Her eyes dug holes in the back of their heads Her step frightened those around her in an odd way in which no one knew

She was an unpleasant soul But misunderstood A girl with feelings too But something shook our cores

She was smart for a girl and quiet for a woman I had never seen such beauty Nor had I ever been so unsettled

She cared for those who listened teling tales yelling fables She held the children tight and tucked them in at night she gave every last dollar that she ever earned

Her hair burned fiery red Her eyes glowed emerald green Her teeth were pearly white Her face dotted with freckles

She read She wrote She sang She danced She was a woman

But no one cared for they were scared so they set her alight but she did not fright

As the flames crawled up her arms she remaind unscathed as she turnes to the crowd and said “ Dont you know that witches never burn”

…

🫀

Burnt out remains

The Blaze in the Foyer

The fire started like a ghost in the night, silent and unseen. By the time anyone noticed, flames had already consumed the foyer of the building. Charred remnants of what used to be computers smoldered, their once-blinking lights extinguished forever. The building, unoccupied at the time, stood like a skeleton of its former self against the gray morning sky.

At first, the fire report puzzled everyone. Gas was fine. There was no sign of a leak or explosion. The smoke alarm, bafflingly, had not alerted anyone. The investigators pointed out that the system had been checked just two weeks prior and was in perfect working order. How it failed to go off was a mystery—or so it seemed.

The damage was catastrophic, and the insurance claim was enormous. Tens of thousands of dollars in equipment gone, not to mention the structural repairs the building would need. It was a small tech company, the kind that thrived on tight budgets and big ideas. For them, this fire was almost a death sentence.

As the building’s manager, I was the one handling the claim. At first, I approached it as a matter of protocol: filing paperwork, liaising with the fire department, and calming the frantic company owner. But the more I dug, the more something gnawed at the back of my mind.

It was a few details at first—small things. The fire had started in the foyer, not the kitchen, where most workplace fires begin. There were no signs of cooking mishaps, no overloaded electrical outlets sparking nearby. Computers in the foyer, expensive machines, were burnt to a crisp, while less valuable items in adjacent rooms were untouched.

Then there were the smoke alarms. Not only did they fail to alert anyone, but the central system hadn’t even logged an attempt to activate. It was as if the fire had crept into the building undetected, deliberately bypassing safeguards.

That’s when the forensics report came in. No fingerprints. Not on the smoke alarm system, not on the foyer’s equipment. Even the fire extinguisher cabinet had been wiped clean. A strange, oily residue was found near the ignition point—one the investigators said could have been from an accelerant. But they couldn’t confirm it conclusively.

I spent nights poring over everything—photos, insurance documents, even the building’s maintenance records. Something wasn’t adding up. There were no warnings, no reason for a fire to have started there and spread so methodically. And then, like a puzzle snapping together, it hit me: this was arson.

The unoccupied building, the untouched smoke alarms, the erased fingerprints—whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing. They had chosen a quiet night and left no clues behind. But why? That was the question I couldn’t shake.

Insurance fraud? Possibly. Maybe someone thought the company was worth more in ashes than in action. A competitor trying to sabotage a startup on the rise? Less likely, but not impossible. Or was it personal? Some disgruntled former employee, perhaps, lashing out at the company that had wronged them?

The insurance company brought in their own investigator after I raised my concerns. Together, we started digging into the company’s financials, employee history, and security footage. Patterns began to emerge—little connections between the fire’s timing and a recent round of layoffs. One name kept cropping up: a former IT technician, let go just weeks earlier, who had access to the building’s systems and knowledge of its vulnerabilities.

The police were involved now, and the investigation continues. But for me, the lesson was clear: this fire wasn’t just a tragic accident. It was deliberate. And while the flames may have consumed the foyer, they didn’t destroy the truth waiting to be uncovered.

hey! help me with this puzzle. it starts with an a, and the clue is “to set on fire.” it’s five letters. to set on fire, to light up, to burn, the world burning, to watch the world burn… no, it can’t be mean girls, that’s too long. to set on fire, to light up, to light up with joy, to be happy, to love, to adore? maybe. but that seems too far off. let’s try again. to set on fire, to light up, to burn, to explode, to make things explode, to blow up, to blow things up—no, “bombs” starts with “b.” hmm. to set on fire, to light up, to burn, to make things burn, to commit arson—ah, yes. that’s it. the only answer is arson.

(Sort of a sequel to Coming Back to Haunt.) ———

Penny snaps her fingers and a flame appears, lighting several candles in the dim room.

The added light gives view of the science experiments’ cells. It sends shivers up Penny’s spine seeing their containers. It looks exactly how they left it, though he had fixed the testing cell where they escaped.

“So Dr. Marken, how does it feel to have the shoe in the other foot?” Ness questions. “Or maybe presence in the other prison cell is more accurate,” Landen adds.

“That doesn’t flow as much,” Penny points out. Ness lets out a humorless laugh.

It surprises Penny how silent Tex is being. While he is the strong but quiet type, he always trash talks Dr. Marken, wishing for his death. Now they have him locked up where he trapped them, and he doesn’t say a word?

“Please, I have a daughter,” Dr. Marken begins to plea. He gets right up to the glass, his breath fogging it up. His glasses are askew, probably from where Tex roughly threw him in, and terror is written all over his face. He looks a mess, contrasting greatly from the put together scientist he appeared as.

“We know that,” Ness snaps.

“You think we’re deaf?” Landen questions, rolling his eyes. In his palm, he has a blue energy ball that he is morphing into blobbish shapes. It shimmers in the flames that Penny created.

Dr. Marken has the nerve to tilt his head and put on the mask of confusion. “At the end of your little recordings, you would talk about Ever. And how she was the most important thing. Who cares if you tortured kids? As long as she got to live,” Tex answers, his gruff voice having the slightest shake in it. All three of them glance at him, not used to him being anything other than angry at the scientist.

“I didn’t just heal Ever! I helped other children!” His eyes are shining with tears, his whole body trembles. It brings him down to his knees, practically begging. Penny wonders if he is seeing them as they saw him.

Penny crouches down and glares right into his wide eyes. “Children of your friends,” she says with a fake sugary sweet tone.

His gaze darts from person to person. It would almost be comical if not for the reality.

He thought he had a trump card.

“Yeah we know. We’ve been around,” Ness taunts, twirling her pointer finger.

Slumping his shoulder against the glass, Dr. Marken looks defeated. Good.

But his demeanor shifts in a second. The pleading mask ceases and what is left is the hardened scientist that the foursome is much more aquainted with.

“What do you want?” He asks, much harsher than he was a moment ago.

Penny can’t tell if he’s dropping the act because the sacrificial father wasn’t working or he doesn’t care anymore how they see him. Why would he? They are just his science experiments after all.

The only reason they are improtant now is the fact that they are the ones that have him caged.

“Answers. We want answers,” Landon replies, tapping the glass like the doctor is a fish in a fish tank, helplessly contained.

“Well I want revenge but answers would be nice too,” Ness adds, a darkness lacing into her voice. Mini lightning bolts hang in the air around her, making everything feeling staticy and charged. Penny arches one eyebrow at her.

The whole revenge seeking brute is normally Tex’s attitude.

But she supposes they all have resentment and fury towards this man. But especially Ness since from what Penny knows, Ness was there the longest.

“Answers about what? You know why I did it.” Dr. Marken feigns stupidity, which isn’t a good look honestly on him.

“For a scientist, you are kinda of dumb,” she speaks her thoughts out loud.

“It isn’t about you,” Tex admonished sharply, like his voice could wrap spiky barbs around the doctor. Ness nods in approval of Tex’s tone. “We want to know about us. Where we came from. Our families,” she clarified, turning her head away from the cell, so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

Penny doesn’t know what it’s like to remember her last. Ness is the only one who has and it almost makes her glad that she doesn’t recall anything. It has weighed down her friend since she got a memory.

“Oh,” the doctor responds lamely.

While he doesn’t give much information, she watches closely to where his eyes are. He hasn’t looked any of them in the eye unless forced to, so his gaze has mostly been shifting between them, not staying on any of hem for too long. But now his head strays.

Wow, he is a horrible liar.

How did Ever not see the lies?

Following where he averts his sight line, she starts her search in the far left corner where he appears to be looking. There is a metal cabinet with several drawers.

Fitting her fingers until the notch, she pulls, but it doesn’t give. Then a shine from the candle’s light catches her eyes. A tiny keyhole on the top of each drawer.

Very annoying.

She doesn’t have to say anything, moving aside for Tex who is already approaching the cabinet. With one tug, the whole drawer is ripped from the metal and the contents spill onto the cement ground.

Cream Manila folders cover the floor like a carpet.

Many more than just five.

All four of the crouch down and start to collect them, their attention abandoning the doctor for the moment. Penny can’t help but read the titles on the folders. One that she picks up is particularly thick with a good stack of paper in it, labeled Subject Pennsylvania. It’s her file.

Her breath catches in her throat.

It’s hers.

It’s her.

The file in her hands is her. The her she doesn’t remember.

“There are dozens of files here,” Landen says, bewildered at the sheer amount that they all have. Each of them have at least 10 in their grasp, the folders varying in thickness.

Penny thinks Ness speaks, but she barely understands anything. It’s in this state, she doesn’t notice the rising anger next to her.

Tex’s fist hits the ground, creating a small crater, making Penny jolt upright. “You piece of shit! How many kids did you do this to?”

She isn’t sure what to do. She feels…stuck.

As if someone hit pause on her.

Landen is shocked. Tex is angry.

Ness doesn’t appear to have any reaction. Not that Penny can decipher. In contrast to her, Ness is moving. The only indication that she is furious is the sharp cold breeze that entered the room.

With how Tex messed up the cabinet, Ness easily pulls the three other drawers open. They either are empty or don’t have anything of importance in them since she slams them closed, making it rattle.

She seems to be the only one who can move. Ness turns the place upside down. Perhaps making sure they have all secrets that their prison had to offer.

After scoping out the room, she holds two duffels that she found in a tiny closet. Stuffing the files inside them. Penny wordlessly helps, not even realizing she’s done it until she zips the top closed.

“We’re taking it all,” she commands.

“What are you going to do with me now that you have your answers?” Dr. Marken asks, eyes full of genuine concern. Penny almost feels bad for him. Almost.

He should be afraid. Having seen Tex’s and even Ness’ rage, Penny knows that his terror is justified. He created them, especially their fury. Now he has to deal with what he’s done.

A dark cloud appears over her head. It floats over her, a darkness looming.

Penny feels her hands heat up, a familiar warmth takes over her, the candles becoming brighter.

Landen has an energy ball, cerulean blue, in each hand, his eyes glowing the same color. With the glare, he looks deadly.

Tex always looks deadly. Murderous in this instance. His hands are clenched so hard, if not for his impenetrable skin, he would probably bloody his own palms.

While she led their escape and likes to be hopeful, it slips from her.

Not everyone deserves her kindness.

The storm cloud above Ness’ head lit up with a flash of lightning. It shocks everyone when she opens the cell, Dr. Marken falling to the ground, having leaned on the door. He looks up, his eyes shining through his glasses. Fear radiating off of him.

Crouching down, Ness gets to his level and shoves him with on hand against the open cell door. The bang that his head makes quells something inside Penny.

She has a fistful of his shirt, getting in his face. Penny is impressed with Ness’ strength to face their torturer. “You are alive because you’re Ever’s father. She’s the only reason why we’re not killing you,” she practically spits in his face.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Ness extracts a notebook. The notebook that each of them has seen countless times. The one that holds what he did to them in his own words. Once she has it, she pushes him back down.

Tex and Landen grab the duffel bags, following her lead. It actually surprises her with how willing they are to leave him unmarked.

Ness steps away and Tex takes the opportunity to throw his fist at the the doctor’s face. It completely obliterates his glasses and knocks him out. Tex must’ve not been using all his strength because he could have easily killed him. Yet here he is still breathing.

“We’ll bring him upstairs and leave him there,” Ness says.

“What should we do?” Landen voices, looking around at their and apparently many others’ prison.

Penny slowly walks up to her cell, very much intact. Her fingers run across the name tag that’s still titled Subject Pennsylvania.

When it’s quiet, she can hear her own screams as Dr. Marken experimented on her. On them. Her skin gets goosebumps, feeling the ghost of his torture.

This basement is more than a dungeon. It’s a symbol of their pain. Where they lost everything. The files mean that there were many more who dealt with what they did. She doesn’t want this place to ever house anyone ever again.

She finally understands the rage that Tex and Ness express all the time. It is all consuming.

Turning back to her friends with a renewed fury, she answers Landen’s question.

“Burn this bitch to the ground.”

you’ll understand the title soon. I had a little too much fun writing this. it’s absolutely serious until the last part…

—————— .HUNTYR. ——————

I wouldn’t say I’m particularly close to Jaz, but it’s not of my interest to be so far from her.

Attempting to relax, I fiddle with the massage chair remote, only to realize massages will not help.

Consequently, I throw my head back with a groan.

Then I yell.

“Mays, when will the jet land again?”

A glance from my blue-eyed twin tells me enough.

It’ll be a while.

Crews hums and places his AirPods back in his ears. Before clicking on his phone, he adds, “Just take a nap or read.”

As he processes what he just said, a burst of laughter evokes the two of us.

Neither of us has been able to sleep since we left Portland.

And I have no intention to read for as long as I live. ——————

“Jaz is at her orchestra meeting tonight, so we won’t see her until around 8,” Maya announces, throwing her luggage onto the couch to unpack later.

I glance around quickly, watching as Maya and Crews take in the now dead silent house. For some reason, it’s tidier than when we left, with the exclusion of a few pieces of music left on the counter.

My brother and best friend make their way to the island, taking seats on the stools to glance at the notes on the paper.

“Uh, do you think Marigold meant to leave these here?” Crews adds, using his very clever nickname for her.

“Not sure.”

Maya considers this, tracing the notes with her fingers as I stand behind the two. I’m almost shocked with what I see.

Almost.

—————— -CREWS- ——————

The lyrics…

“Two boys and a best friend, add a violin. Love triangles, now how do you make them end?”

Is this a love triangle?

Before a fury can burn through my veins, Maya softly suggests, “Hey Crews. Why don’t you take these up to the orchestra meet? I’m sure Jaz would love to see you.”

Seeing Jaz? The idea makes me smile so hard, I almost want to throw up. I’m not used to that.

I don’t even manage a response before Huntyr grumbles in protest. “Why not me or you?” He adds, leaning against the counter on the other side of Maya.

A frown sits upon his face, with his eyes flicking dangerously between Maya and I.

“Look, if I go,” she begins, pointing a finger at Huntyr’s chest, “you will find a way to mess with Crews or the other way around.”

“And if I go?”

“You’ll probably make Jazzy cry.”

It almost looks like Huntyr just crumbled to the floor.

Is it a love triangle?

Does Jaz like Huntyr?

She can’t. Right?

—————— •JASMINE• ——————

After playing the same six measures over a hundred times, I am officially over this meet. Nothing interesting has happened for over an hour.

I raise my hand sheepishly.

“Mrs. Locks, may I make a request?”

The white-haired woman looks down her glasses at me.

“Continue.”

Suddenly my heart pounds against my chest as everyone’s eyes fall on me. I shift a little in my chair.

“Can we practice the POTC song? Please? Isn’t that the song we have to perform at the musical?” I can’t feel my hands anymore. How am I still able to talk? “As the live accompaniment?”

Mrs. Locks seems to consider this, as a hushed whisper soars through the crowd.

“As you wish, Ms. Felle.”

We practice my favorite song of the seven, and suddenly time passes by smoothly.

Until the secretary pops by, whispering into the director’s ear.

To which… Mrs. Lock’s eyes dart to mine.

My leg starts bouncing.

“Jasmine, you have a visitor in the office. They would like to speak with you.”

Who in the world could it be? __ The twins? Maya? __ No. Their flight isn’t supposed to land until seven.

“Go ahead and put your instrument away, darling. It sounds serious.”

I nod my head slowly, them swiftly, I pack up my violin, gripping the handle of it as I walk out of the concert hall.

As I approach the heavily windowed office, I notice a familiar face, with dancing blue eyes and the fluffiest hair in existence.

Immediately, I drop my violin case, to which it softly lands on the carpeting, and run towards the boy.

“CREWS!” I scream, taking him by surprise as he just barely manages to open his arms for me.

We capture each other in a hug.

It’s been forever since I last saw him, and that’s clear in the way my arms wrap around his neck and my body presses against his. And the way his arms snake around my waist in a protective gesture.

“Crews,” I whisper this time, pressing my cheek against his chest to hear the heartbeat. “Your heart is beating so fast.”

“Because of you, Sunflower,” he mumbles, his hand reaching behind my head to hold me closer. “Because of you.”

Crews kisses my hair and holds me for a second or two, at least until we realize the office has erupted into cheers. Immediately, I jolt from the warmth of the blue-eyed boy.

“Crasmine!! Crasmine!!” They chant.

Are we that famous?

“Uhm…” I mumble, returning my gaze back to Crews. “What do we say?”

“We’re just friends, guys,” Crews shouts, stepping forward to capture me again in his strong arms and covering my ears. Not nearly fast enough I might add.

He must not have wanted me to hear that.

I didn’t want me to hear that.

It hurt.

I’m pretty sure my heart literally sank and is now in a puddle at my feet.

I need to push him away. He doesn’t see me as girlfriend material, it’s not… it’s not… okay for people to see us as a couple when that’s not what Crews wants.

But how come he’s hugging me like this? With our bodies pressed together, with his hands dropped to my hips and resting on them.

“Crews, friends don’t hug like this,” I mumble, even though telling him breaks my heart even more.

He nods as if to consider, before dipping his head to my shoulder. Crews hesitates a second before I feel his warm breath fan against the bare skin between my neck and shoulder. “Maybe I don’t want to be just friends.”

Did I just get struck by lightning?

—————— .HUNTYR. ——————

I shouldn’t have come here.

It was a bad idea.

My eyes glare through the tinted office windows, at the silhouette of a couple.

Are they seriously kissing?

In front of all of those people?

I need to make a way to get Jasmine to pick me instead.

As I try to come up with solutions, only one comes to mind.

You see, the only answer is arson.

You burn what you can’t have, so maybe it’ll become burnt enough for you to be good enough for it.

Jasmine cannot be mine.

But like I said, you must burn what you can’t have.

She will be mine, because arson is not a crime in the mind of a Livingston.

Crews seems to agree.

(TW: Holoc@ust)

One usually commits arson out is spite. This is because it’s far easier to summon the power-fuel of fire from match-wielding fingertips than to confront uncomfortable emotions. And even if my maturity would betray me this, I’ll admit I was not angry. I was young and naïve to the cruelties of the world. I had warmed my cold-pale hands. I had caught the fluttering ash like raindrops on my tongue, but it did not soothe the burning in my throat as rain would have. Onlookers screamed at me to stop, but I was perfectly happy; I danced and laughed, dropping to the ground to make soot-angels. The other prisoners looked on in horror. They thought I was a goner. But here I am, all these years later. I may be a skin-wrapped bag of bones begging for nourishment, but I am still alive, still kicking. On the outside world, I imagine they would say I have years left before I earn the right to autonomy. Yet I have witnessed enough horrors to burden hundreds of childhoods. I am forced to make adult decisions just to survive the day. How laughable a situation! I suppose it is my humor and optimism that has kept my fighting spirit intact. Still, I realized long ago that no one was coming to save me — to save us — anytime soon. I kept my head down, ate when I could, and did not complain when I could not. I did each painstaking task, perfecting the art of being average enough to dissuade attention. And each and every night, I lay in the unforgiving cell, back aching and teeth chattering. My only warmth came from the fire. Cursed fire. I tried not to think about it, but it was impossible. It was all we smelled, all we tasted. It poisoned my lungs and saturated every cell of my body with its wrongness. They told us that the fire was for waste — nothing more than a garbage incinerator. As the little soot-angel girl faded into the hardened shell of a laborer, I had come to realize from the well-worn, too-big shoes and disappearing friends that we were the trash. I had heard whispering about a rebellion. Some kind of attempt to rise up and overpower the guards for our freedom. It would never work. Not so long as they kept us starved and brittle like the leaves they crunched under their heavy boots. People were growing desperate, and I was powerless to stop it. But their attempts at freedom would only buy them a harsher death. The day before the revolt was staged was the first stroke of luck I had in years. One of our captors dropped a nearly-empty matchbox when he went for a smoke. He hadn’t realized it was gone, so naturally, it was mine. Not that he would miss it. The next morning, I traded another prisoner one of the three matches for extra food. I would need the sustenance, and my trade victim was clearly not smart enough to ask for part of the box to strike it, nor did they think they needed it. They were the naïve ones now. A good deal on my part to say the least. I would not be joining the revolt with the others. It was a death wish, and I did not work this hard just to die of stupidity. They would prove a worthy distraction, and, I would do my best to help from afar. I do wish them well, though they are misguided. I went to my workstation, counting down the seconds in my head until chaos would erupt. Then I could slip away. Like clockwork, it happened. They had surprise on their side, which worked at first. They head-butted, punched, and slapped their way to freedom from the guards’ immediate control, using work tools to their benefit. But as I had predicted, backup came. With more weapons. By the time the first gunshot rang out, I was gone. I could only watch the scene unfold. A few lucky ones got away. The rest… a few were killed as examples, but the others were rounded up. Their fates would be worse than death, such so that they would be pleading for the relief of its embrace. All I had were the two matches. With shaking fingers, I struck them against the box together. The sizzle and crackle of a flame not made from blood was music to my ears. It danced like a candle on a menorah, guiding me to clarity through the darkness all around me. I might not be able to save them, but I can give them kindness. I waited until the wind died down and hurled the twin flame soldiers like flying arrows into the fray. I heard the screams first. They wouldn’t understand. To show them mercy, arson was the only answer. I couldn’t help but be a little satisfied as the guards burned too. The fire I willed at them would only be a sneak peek of hell. I suppose my anger fed this part of the blaze. “Forgive me,” I pleaded, before fleeing from the inferno. I didn’t know where I was going, just that it had to be anywhere but here.

On Wednesday, they burned the bodies. They did it at 7 a.m. on the dot, just as the sun was coming up. Clint said it was best to do it in the morning and joked that their neighbor's breakfast cooking would mask the smell of burning bodies.

Joked.

Clint’s tone came off as joking, but Laine didn’t think he was. She stood in the backyard, hands tucked under her armpits for warmth. Exhaling plumes of breath into the crisp Fall air. She tried her best to divert her eyes from Rory Sans’s blinking eyes, but it was hard to do.

So. So. Hard to do.

Because…decapitated heads shouldn’t blink, and beyond that, they shouldn’t smirk or smile. The fingers and toes on severed hands and feet shouldn’t wiggle. But they did that too. It was too early, and the situation was too bizarre for Laine to process. She wanted to go to bed, but she knew that sleeping wasn’t an option. Sleeping wouldn’t be an option for the next few nights, maybe even the next few weeks.

Last night, Rory and Gloria Sans came over for game night, and everyone was having a great time. The guys chatted about video games over beers, as Clint handled the cooking, and Gloria filled Laine in on all the latest gossip from her office. Laine worked 100% remote, so any gossip from her previous job was welcome...especially when Gloria was the one spilling the tea.

Everything was going just fine, and then she heard Clint’s scream. At first, her brain couldn’t process her fiancé’s strange scream. At first, she thought he was laughing while taking beer down the wrong tube. Then she turned around and saw the blood. That and the fork that was sticking out the top of his hand. She couldn't make sense of what she was seeing; all she saw was the fountain of red that gushed out of Clint's wound and onto the counter.

If Gloria hadn’t screamed like a banshee, she would have plunged a knife into Laine’s throat. Laine had turned at the last second to see Gloria lunge at her, eyes wide like those of a feral creature. Laine’s thoughts as she tumbled out of her chair was:

1. Where did that knife come from?

And

2. That’s not one of our butcher knives.

Which meant that Gloria had brought it into their house, and she and Clint were none the wiser.

“Lunacy!!” Clint howled. She could hear the pain in the crack of his voice. “They’re infected with Lunacy!!”

Lunacy was short for Lunaticitis, and its symptoms were simple. Once you contracted it, you became a deranged, nearly unkillable lunatic. Contracting it was as simple as catching the common cold. She had no idea that Gloria and Rory were infected, and she’d shared glasses of wine with both of them.

Gloria continued to wail like a lunatic, the whites of her eyes consumed by frantic red veins. Maybe it was a trick of the lighting or Laine's angle from the floor, but Gloria's pupils looked like a mustard yellow. Spittle rained down onto the kitchen tiles, as beads of saliva dribbled from her bottom lip. Laine crab-walked backward as Gloria slashed the knife like a woman possessed. She wasn't even close to striking her, but she kept stumbling forward. Laine shot her right foot out and into the chair closest to her, launching it into Gloria's path and causing her to fall forward and to the ground. She practically threw the knife in Laine's direction. Laine hurled her body to the right, the blade clashing to the tiles. Laine snatched the knife from the floor and lunged forward without a second thought.

She heard the sound of knife to flesh and felt the warmth of blood before her mind could register what she'd done. Even Gloria's gurgle failed to bring her back to reality. Laine blinked Gloria's blood from her eyes, as her brain struggled to make sense of what was in front of her. The blade, now covered in gore, was sticking up and out of Gloria's mouth. Laine released her grip around the knife's handle, each finger cracking as though she'd been stricken with rigor mortis. Gloria's head fell forward, balancing on the knife's handle for a second before dropping to the right with a thud.

When Clint came to pick her up, he was saying something, but she couldn't make sense of a single word. It was like he was on the phone with a bad connection; she made out every other word...if that.

Back...life. Chop.

They're...to...Dismember.

He kept saying these words over and over again, and none of it really clicked until Gloria got back up to her feet. They watched in silence as she stood up and ripped the butcher knife through her lower jaw, her teeth clattering to the bloody tiles. Clint grabbed her hand, and they ran; she could see Rory get up from her peripherals. Clint led them into the garage, talking through a funnel, and then he handed her an ax.

"Swing." He said.

And she did—just as Gloria charged at her with that damn knife. Laine swung right for her neck, and that's when everything went black. She regained consciousness this morning, to the smell of a crackling fire.

"We have to burn the bodies; that's the only way to really kill them," Clint said, but it sounded like he was across a field.

"Don't look at them, baby. Ignore them. Go back inside; I got this. Take a test to see if you're infected."

Laine didn't have to take a test. She knew her answer. She watched as Gloria and Rory's features melted into one. Clint said something from over her shoulder, but she heard none of it. She did, however, hear his scream as she pushed him headfirst into the fire.

And she watched in silence as his face melted. Because it was that funny.

Another day, rush hour rushes through your veins. Makes your blood boil. Inch by painful inch, not one thing that has met your throbbing stare remains uncursed. You are desperately late.

Running late, always running late: the austere eye of a traffic light pierces through the moist graphite six fifteen am atmosphere, streaking everything in its gaze in sunset vibes. There’s nothing poetic about it. Only the hands on your watch have been moving for the past five minutes.

Six, actually. The traffic light goes amber… green — AND LITERALLY THREE SEDONDS LATER — amber… red. The driver at the top has missed the cue. Your breakfast sizzles in gastrointestinal fluids.

Once upon a time, you wouldn’t have considered smoking in the car. Once upon a time, you didn’t loathe this car.

Naturally, you can’t find the lighter. You step out of the car and check the boot. You find the lighter: it’s sitting next to the Molotov cocktail you’d carefully prepared only yesterday night, after another long night spent sitting in a queue facing the opposite direction. You’d nearly forgotten, but now an idea reassembles in the back of your mind. A smile spreads across your face. A sense of peace rushes through your veins as your hands tingle in anticipation: the only possible answer reveals itself to you.

The couple looked so gorgeous sitting there, beneath the oak tree. I watched from over the top of my book, letting the pages flutter in the wind. The read was fine, but they were more enticing. The woman looked like a supermodel. Flawless, from what I could see. The man was less attractive, but I had a certain pull towards him. I felt as if he could be my soulmate; he seemed kind in that way. The wind swept her hair. He reached out and helped her hold it down to her shoulders. They laughed at the absurdity of it. I didn’t smile. All I felt was jealousy, hatred, and anger.

My husband of seventeen years sat there flirting, touching a woman I knew nothing about.

I looked down at my cigarettes in the ashtray. Then, to my lighter. Then, to their beautiful clothes. I didn’t recall ever washing that particular jacket of his. Must be new.

The only answer was arson.

Smoke, Rising in my chest, A spark that would Spoke.

Flame, Burnt in my heart, Brave once this fire, Came.

Brittle, Was the motive, Onto which we thought so, Little.

Run. With the fear, The only answer was Arson.

…

🖤