded dried pinecones littering the sidewalk as I cruised to a halt in front of the building. Haphazardly hauling it into the only empty rack, I remember shivering in my faux-fur jacket that day, regretting my sacrifice of practicality for fashion.

Unusually chilly for that time of year, I was eager to escape the wind tearing at my face with a thousand tiny daggers, bypassing my clothes to pierce my flesh and bones with frost. I hauled open the cumbersome double-doors impatiently, eager to be swallowed up by the mouth of the beast, its breath warm and aglow,  lined with a hardcover tongue and paperback teeth.

Sheepishly I approached the plump woman at the welcome desk. The paper jack-o-lanterns strewn above her head, smiling exuberantly, were in stark contrast to the grimace plastered on her face. She looked up at me and scowled, clearly upset I had interrupted the novel she was reading.

“Hi, I’m looking for any information you might have about someone named Belle Greenly. I think she used to live around here.”

“You think so or you know so?” The woman’s jowls were drooping lower than the line of beads dangling from her glasses.

“Uh, well,” I chuckled nervously. “It’s actually a funny story.”

“I don’t get paid to hear funny stories, girlie. Why don’t you stop wasting my time and go check the microfiches yourself?”

“Okay. Thank you. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh.”

Choking down another awkward social interaction (on my already endless list), I hobbled over to the computer lab and strategically sat behind a pillar so the woman wouldn’t see me. After waiting for what felt like an eon for the PC to boot up, I began to sift through past editions of the local paper until the moisture left my eyes, scanning each clipping meticulously. I couldn’t afford to get lazy lest I accidentally skip over a teensy headline buried at the back of the paper that ended up having all the answers. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was hoping for during my search-- perhaps news of her winning the lottery or surviving a freak accident-- but I was absolutely mortified to find the name Belle Greenley in the obituary section, and only a couple pages later, a small article commemorating her life on one of the backpages of a local newspaper.

LIBRARIAN AND OXFORD HOPEFUL TRAGICALLY PASSES AT  AGE 23

THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 1949

Belle Greenley, a long-time Salem resident and Durham Hills librarian, died in her sleep last night from a heart condition she had been battling with since birth. Her parents, Elenor and Jeremy Greenly, say their daughter had been diagnosed with Arrhythmia when she was an infant but never expected the disease to take her life so soon.

Greenley, a well-known figure in her community with a passion for literature, had plans to attend Oxford University in Cambridge next year, making her one of the first American women to attend the ivy league school. Those who knew her said her mind was as brilliant as they come, and foresaw a long and prosperous future for the erudite scholar.

“She was going to change the world,” Ronald Corbin, Greeley’s high school English teacher said. “Belle was one of my brightest students. Better than all the boys, and sometimes, even better than me.”

Greenley, in addition to her academic endeavors, ran multiple after-school reading programs at Durham Hills. The library says they will continue to uphold these programs in the wake of her death and plans to name a reading nook in her honor.

For a while I was trapped in a rigor-mortis shock. Reading that article had rendered me immoble, an ashen marbled statue to be chiseled out of my chair and erected in the front of the library. FROZEN IN TIME, the plaque on the front would read. YOUNG GIRL HARDENS INTO ROCK AFTER READING DEVASTATING ARTICLE.

I remember the picture the paper had chosen to hang over the blurb about Belle’s tragic death; the pasty blank background behind her was reminiscent of a cheap school photoshoot set. In the picture, Belle’s cherubic face was adorned with dainty, feminine features that were complemented by a lush set of lips formed into a pout. Her hair was cropped short and gently curled around her mouse-like ears like inky ocean waves. I remember her being so pretty.

When I was finally able to move again, I scoured the rest of the library in search of this alleged reading nook but came up with nothing. Either my stasis had hindered my sleuthing skills or Durham had failed to keep their word. No matter the case, I left the library feeling like a hollowed-out pumpkin, my innards painstakingly scraped away and the rest of me left to sit on cold concrete through the night.

________________

I spent my Halloween in solitude, too upset to open the door for the trick-or-treaters dressed as Marty McFly. Call me selfish, but I was frankly too distraught to stare into the phantasmal bright young faces of children whose only concern was filing their candy sacks up to the brim. Faking a waxen smile was too laborious an effort, especially now that I knew the truth about Belle.

While I slumped in my armchair reflecting, I realized I had come to know quite a bit about my spectral companion since the first letter arrived in October. Although this wasn’t the first time I’d pondered about my one-way-pen-pal on the nights when sleep escaped me, it was the first time I was able to understand her through the context of her life.

I wondered how Belle took her coffee or if she preferred tea. I assumed the former since she always seemed to comment on my brew of choice. Did she like Charlie’s Angels? She seemed like the type of girl who might be into a show like that if she were still alive. I saw Belle as someone who would’ve probably been an advocate for second-wave feminism if she made it to the sixties, and Charlie’s Angels was a show about strong women kicking ass. The idea of watching a program together brought a tear to my eye.

The truth, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, was that Belle was my solace when the loneliness slithered into the house, slipping through cracks in the windows and underneath doors like an acrid black talon, which was was why her death was the rock smashing the glass of my reverie. My heart, speared with reality’s blade, was quickly bleeding out.

But the next day I received a letter.

November 1st, 1985

My dearest,

I see you found out about me yesterday. Quite fitting that it happened on Halloween, is it not? Anyway, I hope you’re not put off by this revelation. I never meant to lead you on or make you wonder, I was just afraid that revealing my true form would scare you off. Not everyone reacts well to finding out their pen pal is a ghost, you know.

Anyways, I’m delighted that you’re still sticking around to talk to me. I know this means we can never formally meet, but just know that I am with you always, even if you cannot see me. There have been countless moments when I wished I could have been there in the flesh with you. I can imagine going to cafes together and making our own book club, even if it’s just the two of us. Still, though, I can continue to offer more recommendations. I’m so pleased you’ve taken so well to my taste in books.

You know what’s funny? We’ve been talking for over a month now and I’ve yet to learn your name. In the meantime I’ve come up with a few makeshift names for you-- my two front runners are Cecelia and Marilyn. Celia was the love interest of Jonson’s Volpone, which I;m sure you’ll get a kick out of if you get the reference. As for Marilyn, well, I can’t help but think of Miss. Monroe herself. You’re so darling that only a name synonymous with  beauty would be fit for you in my eyes.

With love (as always),

Belle Greenley

________________

Ever since I learned of her true form, Belle started making more of a presence around the house. It began with small things, like messing with the radio to play a song that made her think of me. She introduced me to The Clash on a rainy morning in November, the blare of guitar riffs and synth beats mingling with the pitter-patter of raindrops exploding against the glass of my window and knocking me out of bed. I stood there still half-asleep in my pajamas, just listening, my body tingling with the instinctive desire to let Joe Strummer’s voice twirl me across the floor like a puppet on strings. Shortly after The Clash had my favorite band, and Belle went out of her way to find stations that were playing their music for me in the morning. To this day I get rapt with euphoria every time I hear their London Calling album

When my alarm clock broke in the beginning of December, Belle would knock something over on my dresser to wake me up and make sure I wasn’t going to be late to work. Every night would be a guessing game, predicting what object would fall victim to Belle’s shenanigans the following morning. For whatever reason, the porcelain angel figurine became her personal favorite to taunt-- Even after I raked enough money from my deadbeat job to replace my alarm clock, Belle would continue to push over the angel just to be meddlesome. I’d wake up to her tiny face lying against the tabletop pine, painted eyes ogling the lines in the wood, stretched and spiraled like mahogany plane trails.

I had loads of fun communicating with Belle through objects, yet I quickly found myself with an insatiable craving to probe deeper, to connect with her on a more personal level. I wanted to make her more than just an acquaintance, which was why I decided to invest in a Ouija Board.

I heard about a tarot shop in uptown from the macabre old woman living next door and went to check it out on one of my days off. The place was a dilapidated brick shack wedged in between a defunct dental office and a retirement home. The purple incandescence of the neon sign that read “Bridge Witches” cast an eerie hue on my milky skin as I hobbled inside. I felt horrifically out of place amongst the candied clumps of amethyst on the shelves and the voodoo dolls crucified on the walls.

I hope no one tries to sucker me into a hundred dollar bullshit palm reading, I thought to myself. Because I don’t have the gall to refuse.

Very quickly I settled on a blanched white board with a gothic-style alphabet, eager to buy the first thing that caught my eye to get out of the store right away. The board came with a matching planchette, the tiny circle of glass inside tinted a soft fuschia, giving it an almost make-believe quality. I sheepishly brought the box to the checkout counter and evaded the judgemental gaze of the cashier. She was heavily drenched in neo-punk clothing, the two studs in her eyebrow jutting from her skin like twist-and-pull medicine caps.

“Just this for today, ma’am?” The woman asked coldly.

“Yes.” I said. “Just that.”

“Alright, it’ll be fourteen ninety-nine.”

My wallet cried miserably as I forked over the cash. “Thank you,” I muttered as the cashier eyed me scrupulously.

“You ever played with one of these before?”

“Uh, no. This is my first time.”

“Let me offer you a piece of advice then.” She leaned in close for me to see the smudges of eyeshadow clumping in the folds of her lids. “Be careful with that thing. It’s not a toy, it’s not a joke, and it’s not to be played alone. Do you have any questions?”

“No.” I muttered skittishly. “But thank you for letting me know.”

With that, I snatched the board from the amethyst glass and scurried into winter’s locus, bullets of snow pummeling down on me like a flock of rabid white birds. After wiping a layer from the seat of my bike, I nestled my purchase in my front basket and peddled home with the strength of a thousand men, fueled not by the cold but rather by the quixotic desire to defrost by the fire with Belle by my side.

________________

Against better judgement, I decided to play alone.

I immediately stoked my fireplace, slipped into hand-woven pajamas, and lit two candles to crown the sides of the Ouija board. Although I wasn’t too keen on the smell, I settled on a scent called “Marshmallow Magic” since my only other option was mahogany teakwood-- I figured summoning Belle would require something more saccharine.

Setup complete, I sat criss-cross-applesauce in front of the board and gingerly placed my hands on the small, foreign object. Owning something so overtly occult unsettled me deeply-- especially as someone who grew up in a church-- but I was desperate to have a two-way conversation with perhaps the only person who loved me.

Over the past three months, Belle had become my partner and confidante, my celestial shadow following me around and showering me with floral kisses. She had grown a whole garden on my cheeks in the dead of winter, nurturing glens of lilac and lavender sprouting up from her loving remnants, making me a greenhouse of warmth and tenderness. Even though I lived alone-- something I’d been increasingly worried about when I first made the move-- it felt like I came home to someone every single day. Having a back-and-forth exchange with a woman I’d come to view as my solace and refuge, the soul of my dilapidated house brought to life in the form of a beatnik romantic, was the only thing I wanted to do.

“Belle?” I questioned cautiously. “Belle, are you there? If you’re here with me, move the planchette over to the ‘yes’ icon.”

A draft eddied around my ankles, extinguishing the bite of the fire.

“Belle?”

The wooden triangle remained idle, the plate of glass in the center slicing me open with its magenta gaze, a mocking reminder that my own flesh and blood was what separated me from the spirit realm. Belle was somewhere on that other side, lost somewhere in a world of hues, trapped in a house of pink walls and poppy carpet that was identical to mine apart from one tiny detail: she was there and I wasn’t.

“Belle, I know you’re here. You messed with the television like an hour ago. Please say something. I want to talk to you.”

Still, nothing but silence. It slipped into my ears and filled them with the shriek of white noise, drowning out the tick of my grandfather clock or the crackling of logs of the fireplace. The planchette was a coffin under my hands, heavy and unmoveable.

“Come on,” I begged. “Just say something. I’m trying my best to talk to you here. I spent nearly fifteen dollars on this stupid thing and I want to feel like we’re actually chatting.”

At this point, I was just talking to myself. I suddenly felt foolish poring over this phantasmally painted box, possibly suckered into buying something that wasn’t a conduit at all. Maybe the rumors were true and this board was nothing more than a ploy for the gullible, the people so desperate to talk to a loved one that they blindly believed the mysterious hype. After all, Ouija Boards were mass-produced like any other product.

“Screw this,” I said, shoving the thing under my bed.

________________

I went to sleep that night wondering where Belle had run off to. Little did I know that the next letter I received would be the last time I ever spoke to her. From my limited knowledge of all things paranormal, I knew that spirits stuck around on Earth until they accomplished a goal or satisfied a desire that remained unfulfilled while they were alive on Earth. In that regard, perhaps Belle just wanted a friend, or maybe even a lover. Perhaps she just wanted to be happy, but either way I was able to do that for her-- whatever that may be.

All I knew was that I was able to be her person, and she was able to be mine. And when it came down to it, whether that relationship teetered the line between platonic and romantic, I just knew I cared for her deeply. And I always will.

To this day, I still fondly think about the letters from my beloved.

I once attended for a time a village church 175 years old who, having recently lost their organist of 46 years his hands crippled knotted, hired a lovely young male musician with supple spidery fingers who knew no hymnal music so instead played classical.

It turned out his knowledge of those also limited so he repeated most Sunday mornings. It was such a lovely very old church still standing in a bustling town that had left a century before. I'd sit back in the creaky hand hewn pews, morning light streaming through the most beautiful creeping vines stained glass, transported. Beethoven's 9th souring.

My mind singing along the words....the words?

"This night is mine

It's only you and i

Tomorrow

Is a long time away

This night can last forever"

with apologies to Billy Joel

"In ancient Rome

There was a poem

About a dog

Who found two bones

He picked at one

He licked the other

He went in circles

He dropped dead." ~Devo - Freedom of Choice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"No, no I've had enough! Go ahead and do me in already. I'm a writer, not a composer.. And even if I was (I mean, alright, I dabble..) Saint Saens was a musical genius and Animal Carnival was a masterpiece. Next you'll be getting me to re-imagine Danse Macabre or Samson and Delilah. After that I suppose you'll have me writing a high-class restaurant's metaphorical misery menu or a sexually provocative rhyme about aviary hexapods... I mean I have a few ideas... but no! No I've simply had enough! Your requests are getting more and more imperious."

Ghost Writer Number Ten quivered slightly but courageously stood his ground, like a heroically invincible ninja, squinting his eyes mostly-shut, waiting for the inevitable swing of the baseball bat named Surgeon General.

"Hah. So you've got some cojones in those pink pajamas after all?" Pesci snickered then clapped the brave writer on the shoulder, nodding in approval. "You're alright kid. I like your style. Say, what are you trying to do with those outrageous drawers anyway? Support some sort of flamingo world conquest?"

"What's wrong with pink? It matches the good-intention pavers... besides, my batman pajamas were recently repurposed; sewn into a frisbee to please Fritzy the Goliath Beetle. You don't mess about with Fritz's requests.."

Pesci nodded again, "Fair enough. What say you come with me and the Attorney General, we'll go collect the money from the Raven."

Ghost Writer Number Ten hesitated for a moment, deliberating about the moral qualms of giving Pesci the middle finger while his back was turned... "I guess I could come. Why does he call himself the Raven anyway? Why not the Hummingbird... or the Woodpecker?"

"You'll see." Pesci replied mysteriously, a deranged smile contorting his (to be fair already contorted) features.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*** the ending to this story is, regrettably, being held for ransom. If you ever want to see your beloved conclusion alive, you will first have to provide even more outrageously brilliant prompts for consideration. Failure to provide adequately stimulating topics will result in a finger or ear being brutally and barbarically chopped off of the narrative for every month without compensation.

(Warning- Mature content, reader(s) advised)-

The way she walked into his tent bothered him. Demanding respect from him only with her facial expression. She didn't need to say a word. He felt like he would soon be begging for mercy and on his knees once his body and hers were less than a few inches apart.

His hair was like nothing she had ever seen before. Her eyes beamed with curiosity seeing him adorned in a purple toga with gold embroidery. She approached him and leaned forward, bowing respectfully, lowering her head, too.

She felt like she was under a spell- with those aquamarine eyes of his. He pushed his seat backward away from the breakfast table and moved closer to her side where she stood near the long dark brown rug.

Her heart started to skip a beat once she smelt his quite strong grape wine and lavender scent. He stroked her chin and slowly brushed his fingers across her two lips. She sighed and shut her eyes.

He grinned enjoying the control that he had over her mind, body, and soul. She opened her eyes and pounced on him like a predator ready to devour its prey.

With one hand she began unwrapping the toga that was draped over his arm. Then with her other hand, she slid it at the back of his neck. She pulled him closer and gently sucked and bit his lower lip.

He bent his head backward and moaned. She laughed and tossed his toga to the side on the rug ready to keep going.

One of the soldiers was standing guard at the front door of the emperor's tent keeping an eye out to make sure no one came to interrupt the emperor at this time. If anyone disturbed the emperor, that person would have to face the emperor's wrath and end up being tossed into the maze of despair to face the mythological creatures or try to find their way out of the vast unending maze that was impossible to escape from.

The emperor smiled and stared in awe at the sight of the dark caramel and gold skin tones of his goddess. She wore a light colorful tunic, vibrant bejeweled sequin fascinator, & a blend of assorted berry lipstick.

With a sudden movement, she slipped out of her light tunic, carefully took the vibrant bejeweled sequin fascinator off her head. She twirled around and began dancing, as she danced the beads on her waist swayed in a circular motion. The emperor watched and smiled at seeing the other beads dangling between her breasts.

He squeezed her closer to his body, playing with the tips of her breasts, sucking and biting on them like a hungry newborn. She cried out from the pain and burst of satisfaction of his every action.

The emperor kissed her and held her tight. Silently making a wish that even in the next life, they would find each other, to be together for all eternity.

#DesertFlames (c). 01/14/2021. Friyay.

I agree with the elite that the Earth beneath has become replete with 7 billion humans who are more bitter than sweet.

What an amazing feat how we continue to repeat lessons not yet learned which cause us defeat.

Many with no home save a box on a street...some square of concrete....confused and disarmed by the child inside whose parents did mistreat....

An equal number of people having a whole different spreadsheet...one with a family and mortgage and debt and a marriage complete with an affair they believe is discreet.

Then, you add in all this extra heat. Here in the south winter is obsolete.

Having said that I would love to meet the policy makers who hold an upper seat and get to play god naming us chaff while they think themselves wheat.

Why do they get to decide who should live and who should die? Who should be sterilized and robbed of the dream of creating new life?

Is it because they own the world's money which can afford them this lie? Afford them the ability to turn a blind, evil eye?

I sigh.

I don't cry.

And there is no fucking point in asking them why because this is truth it is no lie, they do have a name for you and I.

Useless Eaters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What in the hell did you think you were doing old man? You don't lop off a perfectly good foot just because a zombie takes a nibble out of it." Margo chastised Brad, trying (somewhat unsuccessfully) to be a comforting presence as the Phoenix Military Base doctor cleaned up his wound. Jules stood silently by the stretcher and observed with a scientific but kindly detachment.

"No, what you don't do is abandon a perfectly good ship." Dale piped up, seeing Marconi's pain-sickened expression and resolving to change the topic. "Best ship I ever worked on; Star Ride was.." his eyes glossed over lovingly... "You know, all she needs is a new on-board electro-navigation patch, a little spit and polish, and she'll be good as new."

Margo raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. "Spit and polish will hardly be enough to hammer out all the dents made by that hoard of undead. When we took off I literally couldn't see a scrap of hull; the whole ship was covered knee-deep in a hulking mound of putrid flesh and guts." She shuddered a little to emphasize what a disgusting job it would be to clean up.

Brad smiled groggily and promptly lost consciousness.

"Morphite's kicking in" the doctor explained calmly, ignoring their conversation.

~~~ A few rooms over:

Clint shook Phil's hand vigorously and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Steady on there whippersnapper, i'm not as spry as I used to be." Phil joked, a big grin plastering both faces.

"You sure are a sight for sore eyes, Phil." Clint glanced around expectantly at the line of soldiers and officials in the small conference room, "Where are Zach and Andy?"

Phil hesitated before indicating with a comforting facial expression that there was probably nothing to worry about. "I'm sorry for the timing of it old friend. Your boys have gone out on a recon mission. You saw the wall, right?"

Clint nodded, successfully hiding the nervous feeling which punched him in the guts at Phil's moment of hesitation. The 10-ft high wall surrounding the whole Valley of the Sun seemed to be made of thick concrete blocks held together with some kind of innovative resin. He was impressed while flying over it.

Phil continued proudly: "So far; 1 year 6 months and no breaches. But now the engineers are getting nervous. There have been recent observations made by some of the scout flyers that zombies appear to be congregating just north of here, in the middle of the snow-covered desert about eight miles out from the wall, with no targets nearby other than an abandoned bunker. One of the scouts thought they might be digging. Obviously if they stop eating each other and start working as a team it implies that they're capable of organisation, which further implies rough times ahead. More likely they're being attracted by some sounds or vibrations, perhaps seismic activity, but it's all very strange... Andy and Zach are one of our best pilot/gunner teams so they've been sent over there with a couple others to see what's what. It shouldn't amount to any confrontation, don't worry. Their orders are simply to observe and report back."

"I hope so. It'd be yet another cruel twist of fate if, right when I got here..." Clint trailed off, unwilling to give his fears credence by putting them into words. "Anyway, I'm grateful that anyone is still alive on this hell-hole of a planet, I was beginning to think we were the last ones."

Phil's expression became even more encouraging and sympathetic. "Well, no time to catch up properly just yet." he apologized, "Consider yourself debriefed. I have to get back to communications. We just got a communique from the president of France, if you can believe it. They're saying they're willing to help us out, but clearly they're going to want something in return... Anyway, Kurt here will lead the way to the infirmary so you can meet up with the rest of your crew, then show you all to your rooms." Phil turned and nodded at a soldier who stepped forward and saluted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Log: 08/01/2222,

We've already been here in the Valley for three weeks? Hard to believe...

The Valley of the Sun is still aptly named. The city is covered by a weather-control station the likes of which I've never seen. When it was constructed apparently it was used to cool the place down, before the global weather went to shit. Now it's our main source of heat in this endless desert of snow. The city really is an oasis. I have to admit, I like being able to walk around in regular clothes without the need to be constantly clad in a space-suit. But all that creature comfort changes today. They've issued us each one of their custom flight-suits. These things are less clunky than our E.M.Us at least. They're also thermally-regulated and supposedly bulletproof. I have an inkling that we'll soon get to see if they're zombie-proof as well.

It feels almost good to be getting back in the action again. I guess I'm just loony like that; can't stand staying put. I never could. I feel bad for Clint though. His two sons have been M.I.A since we got here. That man's bad luck is ridiculous. The very day he was set to meet his sons, his only family who he hadn't seen in years, and they were taken from him again, just like his wife, and the daughter he never got the chance to meet. Well I reckon he's had enough of fate's whims. We're going to make our own for him from here on out. Dale and myself are going up with him and 3 of the Phoenix MB soldiers on a rescue mission. The fighter-jet which was carrying Andy and Zach has been spotted wrecked a dozen klicks north of here, near a huge pile of un-moving carcasses. Our plan is to set down near the wreckage and investigate the site. We're holding onto a little hope that someone made it out alive and is holing up in the bunker nearby.

Jules is staying here with Brad; he's worried that Marconi's leg stump isn't healing quite right, and the doctors here don't seem to give a damn. Come to think of it, no-one here does, not even Phil. Clint is furious that it took this long to get the rescue mission organised, and I don't blame him. I don't trust the people here; something seems off about them. I'm probably speaking too soon. Could be all that time in space made me a little lone-happy. I mean, heaven knows I've never exactly been a social butterfly, but still.. There's this look they get sometimes, a blank expression, faraway, and sort of ...hungry...

Ugh, enough of this crazy talk. Time to suit up and dive back into hell.

Margo Jessup, signing off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"No... please... no... damn it!" Clint sobbed as he pulled Margo's body from the wreckage. Uncharacteristic tears started welling in his usually-calm eyes as he saw the severe angle of her neck and realized she wasn't breathing. He checked her pulse to be sure, then choked down his anguish and looked up at Dale questioningly, "Are we the only survivors? What in the hell hit us? Did you see? How did we crash?"

Dale nodded in response to the first question, desperation lining his gaze as he scrambled for some semblance of sanity amidst the overwhelming horror, finally answering pallidly: "I could see from my position in the cockpit. There were frozen body parts being catapulted at us, from there." He pointed at the huge mound of carcasses a stones-throw from the bunker entrance. There seemed to be some kind of makeshift gravity-manipulation-device set up next to the pile. A reloading-conveyor-belt was depositing the corpse-ammunition into a receptacle which was set even now to launch more gruesome ballistics at any aerial targets which happened to fly too close. Zach and Andy's ship had undoubtedly suffered the same fate; they could see the bloody spectacle of entrail-lined hull just past their own crashed vessel.

Just then, a feedback-screech from an old-style speaker squealed over the devastated silence, and a voice was heard clearly stating a simple order:

"Attack."

At the voice's command, the pile of corpses became animated, writhing and reaching to grasp and engorge themselves on anything they could touch. The dead MB soldiers also obeyed the command; stumbling over their own broken bones and crawling out of the wreckage through the melting blood-slushed snow to devour their comrades.

Clint and Dale locked shocked eyes as they lit their flame-lazers. That voice over the speaker. They both recognized it...

"Mycrovitch." they hissed in unison as they began burning back the scourge, both brains working overdrive to register the auditory information as fact.

Dale sensed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his terror-stricken face behind them. Margo's body was moving as well. Shakily he turned his weapon, pointing it at her struggling form. There was a gurgling crunch as the body's broken neck was pushed back into place with it's battered hands. Then fear flashed across the dead eyes as they saw the weapon pointed between them. Dale's finger started squeezing the trigger.

"Sorry Margo" he whispered.

"W-waaait." the figure rasped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Image for this post is, with sincere and grovelling apologies, an obviously-amateur illustration by my own fustianly picayune hand (I just couldn't find anything I was looking for online!) If there are any objections to it I will gladly accept defeat, and replacement images, so long as they are accompanied by generously harsh recriminations and directions to the nearest loony-bin and/or equivalent fan-art-failure storage facility.

For those it may interest, and so that there's no need to go off on a wild zombie-chase, here are the links to chapters prologue-through-six:

Prologue, by Danceinsilence: https://theprose.com/post/448127/the-premiere-earthbound-2222-ad

Chapter 1, by WhiteWolfe32, While They Were Gone: https://theprose.com/post/449088#comment750232

Chapter 2, by EstherFlowers1, Seeing is Believing: https://theprose.com/post/449846#comment750826

Chapter 3, by Danceinsilence, Secrets Laid Wide Open: https://theprose.com/post/450772/chapter-three-secrets-laid-wide-open

Chapter 4, by GLD, Purpose: https://theprose.com/post/451818

Chapter 5, by Roses311Sublime, Plans: https://theprose.com/post/452673#comment753278

Chapter 6, by Sanjana_S, Survival: https://theprose.com/post/455599/chapter-6-survival

I meant to post this in the challenge before it ended. However, the earlier I plan to be, the later I always end up. It's probably just better to do less planning and more doing...bla... Anyway, here are the entries I enjoyed most from the challenge 'How do you come back from losing the one(s) you love?'

First, I'd like to say all the entries were great. But, approaches, strong emotions and resonation were major factors used in arriving at this decision. Although I ended up with five winners many times, I finally arrived at this:

Winner:

AlisonAudrey - 'I have died'

Honorable mentions (ranked top to bottom):

Estherflowers1 - 'A Facsimile is the Best we can do'

DeAnn - 'Loss is not an Easy Road'

Finder - 'Grief'

Godavenzi - 'About Losing'

TW - 'Your Exo/Endo Hellscape

PS: I was tempted to just put these entries on the same line and call it a contest. But at the end of it, each of them resonated with me differently. Being the only judge might make this appear biased but, hey! that's what I got.

With questions like this, I tend to form my opinion as I write, I like to start of by outlining my understanding of the topic at hand. This is a marker for me to measure the resulting thought spiral against in order to see whether I'm on track.

so,

Eugenics is the proactive limitation of human autonomy by way of selectively eliminating aspects of the human condition that are deemed by some higher power to be unnecessary or distasteful. Selective breeding, and a racist, ableist, ageist and sexually prejudiced philosophy which funnels the human capacity into little boxes made of ticky tacky doing nothing more than looking pretty and moving rocks.

I think the most disturbing aspect of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World was the fact that even though, to the reader, the society outlined in the novel is a disturbing dystopia which utilizes human capital in order to progress the arbitrary continuation of human life while systematically breeding out any sense of desire or purpose in people, everyone that partakes in the society is happy to do so, even if they are among the lowest, most deformed classes.

Smiling drugged up faces, state sponsored orgies, and the opportunity to get out without being killed or brainwashed if you decide it isn't for you.

It's frightening that this sounds like a desirable way of life to me.

But I'm no nazi, man. I can see how and why we should be disturbed and feel conflicted by the novel. I know the human potential is boundless and beautiful, the diversity of thought and aspect are so endlessly interesting and sweet to the taste (and often on the eyes). I think sometimes my freedom is overwhelming and is the root of many of my insecurities.

How easy would it be to be assigned a purpose at birth and to love every second of whatever it is I am to be doing. Then one day, I'm coming out of the top of a smokestack powering the breeding machine that will make my cousins.

Isn't that efficient? Isn't it proper? Doesn't it offer the most satisfaction for the smallest cost? Why the fuck are we here at all, man?

Not to say that BNW is a probable eventuality, or even a possible one given our sensibilities and desire for the natural (state supported) self-actualization of all earth's people. But it's still a scary thought that we could get there?

Are we facing a social eugenics? Are social media, cancel culture, compelled speech and restrictive moralist ideologies doing the same thing to people that genetic manipulation might? Changing everyone to fit into boxes of right and wrong through a perfect system, a litmus test that determines a person's worth by their opinions and how they express them?

-OR-

Is that system a way of protecting those who need to flourish and disallowing the tide of society to continue to move in the same directions it has since the beginning?

I really don't think there is an accurate enough narrative to make a strong enough opinion.

Just don't fuck with my DNA, man.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1Hi5mykgyzE

Well , last few weeks, i've been listening to a guy called

Vyacheslav Gryaznov . he has a youtube channel. He does pretty remarkable adaptations of orchestral work to piano solo. With great technique he manages to condense the whole , highly complicated pieces, to just 10 fingers. Usually i am not that impressed by this, and it isn't that new of an idea. Franz liszt, for example prepared piano solo arrangments for all nine of beethovens symphony. The idea of taking the massive orchestral work and reducing it so, goes against the will of the composer. Certainly, they worked in front of a piano drafting their work, but aimed at a maximum of polyphony. This was their vision.

However, im starting to think that the purpose of creation, is to perpetuate something of the way someone thinks. The Beethovenness in Beethoven's Pastoral (no.6) is ageless. It goes past immidiate trends. But will it be remembered because of the particular choices he made regarding orchastration, or because it was something deeper?

If it is so. I think that listening to such adaptations AFTER you heard the original can help accentuate what that deeper impression really was. Gryaznov , as i said did a few such adaptation projects. I was most impressed by his work on Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet, and Stravinsky's Rite of spring.

I recommend listening to an orchestral production first a few times. Just to 'hear' it all better.