Pan didn’t much want to look over the precipice–not with the whipping wind at her back and the thousand-or-so foot drop at her front. The ground underfoot was rocky and uneven. Clouds flitted by, close enough to touch, and her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and it didn’t help. The corner of her forehead itched, and she would’ve scratched it were it not for Kaleson’s contraption.

His wingsuit, of bronze and silver alloys, of interconnected tubes and puffing tufts of gas and, of course, of two feathered, long wings that covered and tickled her from one set of fingers to the other, was a new invention, and not particularly comfortable. The black mesh suit she wore helped with some of the scraping and scratching and scorching, but only so much, and the fact that donning it meant she was about to leap off a cliff really did take away from some of the allure of good craftsmanship.

“Well?” Kaleson asked. He was sitting on a nearby stone, his glasses askew, a notebook and pen in hand. “How does it feel?”

Pan forced a smile. “Fits like a glove. Feels like I could fly forever.”

Kaleson nodded, and scribbled something down. “Good, good. Take care that you don’t. Fly forever, I mean. Because you can’t.” He paused, then added, “you’ll fall after seven minutes, fourteen seconds. So, get back before then, or you’ll… you know… die.” He gave an apologetic shrug and continued his scribbling.

Pan’s eye twitched, but she said nothing. If she started asking more questions, her nerves would become too frayed to jump. And with all the variables at play—the wind and the height and the chill that stung her cheeks—Kaleson likely wouldn’t have any answers. They’d tested the suit rigorously for the last few weeks, sure, but those were in controlled environments. And they weren’t always successful, as the bruises and welts littered across Pan’s body could attest to.

No. The only way to learn whether or not the wingsuit could handle high altitudes… was to jump.

Pan inhaled and held her breath, like her mother taught her to do. She held and held, and just before her chest could protest, she released, slowly, slowly, letting the air seep out of her as though water welling from the earth.

She believed in Kaleson. She believed in his vision for the future–a utopia for man. The first step was the most impactful, and all the more so when it was off the edge of a cliff. Glancing back at the inventor, Pan was almost surprised to find him watching her, his face unreadable.

“Seven minutes, fourteen seconds,” he repeated. His voice sounded worried.

Wait.

Worried?

Him?

The realization gave her an inexplicable sort of strength, and Pan, steeling her nerves with one final huff, matched Kaleson’s gaze and gave him a wink.

“I want a raise after this,” she said. And then she leaped off, through the clouds, and began her plummet to the earth below.

The bubble was cramped, and not made for two people, Tommy decided.

It might’ve been a fine enough pinch to be stuck in, given better circumstances. The walls of the bubble were soft and squishy, and it smelled like lilac and was generally comfortable, as far as bubbles went. 

Of course, that he was pressed against Ashlynn Miraglio, his legs intertwined with hers, his breath in her ear, hers in his–and it was warm and sent tingles down his spine–only added to the discomfort of the space, as did the pitter-patter of rain rippling the bubble edges, and especially the building throngs of onlookers who pointed and laughed and wondered aloud, ‘just what the hell those two think they’re doing, floating above the street like that?’

“You just couldn’t leave me alone, could you?” Ashlynn muttered. She craned her head away, trying to make space for herself and failing terrifically.

“You told me you were lonely,” Tommy protested. 

“Yes. I told you I was lonely, and that I wanted out.” She poked the bubble wall, which jiggled and held. “Not that I wanted you in here with me.”

The bubble began to turn over, much to the cheers of the crowd below–many of whom, Tommy noted, were drivers who’d stopped their cars to point up and shout. Their voices warbled and broke against the bubble wall, barely making through, as if the outside world was underwater. Tommy braced himself against Ashlynn, both hands on her shoulder, and her red face blushed all the fiercer.

“Sorry,” Tommy said. He didn’t say anything else, for he felt a twinge of nausea, and figured if he threw up in Ashlynn’s bubble while they were still in it, the vomit rolling about his feet would be the least of his concerns. 

The bubble reached the other side of the street and bounced off the tall building waiting there. The impact was soft, yet enough to press Ashlynn tighter to Tommy, so that she all but clung to him, he to her. 

“PDA!” someone shouted below.

Ashlynn’s face contorted, and she hissed a curse.

“Sorry,” Tommy said again.

“Shut up.”

“I–okay. Right. Sorry.”

Ashlynn groaned. She dropped her forehead to Tommy’s shoulder, muttered, “Of all the people to be stuck with…” She gripped his arms, her knuckles whitening. “We won’t float forever. Another hour, and we should be back on the ground.”

“And then what?” He didn’t think anyone could help them out of the bubble. Hell, that’s exactly what he’d tried to do, and look at where they were now. 

Sure enough, Ashlynn paused. Cars honked from somewhere near and somewhere far, people shouted below and there was the rush of a metro and the continued pitter-patter and rumbles of rain on the bubble. 

And then, slowly, Ashlynn met his eyes and smiled. It was rueful, and none too pleased, and more than a little irate.

“I have no idea,” she said.

They floated on.

It’s the middle of November and I'm trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don't just bury themselves.

It's why I'm a seasonal serial killer.

So is my friend--a serial killer, that is to say. Not seasonal. Definitely not seasonal. Because while I'm haunting homesteads and butchering blocks in the idyllic eighty-degree Springfield summer, Jack is an emotional, impulse-driven moron who kills when he feels like it, come wind or rain or seven fucking inches of snow. And because we'd made a promise all the way back then, when murder was an accident and not a treat, I’m out here with numb fingers and stinging cheeks to help him hide the body.

"What I don't understand," I say with a grunt, "is why you couldn't have picked someone less big-boned." And that's putting it nicely. My back is to Jack as he makes a path through the woods, tossing aside snow with a shovel to make my dragging of the corpse easier. I'm not sure it's doing much, to be honest, and the dead man is easily two hundred, two fifty pounds.

I can almost hear Jack shrug. "He was talking shit," he says.

"Oh? Like what, Jack? 'What are you doing in my house?' Or, 'I'm calling the cops, please don't hurt me or my family?'" I drop my voice as I speak, mimicking the dead guy's voice. Not that I know what he sounded like. Jack did the killing, then called me to come and help with the aftermath.

"The former," Jack says dryly. "He was alone. You know I don't hunt families."

I sigh. "What a fucking saint you are."

We trudge on, the snow crunching underfoot. Neither of us said another word. I don't even need to ask him where we're taking the corpse, for the answer is obvious:

With the rest of the bodies.

The mother kept her children's teeth in a heart-shaped box, in the drawer of her nightstand, next to the magazines and the band-aids, below a few decks of cards and above the gun her ex-husband didn't want her to have.

She would count the teeth, if she could. It'd be better, she knew, if she ignored the box entirely, tucked it away in the back of her mind like the bottom of a nightstand. She did not ignore it. She did open the box from time to time, sifting the contents through her fingers while she sat on her new bed, in her new room, beneath a new roof on the same block in the same neighborhood.

She would count the teeth, if she could. But how could she?

The teeth were ash.

The rest of her children, ash.

It was all that remained after the fire.

Miss Miriam Donahue was known throughout the school as The Matchmaker. She had been known as The Matchmaker since the seventh grade, when she convinced Luke Constance to go out with Amy Whittaker, despite the fact that Luke hadn’t even known who Miss Whittaker was.

She paired one other couple together in seventh grade. In eighth, her efforts redoubled; she learned that she was actually rather good at this whole shipping thing, and paired together another three of her fellow classmates that fall. The following spring, that number of successful matches jumped another five--her number of failures, zero. She applied and successfully got into Miraglio High (on account of her musical aspirations) and, by a Thursday afternoon in mid-September of her Senior year, Miriam Donahue had paired no fewer than thirty-one couples with, again, still, no failures.

Whether or not they stayed together was out of Miriam’s control—and indeed, it proved of scant consequence for her—yet more often than not, her pairings had a way of staying together. Whatever the reason for that particular oddity was unknown to all, but rumors had a way of speculating. Some thought Miriam only accepted matchmaking jobs to couples likely to last. Others suggested a survival bias—it only seemed like most of her matches worked out because the ones that didn’t were forgotten to be Miss Donahue’s work. Fewer still believed it to be witchcraft. The truth, in all likelihood, was a combination of the first two, a measure of luck, and perhaps a bit of the third. And, ultimately, what mattered in the end is that she had built up a reputation that all but guaranteed she would always have eager fellow classmates seeking her out for advice, help, or both.

Enter Benjamin Park.

Miriam knew of Benjamin, because knowing people was her thing, but she never felt the need to approach the boy. They ran in different circles, shared only one class together, and were fundamentally different as people. Short, quiet Benjamin never smiled, as far as she could tell, forever maintaining a measured expression behind wire-rimmed glasses and beneath unruly black hair, leaving her clueless as to what he might be thinking at any given time.

Which is why it surprised her when, on that mid-September Thursday afternoon, Benjamin brushed past her desk in their ten o’clock class and muttered, “After school. Behind the shed.”

Miriam hadn’t asked why. There was only one reason anybody sought her out. And her curiosity was piqued.

The shed behind the school hadn’t been used for anything short of entanglements and awkward confrontation for as long as anybody could remember. Indeed, the last time it stored anything was in the 1920s, when it held an exorbitant amount of booze for the local gang kingpins, a past that the founders and, indeed, the current staff do their darnedest to cover up. Sure, it held custodial equipment too, but only for clearing snow, salt bags and plows and the like and whatnot.

I digress. The shed is certainly unimportant, I assure you. It will hold no further point in this tale, so far as the time being is concerned. Don’t worry about it. We’re talking about a liaison.

Miriam got to the shed first. Benjamin showed up a couple minutes later, and wasted no time getting to business.

“Lauren Ives,” Benjamin said. The afternoon sun shadowed half his face.

Miriam raised a brow. “Lauren Ives? You want me to match you with Lauren Ives?”

He nodded.

“Don’t you think that’s a little ambitious?”

Benjamin frowned, just barely. “Are you saying you can’t?”

“I’m saying it’s gonna take time.”

Relief crossed Benjamin’s face. It vanished quickly, or quickly enough that Miriam doubted if it’d been there at all. “That’s fine,” Benjamin said, “Yeah, no, yeah, that works.” He paused.

“How often should we meet?”

“We don’t meet. I don’t want to give your crush the wrong idea.” Miriam pulled her phone out of her back jean pocket and waved it around. “I’ll give you my number.”

Benjamin’s lips twitched up. “Okay. Cool.” He took his own phone out and typed in her info.

“Pleasure doing business,” Miriam said. She held out a hand.

They shook. His palms were cold and clammy. His grip was loose. Miriam thought nothing of it at the time.

Benji thought about it an awful lot. He had a tendency to overthink everything, sure, but that handshake in particular...

Not to say it was unwarranted. He was, after all, madly in love with her.

“Good luck, Benjamin,” Miriam said, “You’re gonna need it.”

Benjamin matched her gaze. “Trust me,” he said, “I know.”

Her soul was rich and deep, vibrant and true. An amber gold, like honey dripping off the spoon, or amber itself, within which life a million years past may reside.

Her soul was a summer sunset, catching all in its beams, fading, albeit sure to return; hard to look at directly, yet there were none who knew her and did not feel warm.

Her soul was autumn leaves carried away on a breeze, swirling about a space--beautiful, yes, but fallen too. Fallen, and perhaps a little dead, wont to be trod underfoot by those who do not pay proper care and attention.

Her soul was cider and tea, whiskey and beer. With her I was comforted, with her I was energized; I felt giddy too, in her embrace; and whenever beside her, I felt content.

Her soul was a golden mirror, upon which all are cast in a favorable light.

Her soul was a warm meal after a long days work, lit by the glow of candlelight.

Her soul was amber, and her soul was kind.

When the first hand washed ashore, I didn't think much of it. Or, rather, I tried not to think of it at all.

It'd been evening. The sky was gold and red, the sun was tired and waning, and I walked and hummed along the beachfront. Calico Beach was a mess, you know, in the days before the mayor started her war on littering. Instead of white sand and sea breeze, we had trash-riddled heaps. We had bottle caps and ciggy lighters, broken glass and candy wrappers and chip wrappers and plastic wrappers and bags and nets. We had perpetual stink. Yes, the beach was vile everywhere--save for my little cove.

I don't recall how I found it. Only that I had. It was always clean--clean and hidden away by great rocky outcrops.

It was also where I found the hand.

Or, rather, my toe did. It struck the hand, and the hand was cold and gummy. The hand. A woman's hand, I thought, for it was delicate and thin-fingered. It was also bruised and detached. Perhaps soft. I don't know. I didn't stick around to find out.

I ran. Quick as that. No need to linger around severed limbs, I thought, and somebody else, surely, would find it.

Somebody evidently did. For the next evening, when I returned--because I returned every evening and I wasn't about to stop now--the hand was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief then. I prayed for the presumed-dead presumed-woman too, and then I continued to walk the soft white sands of Calico Beach.

                                                                      * * *

It didn't stop.

I should have told someone. God, yes, of course, I should have told someone. But our town was small, and this particular stretch of beach, this cove, was a haven to me. I knew others knew of its existence--somebody had removed the hand, right--but they were few, and left me alone in these quiet moments when my thoughts could be, were supposed to be mine, all mine. Yet now my thoughts ran rampant and uncontrolled, and it was wrong, all wrong, because there was another hand the following week, the same time. A man's hand this time, I thought, big and calloused.

Once again, I ran. Once again, I returned the following day to find it gone.

And, once again, there was more the next week.

And the week after that.

And the week after that.

Not just hands. There were feet too, toes curled up like a dead spider, serrated off just above the ankle, all blood long since spilled. There were forearms and shins, biceps and kneecaps, and I realized soon enough that they were building towards a body.

I tried showing up on different days. I tried different times. Nothing worked. The limbs appeared a week apart every time without fail. If I didn't show on expected appearance-days of the body parts, they would be there the following night.

I ignored them. That's what I resolved to do. They disappeared in good time anyways, so long as I showed up, and I had to show up. This was my cove. I could not leave it. I would not leave it. My refuge that I had found, an escape from those back in town... I needed it. There was no other option.

                                                                    * * *

Leaving this as a start to a short story I'll bounce back to. Sorry to leave another one short - I dunno how high I should go on the word count. );-;)

Before Aspen Rae opened her circus trunk for the first time in fifteen years, she had not known what she would find. Although, had she ventured any guesses, she would have been wrong.

The trunk was covered in dust; in fairness, so was most all of the old Ringmaster's attic keepsakes, and the trunk's quality could not be entirely hidden by the lack of care. Made of rich wood--perhaps mahogany--and held in place by strips of rusted iron, the hinges creaked and whined when she pried it open. There, in neat piles no doubt organized by anybody other than her, was what used to be her life: a colorful jumpsuit, red and gold and lined with fluffy white ruffles; a red nose, bulbous and not the least bit faded; canvases, streaked and untouched alike, nestled against her golden boots and twelve sparkling balls, her ribbons and her sword and her horn; all were still here.

Even her fairy cage.

She blinked. Leaned over as she was, one hand propped against the unhinged lid, she saw quite clearly that... yes, that was Ernesto's cage. It was covered in grime, of course, and dull where it had once been bright, but still undeniably his. The bars were thin and tight. The dome of the cage was etched in strange designs now all the harder to make out. The floor would be the same, Aspen knew. Almost unconsciously, she picked the cage up by its topmost handle. She turned away from the trunk, the rest of her past momentarily forgotten, and sat down on the lip.

"Of all the things," she murmured to herself. Her free hand tapped the wood of the trunk once, twice. She exhaled softly and raised the cage to her face. She glanced into its interior.

Two beady, shimmering, green-glowing, ever-mildly-irate eyes stared back.

"Welcome back," Ernesto drawled. He lay on his side, his wide head propped on a thin hand. His voice was raspy. "Terribly long lunch break, no?"

Aspen yelped. Without meaning to, she dropped the cage.

It clattered to the ground--a dull thud first, faintly metallic, then rattles when it tipped and fell to its side. The sound echoed in the attic, and Aspen, with a jolt of realization, dropped to the floor and scooped the cage back up, clutching it tightly.

"Gods," she managed. Her fairy. He was still here. Why was he still here? The Ringmaster had let them all go after the incident. "Gods, I'm sorry. It's just... why, Ernesto--"

"Not that I'm not glad to see you, Aspy, my dear," Ernesto said, "but I don't suppose you could 'right the ship,' so to speak? These bars are awfully uncomfortable when pressed against."

Aspen pulled back and saw the cage held horizontally. Ernesto was face-first against those thin, silver and grime-addled bars, and her face flushed. Of course, he could not move himself. How could he? All these years without sunlight... that he could so much as speak was already beyond imagination.

Carefully, she turned the cage upright and set it on the ground. She lay flat on her stomach and, using one finger, gently probed Ernesto from off the bars. He plopped onto his backside first, then his back, his head making a little dink when it struck the floor of his cage.

Aspen winced. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Ernesto said. "I mean it." His glowing-green eyes were closed, so she made out more clearly his thick black brows and ridiculous hair; his goatee, still maintained, and the new, deep lines that marred his face. He looked old, gray hair or no. Not that Aspen was exactly young herself, mind you, but, still. How long had it been? The circus closed fifteen years ago, yes, but the fallout with the fairies--the legal battles, the bitter words and tearful goodbyes--that had preceded the closure, if not signaled the beginning of the end. Really, by Aspen's approximation, it had been some sixteen years since she had last seen her once dear friend.

Sixteen years.

Had he been here all along?

(Calling it here for now lmao)

“The key they’d given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home.”

A year has passed since that day. I’ve returned home.

The front door still groaned, the brass knocker still barked. I stand in the foyer, and see a chandelier, swaying, and all its lights, shimmering. I stand atop a maroon and gold carpet and look right; there is the office, the mahogany desk, the rows of books upon the shelf; I look left, and there is the dining room, with purple walls and dusty chairs and unused plates; I look forward, I look up—the staircase.

Upstairs, there is a room, drab and dull; beside it is a second, gray and forlorn. There are others—two others—a total of four rooms. All lived-in, not lively.

I know this house.

I know of the basement, with its ragged couch and its pool table, the left-center hole torn.

I know of the kitchen and living room, their two tvs, the box full of legos on the counter between them.

I know of the gazebo and the pool, the former not used enough, the latter, once too many.

I know of outside; the yard, where we ran, and the swings and the trees, where we swung and towered.

I know of the laundry room. It is plain. Outside that room is the garage.

In the garage, steps.

Upon those steps, on that Thursday night, we sat. We talked. I told you my hopes and my dreams, my alienation in school, the numbness that caressed my mind with deceptive compassion, like a cruel man’s hands cupping a baby bird—I told you all there was to tell, and you listened.

A week passed.

You drowned.

The key yet fits. There is the house.

There is no you.

Of course, he was there.

In a navy coat, a five o’clock shadow and an easy grin, talking with somebody Amelia didn’t recognize. Somebody who said something funny, apparently, because he laughed, in that clear, light tone she used to love. The ring on his finger caught the light of the shitty old disco ball they hung from the ceiling and gleamed.

Time heals all wounds, they say. Bullshit. Time allows for scars to fade. Yet still they persist, ever there, faded, sure, but mean and visible and sometimes crusty and scabbed and terribly, undeniably real.

Such were the scars that marred her heart. Such, too, were the scars faintly visible on his cheeks, not quite hidden by that stubble, left by her that night twenty years ago.

A grin, bittersweet and school-girl mean, crossed her face.

Twenty years. She had nothing left to lose. Tonight, the truth. Tonight, her justice.

She walked into the gymnasium, beneath the multi-colored shine of the disco, and beelined for him.