My grandmother always told me: “Follow the magpie.” At first, I didn’t understand what it meant And every question was met with a sigh.

It was as if she expected me to know Though I suppose I don’t blame her Because she spoke often of magpies Indeed, they were her favorite bird.

They flaunt feathers of ebony And glistening hues of green, Blue, white, and a cry so heavenly That the song itself calls to me.

Yet, within the bird’s call, Lies something sinister— Or so the superstition says: “The voice of a magpie will lure a righteous woman if she lets it possess her.”

A young girl following a magpie Is considered a great sin An evil act, according to men And overtly righteous women.

I don’t want to sin. I don’t want to give in. But I want to follow the cry of a magpie. And now, the cycle of shame begins.

I hate myself for wanting it. So much. But I can hear freedom in its very song, And I think my grandmother heard it, too. All along.

Every day seems the same, Eternal flames ‘round my feet Sparks spiraling high above, With no conceivable relief.

A sludge of liquid red, Runs through my veins Burning coals line the streets, Voices praise the dead.

Dark robes made of ink, An unchained melody Of clanging chains, With a lock and no key.

A swirling smoke falls, Over my heavy eyes As the eternal torment surges, And my internal sinner dies.

Blood is a fond taste, Heart never had a chance Bones are a headache, As I join in the fatal dance.

Links of iron bind me, Yet I’ve never felt so free And it’s always the same, So I leave my questions be.

We circle the bonfire, As if under its worldly spell Screams echo through the cavern, ‘O behold, the flame of Hell!’

Officer Dawson’s first impression of Lucy Gordon was this: she looked like a pale, broken doll.

Ashen white skin made of porcelain. Eyes made of glass.

The only feature that gave her away was the crimson liquid that pooled by her head and her broken, bleeding fingernails caked with dirt. Lucy’s dark hair was splayed out and frozen to the ground; her mouth twisted open in an eternal scream in which no sound escaped. Her arms and legs were angled in a way that not even the best human contortionist could replicate. Her neck was in even worse condition. The tall grass around her body swayed as if dipping their heads in silent mourning.

Dawson ran a rough hand over his bald head and turned his gaze to the cliff face. There was no blood, no fragments of torn clothes. The only indication that she was even up there were a few engravings in the soil where he imagined she dug her fingernails into, fighting for life. For an escape.

“Geez. Do you think it was suicide?” Came a voice from behind. Dawson turned around to find Officer Brandy—his apprentice—staring at Lucy Gordon’s body with his hands in his pockets. Today he wasn’t wearing his wire-rimmed glasses. Dawson didn’t blame him. The rain was beginning to fall, and Brandy often complained about his lenses fogging up when he wore them during bad weather.

Dawson shook his head and sighed heavily. “Although it’s a possibility, we can’t rule murder out. This case is a high-profile one. Can’t afford to mess this up.”

Brandy nodded and pursed his lips, then said, “Lucy Gordon was the best of us. Real pretty, too. It’s a shame she died the way she did.”

Dawson nodded slowly, half listening as he crouched to inspect Lucy’s fingernails. They were a blackened, gnarled mess slathered in dried blood. It would be nearly impossible to extract foreign DNA from her fingernails—if there were any—considering that her fingernails were practically shredded. What trauma did she endure that led to not just the fractured condition of her fingers but her entire body? Dark thoughts swam feverishly in Dawson’s mind, and he stood up, about to excuse himself to a cigarette, when something glinted in the tall grass.

Dawson’s eyebrows furrowed. The rain was now coming down in currents, but he ignored the downpour as he lowered himself to the ground, the tall grass now towering above his head. He brushed his hands past the greenery, trying to find the source of light, when he suddenly froze.

Brandy wandered over to Dawson and squinted at him. “Boss? What did you find?”

Dawson picked up the object and curled his fingers over it, his blood roaring in his ears.

“Boss?”

Dawson slowly stood up and turned around. His face was stone cold and his eyes were dark—a telltale sign that he made a terrifying discovery.

“Brandy,” Dawson drew in shaky breath and uncurled his fingers, revealing the object. Brandy’s heart plummeted in his chest. He took a hesitant step back.

A shattered pair of wire-rimmed glasses laid in Dawson’s palm. Lucy’s dried blood was visible on the cracked lenses.

“Do you want to tell me what you were doing with Lucy last night, Brandy?”

Then it begins.

“Checkmate,” Arthur announces.

Suddenly, Evan jumps from the table and flips the chessboard over. He lunges at Arthur, and Mrs. Higgs lets out a scream as she watches her sons topple to the floor. She drops her teacup, spraying steaming tea and porcelain over the woolen carpet.

“Evan! Evan, stop this at once!” She shrieks.

Evan ignores his mother, his fists flying as he pummels Arthur’s face. Arthur cries out, his scrawny arms shielding his head in a feeble attempt to block Evan’s punches, but to no avail. Evan grips Arthur’s tux coat by the hem and lifts his brother onto his feet before dragging him to the wall.

Pattering over in her high heels, Mrs. Higgs reaches out a gloved hand towards Evan, only to pinwheel backward as Evan throws back his elbow to rid himself of his mother. “Let me finish this!” Evan barks, his knuckles turning white around the hem of Arthur’s coat.

Arthur could only whimper, blood dribbling down his chin and seeping onto his white collar. His once pale, narrow face is now angry red, with his left eye swelling shut in a tint of brooding purple.

As the fireplace casts sinister shadows over Evan’s face, he raises his fist, about to deliver another punch, when Mrs. Higgs screams: “There’s a lady present! Miss Mariano is here! Please, stop the madness this instant!”

Evan immediately releases his brother’s tux and lets out an obscenity under his breath before turning around to find the teenage daughter of Sir Philip Mariano—Miss Camila Mariano—standing in the doorway; her big, brown eyes stretched wide in disbelief.

Despite being in pain, Arthur finds the strength to sneer at Evan. Embarrassment heats Evan’s cheeks, and he wants nothing more than to disappear from the room. He caused a scene in front of Miss Camila Mariano—one of the most beautiful creatures to ever step through the doors of the Higgs residence.

A moment of shocked silence suffocates the room, then Evan forces a lopsided smile and clasps his bloodied hands together. “So. Would anyone like some tea?”

Throughout my childhood, I always wore a knitted beanie over my head. It was always the same one, too—a navy blue beanie with yellow stripes. My mother made it herself not long after I was born. “To make you a little more human,” my mother often told me, pulling the beanie snugly over my head before planting a kiss on my forehead.

I don’t blame her. In fact, I silently thanked my mother for her knitted gift. If I were to reveal my monstrosity of a head to the world, everyone would stare at me, and life would be a living hell for both of us. The questions would never stop. “Did the nurses make a mistake at the hospital?” Someone would ask. “Oh dear—did the doctor do something to your baby as you waited in recovery?” Another person would inquire. My favorite question I often imagined being asked was: “My goodness! Is your child the mutated offspring of an unknown alien species?”

Yep. I looked more like a martian visiting from Mars rather than a human child with a physical oddity. If one were to catch a glimpse of what emerged from my head, I’m sure they would release the news of my deformity to the world, sounding the alarm for an army of conspirators and alien fanatics who would want nothing more than to lay me out on a table, dissect me, and speculate my origin. Thus, my beanie never left my head when I went out in public.

But I didn’t think I looked that bad. I mean, when the beanie was off, I looked more like a humanoid bumblebee than anything else. Two antennas—similar to what you’d find on bumblebees, which are used to help them touch, taste, and smell—protruded from my blonde hair. They would twitch and flick—never holding still as they tried to touch, taste, and smell anything they could come in contact with.

When I was really young—probably five or six years old—my antennas were susceptible. I wasn’t used to all the different textures, tastes, and smells that overwhelmed my normal human senses. I couldn’t walk into the kitchen where my mother baked my favorite honey cake without my antennas twitching and trembling. The tastes and smells of the tantalizing aroma that hung in the air would send me into a frenzy that I couldn’t snap out of until I was carried out of the room by my panicked mother. I’m sure it seemed as though I was having a seizure, though we both knew that wasn’t the problem.

But over time, I adjusted to my extreme sixth sense. I could detect when a rainstorm was coming hours before it arrived. I could smell the comforting scent of coffee long before the cafe across town opened in the morning. I could tell you what the sounds you hear at a concert feel like due to the intense vibrations in the air.

Even though I hide my sixth sense from the world behind a carefully knitted disguise, I know I’m one of the special ones. As my mother used to whisper to me after a long day: “Stay strong, my little bumblebee. Listen to your sixth sense.”

‘Oh—yikes. Her breath stinks. Really bad.’

I reeled my head back and stared at my childhood best friend, William “Billy” Perkins, in shock. Here we were—sprawled on the couch, harboring unsaid feelings and leaning close, about to share our first kiss, when his voice suddenly echoed in my mind, buzzing in my skull and leaving a dull headache in its wake.

I wasn’t sure if he spoke, given that I was watching his lips and didn’t see them move—but his voice in my head was so painstakingly clear that I immediately demanded, “What did you say?”

Billy stared at me, his mouth hanging open. He was searching my face, probably trying to figure out whether or not I was joking. A spark of panic danced behind his hazel eyes, and the creases by his eyes scrunched up as he let out a forced chuckle. “What do you mean? I didn’t say anything.”

Then, suddenly, his voice came again: ‘Is she having a psychotic episode?’

I jumped from the couch and shoved him, nearly toppling him onto the floor. “I’m not having a psychotic episode, Billy!” I shouted at him. “You can’t take anything seriously, can you?”

Billy stumbled from the couch and backed up against the wall, his eyes stretched wide in surprise. “How are you reading my mind?” Once again, his internal voice crept into my head: ‘Maybe if I just slowly make my way towards the door, I can make a run for it. She won’t see it coming.’

I snatched a pillow from the couch and chucked it at him. I missed. “You know what? If you want to leave, then leave.”

I took a seat on the couch and watched, seething, as William “Billy” Perkins bolted to the door, swung it open, and disappeared from view.

‘Well, that was awkward.’

Billy’s uneasy voice echoed in my mind as I listened to his frantic footsteps racing down the stairs and out into the frigid December night.

Yes, Billy. That was, indeed, very awkward.

Hints of festive red Tucked in velvet green An evergreen tree— Unlike one you’ve ever seen Ribbons of color Billows of hue A touch of whimsy So long overdue.

Songs of glory Multitudes of angels Penetrating through Melodies of sleigh bells Clouds of snow Fade from the scene Leaving a sight Too great to believe.

Turn back the clock— Lock the ticking hands! “Christmas, everlasting!” We all hope and demand! But this is not so, For it comes once a year But Christmas, it seems, Will never disappear.

Something heavy Settles on my bed The blanket sinks I tilt my head Two blank eyes Glazed and dead No color, no hue Sour white instead.

A voice of gravel Skin made of boils Yellowed teeth snap Cloth caked with soil Hair made of strings Wet with putrid oil Fingers are gnarled, Tense and coiled.

An ice-cold grip ‘Round my stiff limbs My demon screeches My demon grins I try to move Long nails like pins Sleep, he demands, Confess your sins.

I want to scream The temperature drops Bones freeze, limbs lock Sleep waits, sleep knocks My demon is winning Screams from the rooftop Until, at last, The chill finally stops.

I grip my throat and my sanity. I must be losing my mind. Why did I fall for the eyes—the rabbit holes—belonging to my love? Why did I see feeble prey in places where I should have seen vicious predators? Unforgiving monsters? Now I lay on the tile, fighting for life. The rabbit hole consumes me.

Life is hard—especially when you’re hopelessly gorgeous like me.

I’m sitting on a bench outside the new middle school, waiting for my mom to pick me up. My strawberry blonde hair embraced the natural look today, with perfect, shiny hair waves falling over my shoulders. I’m watching as a group of boys turn to look my way before whispering to each other, goofy smiles plastered on their stupid faces. Gross. I’m way too good for the likes of them.

In fact, I’m way too good for this sad excuse of a town with only a few small neighborhoods, a 7-Eleven, and a post office. And, of course, Dusty Peak Middle School. Ugh, the name itself makes me want to jump off a cliff. I miss my life back in Ivy Hills. I miss the Ivy League Academy. I miss my friends and my backyard infinity pool. I miss the hair salon visits and the foot massages at Nails Galore. I shouldn’t even be here, but my dad had to get a new job. So here I am—one of the 204 people who live in this ghost town.

“You’re Lucille, right?”

I snap my head around, thinking one of the boys from the group had worked up some measly courage to come and speak to me. The voice definitely belongs to a boy—but not one of the boys from the group. This boy has a shock of red hair and large, black glasses. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his thin nose and squints at me.

I fold my arms. Let’s get this over with. “Maybe I am. Why does it matter to you?”

The redhead raises his hands in surrender, smiling nervously. “Hey, no need to get on the defensive. I was just going to ask you something.”

I shoot him a glare but say nothing. I wait for him to spit it out. According to past experiences, this freak would probably ask me out, to which I would laugh in his face and turn him down—standard procedure.

The boy circles the bench and plops down beside me. I tense my shoulders and tighten my hands into fists. If he tries anything, I’ll be ready. The redhead purses his lips and glances down at my clenched fists. “You seem like you’d be pretty good at beating people up.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “I could make you wish you were never born.”

The boy readjusts his glasses anxiously. “Well, g-good. That’s good. I could use a fighter like you. I came to ask you if you wanted to join my campaign.”

I blink at him slowly. “As in, a D&D campaign?”

He perks up, surprise flashing behind his glasses. “You’ve played before?”

“I think I played a few times when I was, like, ten years old.”

“What’s your character’s name?”

“I can’t remember. Evangeline, maybe?”

“What’s her species?”

“I honestly can’t remember.”

“What’s her level?”

I jump from the bench, my patience wearing thin. “Listen, loser. I can’t remember, alright? You’re wasting my time.”

I turn to leave, but the boy reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my light blue sweater. “Please, Lucille,” he pleads, his dark eyes gazing at me like a wounded puppy. “I’ve been trying to find members all day. You’re the closest to an expert I can find. Besides,” he offers a sad smile. “You can beat up as many monsters and dragons as you want.”

I stare at him. I can see the desperation in his pale, pathetic face. I can hear the sound of rumbling car tires, and I’m aware of my mom’s Honda CRV pulling to a stop a few yards away by the curb. I could just walk away now and get in the car, leaving this perfectly awkward situation behind forever.

But I surprise myself.

I take the boy’s hand and shake it cautiously. “What’s your name, loser?”

The loser smiles at me.