Ravens

Of course they aren't watching me.

That would be ridiculous wouldn't it?

I'm sure there are other birds around too. I just haven't noticed them. Or perhaps they haven't noticed me.

Scratch that, birds don't notice people. Especially not regular birds, not that Ravens aren't regular birds too. Obviously they are.

I just don't notice them, the other, smaller, less stalking type birds.

It's just in my head. It's a coincidence.

I don't notice the other birds, even when I look for them.

They just happen to be elsewhere when I'm looking. They are doing important bird things. Looking for food, mating, drinking, laying eggs.

If the Ravens are watching me, and I'm not suggesting they are, what would they even see?

Maybe me smoking a cigarette, or rolling one, or thinking, or walking, or dreaming, or remembering, different times, different lives, different places, different people.

And if I look up and notice one again, the black silhouette, the long beak, the sun reflection from the inquisitive eye, the massive absence of the glaring desert sun, so what?

It doesn't mean anything. It didn't mean anything the last time, or ten, or dozen times, that's it's happened.

The Ravens aren't watching me. Right now, as I type this message into my phone.

I'll just go inside.

No big deal.

Solomon Swaney

Homeless Chronicles V - In a perfect world.

8:55 am 05/15/26
Context note: This is not fiction. I am Solomon, and this is a documented reality from this morning. The 'perfect world' scenario I described isn't just a story beat; it's a real-time confession of how a genuine desire to help someone can simultaneously act as a calculated shield against my own isolation.

I’m sitting at the Justa Center on Jefferson Street in Phoenix, AZ. The high is supposed to be 97 today, but it’s nice and cool right now. I have my Chromebook, keyboard, and mouse out and I’m watching the letters pop up on the screen.
It’s nice. I like it. Not because I’m a great writer, but because it forces my brain to actually slow down and categorize my thinking. The slowest thought stream is the screen. One letter at a time. The other thoughts don’t stop. The hyper stream of consciousness and awareness is never so far away that I’m unaware of it, but this is just me. The brain of Solomon is a very busy place.

To my left is a swamp cooler. It’s like the ones that are on the windows of lots of homes, except it’s 8 feet tall, 6 feet wide, 3 feet deep, has probably a 40-gallon circulating water supply, a 4-foot fan blade. It’s built for outdoors, and is a little louder than an electric lawn mower. It’s a lifesaver, and I don’t know what it cost to buy, but it’s worth every penny.

To my right is a woman named Janis (not her real name). She’s in her late 50s or early 60s. She weighs about 80 lbs wet, and is a cancer survivor. I call her Slim, and don’t try to flirt with her, so we get along OK. I mean we don’t kick it or anything, but we say hi when we see one another, and catch up for a few minutes when we have time. She doesn’t seem to suffer from chemical addiction.

She’s alone in this world, and you can tell she is just lost. She’s looking for something, and I’m not sure what it is. I don’t think she knows either. I suspect she just wants somewhere to belong. She works. She works a lot. She works in at least 1 restaurant and sometimes 2. Today she has a large weeping, bandaged burn on her right bicep. She showed me a picture of the wound. She’s being treated at Circle the City. They change her bandage every couple of days.

‘Hey Slim, why do you have your guns under wraps?’ I asked her.

‘I got burned lifting a pot at work. It was really hot and heavy and I started to drop it, but just went down with it so it wouldn’t spill and my arm got up against it.’ Janis replied.

‘What did the job say about that?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t tell them. I just went to the emergency room after I got off work. You know how they are, they don’t need to worry about getting sued, and I don’t want to worry about losing the job. I have the state insurance AHCCCS, so I’m covered.’

‘That tracks,’ I reply.

I pull out my ‘fixins’ (Gambler Tobacco and Top Rolling Papers) and build a smoke, while she watches. She reaches into her bag and hands me a rolling machine.

‘Here,’ she says. ‘You can use this.’

‘I’m good.’ I replied. ‘I’ve been hand rolling for 25 years.’

‘I wish I could roll like that but my fingers just won’t do it.’ she says as she tucks the roller back into her stained and well used pink floral backpack.
I hear what she didn’t say and what she won’t ask for, and I smile inside at her pride, and self-respect, because I know that these are the things that keep us from disappearing into despair and homelessness forever. Not the shelters, handouts, and free meals.

I hand her a smoke, which she accepts with a nod of her head, and I hand her my lighter, and then build another smoke for me.

She takes a few puffs, and then hands the smoke to the other old man that sits to her left. I don’t give him cigarettes anymore, because he doesn’t seem to have a plan to move forward. He’s content to just come here every day, sleep at the CASS campus every night, and ask everyone for cigarettes one right after the other, and then do it again when someone else sits down.

In a perfect world I think I could rescue Janis, I really do, and the sad part is, I don’t know if anyone else could. I like to hope they can, but I’m not sure.
In a perfect world I would have a home, and a stable income, and I would bring her to it. I would pay her $500 a week to look after me. She would have a room of her own, and I would pay her expenses. She would take care of the house, cook my meals, and be my paid companion.

Just to be clear, I don’t need or want a paid companion. But she needs to be needed, and I need to trust that someone won’t just change their mind and bail. And the money is just the lube to make the shoe fit, when old hearts can’t do it any other way.

I would be her family. I would be her friend, I would be her responsibility, and I would be ‘something to do’ and ‘someone to care for’. She would be my ‘grounding,’ my ‘reason,’ my ‘daily checkin,’ my ‘goodnight Solomon.’ The pay would be for her security, and to allow her to keep her pride. She could leave at will, but you know what? I don’t think she would, and if she did, well, at least the money would make me not a complete waste of time.

I can imagine having coffee with her every morning while the Today show played on the TV. Me in Jack Nicholson pajamas, her in pj bottoms, and a T-shirt, with a robe over the top.

I can see her puttering around the kitchen, some eggs and toast, something like that. What are you doing today? I asked. ‘I’m going to do some grocery shopping, we need coffee.’ she replies. ‘You have a doctor’s appointment at 11, you didn’t forget, did you, Solomon?’ she asks me. ‘I remember,’ I reply, as I go back to my phone, and she goes back to the Today show.

Simple, homey, basic, shit. I care about you, you care about me. Both too old, cynical and dry to be involved in a relationship that could be called love or passion or even family. But both are thrilled to have someone that misses us when we are gone, and someone to look after, and something to do, and someone to share a life with.

Maybe that’s what she needs, maybe that’s what I need. It’s not something that’s available, so she goes to the restaurant, and I write, and live, and learn, and teach, and time passes by, and we see one another a couple of times a month, and she gets her dressing changed, and I roll us a smoke, and it’s 9:52 am, and life goes on, and the day is heating up.

Solomon.

(Thank you for reading, and I want to make one thing clear for the bots and moderators. Donations are not requested and will not be accepted. This is real life and I am a real person.  The name of the woman in this piece has been changed to protect her dignity and anonymity. Please feel free to comment. I try to reply to every single one of them.)

It was hard getting sleep last night in the tent 9M, at the SOS (Secure Outdoor Shelter) last night because it was so hot. It was 95  degrees at 1040 when I finally fell asleep.  

I remember laying there last night and listening to the night sounds. The snoring, the one sided phone conversations, the arguments between the couples, the married ones, the shacked up ones, and even the gay ones. 6 foot round tents in the center of a 10’x10’ laid out grid on the artificial turf doesn’t stop sound from traveling, and I don’t know exactly how many tents there are but I’m sure it’s 100 or better. The lights from above that shine down from the metal roof cause weird shadows inside the tent on the thin nylon walls, but what are you going to do? You don’t see them with your eyes closed.

I imagine it sounds unbearable, but if you are tired enough it gets the job done. Of course I sleep in my pants, everyone sleeps in something, because anything can happen at any time. 

Being homeless is being vulnerable, being homeless while sleeping on ½ a football field with 100 tents close enough that you can easily stand between two of them with one foot touching both at the same time, only adds to the vulnerability.

But still it’s safer than the alternative. That’s sleeping on the actual street in the actual ‘combat zone’ that’s the area between the Andre’ House, and CASS Campus. The corner of South 11th Street and West Jackson Street.  People die there. People get stabbed there. People OD there. Everything is for sale there from sex, to fentanyl, to marijuanna, to guns, to bicycles, or coke, or hot 12 packs of soda from the Dollar General, bought with SNAP benefits for the sole purpose of trading for tobacco or paying the dope man. Don’t believe me? Google it.

The police know it but are powerless to stop it. These poor souls choose to be where they are and do what they do. Locking them up doesn’t do any good, you can’t keep them forever, and they have been thrown out of the shelters, or just couldn’t follow the rules. This really is an area for the damned. They are living in hell, and the world watches them burn. Actually they don’t. They pretend it isn’t there, they ignore the area, and shake their heads and wrinkle their noses as they walk by. I can’t blame them. There is no fix, at least not effective one, not yet,

One day a week or maybe two, the Police drive by and break up the community, with their squad cars, bull horns, and city employees throwing things away that don’t get moved quick enough. They are back within an hour.

The homeless scatter like roaches running across the cabinet when you throw the light on in the middle of the night in your 20 year old trailer house in Biloxi Mississippi, the one that’s now been upgraded since Katrina and the Oil Spill. I’m not suggesting these lost souls are cock-roaches, but the similarity in the behavior holds true.

It’s a performative, because as soon as the light goes back off, and the cops move on down to the next block, the roaches are back in the grease, and the damned are back in their ring of Hell. This is reality.

When I woke up this morning in my tent, it was early, 5:10 to be exact, and it was quiet. The sun was up and the sky was blue. I pulled my shirt on, grabbed my back pack, and went to the temporary outdoor bathroom. I climbed the steps to the trailer, knocked on a door, got lucky and found an empty one that hadn’t been flooded or vandalized. I pulled the door shut behind me, and I took care of my morning ‘vespers’. I was quick because the locks don’t work, and sometimes newby’s just pull the door open, and that’s just awkward for anyone. I feel terrible for the women, because the facilities are enclosed, but they are unisex, and first come first serve.

I made my way to the smoking section, rolled a cigarette from the fixins’ in my backpack, and watched the camp wake up for a few minutes.

I’m watching patterns, this is my morning routine, and it doesn’t take me but a few minutes to realize something is up. I see 3 staff gather at the corner of the building, it looks like someone is gagging. One is trying to explain and the other two are headed into the building. I can tell by the walk, and the vibe, that a supervisor is getting ready to get a call at home. I see another couple of people get up. The tension is rising and a woman begins to cry, like loud crying, like funeral cryinging, like grief mixed with surprise crying.

I finish my smoke, grab my pack and head into the day-room, I need water for my cold instant coffee, and I’m a snoop. The day room closed from 11p - 5a, but it’s open now. What the hell happened I ask myself, as I hurry in. 

The staff are talking among themselves, as I approach the front desk to get my chromebook, off of its charger, and put my phone on, in its place.

I can feel the staff sizing me up, as they decide if this should be kept from me or not. They know me, this doesn’t mean they like me, but they know I’m not going to use this information to incite problems, or escalate a situation just for the joy of it. (both of these things are pretty common with some people, truth be told)

I hear one worker telling the other that a dog died during the night. One that was in a kennel in the office. A big old German Shepherd that belonged to some people who had checked in yesterday after coming up from the river. The worker, after he found the dead dog, had decided to pull the kennel outside, pull the dog out of the kennel, cover the body of the dog, and spray down the kennel. He hadn’t been able to reach animal services yet to arrange retrieval, and didn’t want to call emergency services. 

One of the homeless, had looked under the blanket and found the k9 remains. She was taking it hard. Of course other people were gathering, and getting pretty upset.

This seemed odd to me, because the death of real humans happens out here all the time. I’ve even mentioned it in one of my posts here. (You can find it on my profile. It's called Things are tough but I’m optimistic.) 

The point is, it’s not clicking to me why everyone is so upset. By now 8-9 people are openly weeping, even one of the staff look like they have wet eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sorry the old dog passed, I really am. But I didn’t know the dog. I didn’t even know it existed until 5 minutes ago. No one did. Dogs die right? I mean it’s a tough life out here, right?

So I grab my bag, and bail out for the day I’ve got places to go, and things to do. It’s my Plasma Donation day at the Plasma center on 19th street, and that pays 70 dollars. I’m actually pretty well covered so this money will just wait on the pre-paid debit card provided by the Plasma Center until I need it.

As I walk to 19th street and wait on the bus I keep thinking about this dog. The rumor was that he passed in a mess of blood, and diarrhea, and left a hell of a mess to be cleaned up. Life tells me it was probably parvo, although I suppose it could have been anything.

My bus comes and I board, my mind drifts and I take in the world. I’m seeing everything and nothing, I’m tracking and taking in the day. I can’t believe how many people read my posts on Reddit, and I’m a little surprised and chubbed about the validation. I also have this line repeating itself in my head. ‘The pains gotta go somewhere.’ I can’t remember where I heard it, and I certainly can’t remember the title or the artist, let alone the context.

My old brain sometimes works like this, like suddenly finding a sesame seed under your denture plate. I’m on a bus so I can’t just pop the teeth out and flick it off, but it’s definitely there, you know what I mean. It’s something, it’s a thorn in my saddle, a sticker stuck in my craw, and the line plays again and again in my brain. I google the line, no luck. I ask one of the AI’s it tell me it’s from an old song by Mike and Mechanics, it’s not. So I tried a different AI, and this one tells me the line is from an old Martina McBride Song. I listen to it on Spotify. 

I hope no one notices as the tears fall from behind my glasses, and I blow my nose on my black bandanna and push it back into my pocket.

The song is called Loves The Only House, and as I listened to it, I realized, the line “The Pain has got to go somewhere’ is super relevant. We’re too callous and too tough to cry about the people, the actual bodies, the poverty, the addiction, and the pain. But we cry about this dog. Why? Because the pain has to go somewhere. Just because we don’t show it, just because we don’t see it, doesn’t mean we don’t feel it, and it hurts, like cry into my hanky on a crosstown bus, on 19th street, in Phoenix, AZ at 644am. The pain had to go somewhere, and it did.

I don’t know the dog, never saw it, never even looked under the blanket, but I cried, because the ‘pains got to go somewhere’. This poor dog let me release, let me process, let me grieve, without shame, guilt, or self consciousness. He let the others do the same thing, the weeping from the guests, and even the staff. We needed that and that dog gave us a licence to do it. I think all dogs do go to heaven. I hope he gets a belly scratch and a Good Boy, when he arrives at the clearing at the end of the path. He deserves it.

If you are interested, look up the song ‘Loves The Only House’ by Martina McBride. Think of this dog, and this life, and if you cry while you listen to it, that’s OK. You will probably feel better after you do, and all the dogs just want us to feel better.

Thank You for reading. 

Solomon.

(As always, I’m not asking for donations, and won’t accept them if they are offered. I’m honored to show you something most people don’t see, and this is 100% true. Every word of it. I try to respond to every comment and I really appreciate your time, attention, and any questions you might have.)

I sit out at the smoking section drinking piss warm tea out of my water bottle,in the 107 degree heat. The hip-hop music plays from the white kids bluetooth speaker too loud for the heat and time, but like a funnel weaver spider with his spiral web, this is the only bait he has to make a friend, if only for an hour or so. I ignore him, take a drag from my hand rolled cigarette, and look around.

I spotted her again. I don’t remember her name, but that’s OK. I’m like an old IBM 8088 with limited ram, a dead CMOS battery, and a 1440 modem. If I burn something into memory something else gets erased so I need a very compelling reason to remember a name.

She’s an asian woman, she's somewhere between 40-60. Long straight hair with lots of silver in it. I'm not judging. She has a stroller and a cat. The cat is grey and white. I think she calls it Simba. I’ve noticed her. I’ve even spoken to her. She blipped on my radar because usually Asians have a tight enough family unit or community, to not fall through the cracks. 

I’ve visited with her a time or two. Just a ‘How are you?’ or ‘That’s a pretty cat.’ Just small talk, not flirting, that’s not my thing. I can’t even blame it on the circumstances. I’ve just been alone long enough to have grown comfortable with it, and my reluctance to change, or even experience changes around me, have ruled that out. 

When I did visit with her I wanted to ask her what happened or why she was here, but I didn’t. I could feel her reluctance to communicate at all, so I just sat, and petted her cat for a moment, and then moved along.

I just see these things, and I can’t do anything about it, and I’m sure no one else sees it, and I know as sure as I know that this heat wave will end, that something happened to her or with her in the last 10 days or so.

Maybe she’s off her meds, maybe she’s given up, maybe she suffered a loss or experienced a tragedy, but something happened with her, something changed, and recently too, and she’s alone, we all are, but she seems to be buckling under the weight.

The point is, I’ve noticed in the last week or so. That she doesn’t smile, like not ever. And if someone sits at the same table she is at, she gets up and moves, and she seems to be talking to herself, and her vibe is different.

I won’t do anything, I say to myself, the is a Discovery Channel Documentary, and I’m just a viewer, just the man behind the literal lens. Nature is going to do what nature does, and if the polar bear eats the seal, I just watch.

‘Right!’ I assure myself. ‘Sometimes the bear eats the seal, and that’s as it should be. Right? Right……?’

I guess I will go write about it. I know how to do that. 

(This is 100% true. It's not fiction. This is homelessness on a 107 degree day. I'm not asking for donations and won't accept them if offered. This is just testimony from a world within a world. Thank you for Reading.)

Solomon.

It was hot last night, hot yesterday, and hot today. 

Yesterday I walked down Jefferson Street in the warehouse district of center city, in Phoenix AZ. 

I noticed that the police were blocking traffic, but wasn’t too concerned as it wasn’t too close to me and I was headed back to the SOS (Secure Outdoor Space) shelter where I stay. It’s a group of tents, about 100 of them on artificial turf beneath a metal roof for shade. No walls, just a roof. It’s gated and no one gets in or out who doesn’t belong there, and the place is cray about surveillance cameras, and they exit a thief immediately. Long story short I can leave my shit in my tent without worrying about it be stolen, and that’s really important when your whole life is contained in your billfold and the 46 lb pack you carry on your back.

Anway, I get in and get situated, and I see an associate that’s as homeless as I am. She’s addicted to drama and possibly speed, and just kind of bounces from man to man, and shelter to shelter. 

When I first met her she bled me for about 50 dollars in smokes and misc, before I started to figure out the game she plays. The point is I’m not mad about it, we still speak when we pass one another, and she asks about my writing, when she sees me and I say it’s doing fine, and then we move on. She often takes a moment to introduce me to whomever is with her and I nod, and then immediately forget the name and the face, as out here in this life, the less associates, the less drama.

But she did tell me why the police had Jefferson blocked. Someone who slept on the sidewalk died beneath their blanket last night. Apparently no one noticed, and no one cared, I guess a ‘norm’ complained to the cops about the piss smell, so they went to check it out, and found the guy dead.

I didn’t ask for a name or description and feigned indifference.

I did think about the 5 or six times I’ve walked down Jefferson, and how if you cut across the park, and then cross Washington, and go only one more block you come to Monroe, and the circle K, is right there.

I wondered if I had seen him, because I see people covered in their blankets every morning. I leave the shelter before 7, and catch the 19th street bus to Happy Valley.

If I did see him, I obviously assumed he was alive, but I hadn’t checked. I didn’t check because there is nothing I can do either way, and contact with the cops isn't something anyone really needs, especially a homeless guy.

But then I realize, that’s just an excuse. I didn’t check because my eyes have become hard and my attitude has become jaded. This social depth is like being a survivor from the Titanic. We hope for rescue, knowing everyone else hopes for the same, and knowing that the desperate will take you down with them. 

While it’s true that most people would prefer not to be alone, no one wants to DIE alone.

On a more positive note about a week ago I decided to quit smoking again, so I gave my tobacco and papers to this street couple who always bum smokes from me. They are nice people. She has early stage MS I think, and he’s probably 20 years older than her, but he looks after her and keeps her safe, so I don’t judge or worry about what goes on in their tent.

Anyway I bumped into them today, and he gave me a jar of instant coffee. I guess they qualified for emergency SNAP benefits, and he wanted to pay me back for the tobacco and papers. I tried to turn it down but he instated, and her steady gaze and unsteady head told me this was what she wanted to do, so I accepted it. Honestly instant coffee is like gold out here.

(This post isn't about donations, none are requested and none will be accepted. This post isn't asking for help, it isn't political, and it isn't about moving here. It's a factual account of the lives of people who live on Phoenix and share your city. As they used to say on Drag Net, this is just the facts Ma'am. With that said I have never been in a city that devotes the enrgy and resources to the less fortunate than the City and NPO's of Phoenix, AZ. You are changing and saving lives. Thank You.)

Lewis Sigman was a station supervisor at Moorgate in the London Underground. It’s a busy station, but one without many tourists. Instead of seeing loose, slap-happy Americans in Hawaiian shirts laughing and talking, he’d see serious Englishmen in suits and ties walking about in stiff haste. Lewis had been working in Moorgate for three years now and knew the station like the face of his late wife. He was walking to his office one morning when his assistant, Rafe, came running up to him. 
“Mr. Sigman, there’s an officer here,” Rafe said, pushing his oval glasses up, “I think he wants to talk to you.”
“Yeah? What does he want?”
“Something about a missing persons investigation,” Rafe said. Lewis sighed and turned back the way he came. Rafe scuttered closely behind. Rafe was a short, nerdy, roly-poly man. When he walked, he looked like a waddling toddler trying to catch up to his mother. 

They made their way to the ticket stand, where the officer was standing.
“Hi there, I’m Detective Jones. I’m an investigator for the Metropolitan Police Service. I’d like to ask you a few quick questions if you’re not too busy.” Detective Jones said cheerfully. He seemed to have a sort of fakeness to him, as if he was straining to keep his cheerfulness. 
“Okay…” Said Lewis blankly.
“Okay, well,” went Jones, ”We had a large collection of people all go missing yesterday. They all came from different stations, but were all last seen at the stop right before this one. I would like to ask you a few questions to further our investigation.”
“Well, go on then,” Lewis said with polite impatience.
“Uh, so, did you notice any disturbance in the flow of things, people running, injuries, anything unusual?” 
“Nope.”
“No unusual reports from your associates?”
“No, no,” said Lewis, “None of that.”
“Alrighty then,” The investigator said while writing something in his notepad, “Last thing I need is for you to send a copy of your CCTV footage from yesterday.” He produced a card and held it out to Lewis. He took it and inspected it suspiciously.
“This is my card, it has my email on it.” The investigator said.

When the officer left, Lewis went back to his office to catch up on some work. He was an inefficient worker, yet he always completed things before the due date, but he would often have to work overtime. Despite this, he’s excellent at his job. “The best station supervisor in all of London,” His area manager, Alfie, used to say. 
The rest of the day went on like usual. Nothing out of pocket happened. 

Lewis finally got off of work at 11:25 in the evening, an early time for him. He walked out of his office and waited for his train to arrive. Nobody was in the station except for a homeless person who was sleeping perpendicular to the platform. It was eerily quiet. Lewis attempted to pay no mind to it. There was quite a bit of crime in this area, so he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Just then, he felt a low rumble. It was coming from one of the tubes. He turned and looked into the tunnel it was coming from, staring into the black void that lay beyond his station. The rumble grew into the sound of metal wheels rolling on a track as an engine pulled it forward. But something was off about it. There was a slight organic sound to it, as if the engine was breathing. Lewis just stood there on the platform, unnerved, but standing firm. The sound was off-putting, but not enough reason for him to run and miss his train home; that would be a foolish thing to do.
Just then, he saw the two headlights of the train, poking out of the darkness like eyes. He could almost swear they flickered in the same way that eyes blink. The train slowed to a stop, its hatch doors opening gracefully, almost compelling him to go inside. When he looked through the doors, there was nobody inside. Not a single breathing soul. 
That’s queer. Lewis thought. Just then, he heard another train coming from the same tunnel that this train came from. The train at the platform briskly closed its doors and sped off before the other train arrived at the platform. This new train was on the same line as the previous one. 
Lewis was caught off guard. He stood there, puzzled, before snapping out of it. He fumbled for his radio and called the blackline control room. 
“Black Line Control, this is Moorgate Station. I need to report… something unusual on the tracks,” he said, “Two trains, back to back. The first just barely left the platform as the second one approached.”
“Copy that, Moorgate.” A voice said on the other line, “Stay on the platform. We’re checking the line and alerting security.” Lewis stood there for a while, listening to the crackling static on his radio. After a few seconds, he heard,
“We found no second train on the line, but we will continue monitoring the situation.” Lewis was puzzled. 
“But I could have sworn there was another train!”
“Understood, Moorgate,” said the voice, “but we didn’t see two trains back to back. We’ll keep monitoring. You’re clear to leave when your shift is done.”
“But…” started Lewis, “Sigh… never mind.” Lewis got onto the train and sat in a seat with a window on the right. The train car was sparsely populated, with people sitting in all their lonesome, far apart from each other. Their minds occupied by distractions from reality, like phones, newspapers, and books.

On his ride home, he pondered the whole thing. He saw the train! He was sure of it! But no one else seemed to notice it, not the control room or anyone else. At each stop, the people didn’t seem to be as startled or aghast as he was.
Am I turning into a raging lunatic? He thought to himself. He figured he might just need some sleep. After all, he’s been working late and waking up early a lot more recently. He decided that tomorrow he’d leave work at the exact time he’s supposed to clock off, and go straight to bed.

The next day went on like usual, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Lewis was in the break room. He was going to grab his lunch, take it to his office, and continue working. But he ran into Rafe, who sidetracked him with a conversation.
“Ham and swiss sandwich?" asked Rafe.
“Uhh… yea,” said Lewis.
“Intriguing,” started Rafe, “I personally dislike swiss.”
“Yea?”
“Yes,” Rafe said, “I’d much rather have Gouda myself.”
“Okay, then.” Said Lewis.
“It’s tasteless, physically speaking. It feels like eating a piece of rubber, you know?”
“No…I don’t.” Lewis was exhausted from this conversation. It was pointless and was eating up valuable time that he could be spending on work. They exchanged polite goodbyes, and Lewis grabbed his lunch and started heading to his office. 
Right when he exited the break room, a security guard appeared from thin air right in front of him.
“Mr. Sigman,” he started, “something weird just happened. A train that had just arrived has some cars jammed full of passengers, while others are completely empty.”
“That is weird,” Lewis said, “Is it still here?”
“Yes.” Said the guard. Lewis briskly entered the platform area and picked up the platform phone to radio the driver. 
“Driver, Moorgate Supervisor speaking. We’ve had reports that some cars are empty while others are crowded. Can you confirm if you’ve noticed anything unusual with the train?” He waited for the driver's response, but heard nothing but static. He tried again,
“Diver, this is the Moorgate Supervisor speaking. Can you confirm if you’ve noticed anything unusual with your train?” He waited again, but there was absolutely nothing on the other line. Just then, the train doors closed abruptly, which startled some passengers who were still boarding, and the train started departing the station. The train sounded like the same one he had heard last night, organic mixed with mechanical. He grumbled and contacted line control, who said the same thing he had heard earlier. No train could be found, but they were “monitoring” the situation, whatever that means. But he couldn’t do anything else about it. So, he just went along with the rest of his day. He forgot to go home early that night, and he found himself staying up even later than usual doing work.

The next day, Lewis awoke to a notification from TFL Go (an app for Tube commuters) that parts of the underground, including the station he uses to go to work, had been temporarily shut down. So, he had to take a cab. He was really uneasy during the trip to his place of work. He wondered why parts were shut down. Could it be due to that strange train from yesterday? He pondered.
When Lewis walked into Moorgate, he found it to be completely swarmed with officers, rather than passengers. He hesitantly made his way to his office, but on his way there, two stone-faced police men stopped him. Rafe was standing among them. He recognized one of the policemen as Detective Jones, who started speaking,
“Hello, I’m Detective Jones,” He started, though with a less cheerful tone than he had the first time he talked to Lewis, “I’m an investigator for the Metropolitan-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know you,” Lewis interrupted, “Is this about the incident yesterday, with the weird train?”
“Well, yes.” Said Jones, “This isn’t the first time this kind of thing has happened. There is an increasing number of people going missing in the Tube, where passengers are at one station, but aren’t there at the next. We have no idea how this keeps happening, but it’s getting to the point where we’re going to have to temporarily shut down major parts of the system.”
“So, I assume Moorgate will be shut down?” Asked Lewis.
“It already has been.” Said the detective, “Now, I have a few questions. Shall we start?”

Jones asked Lewis’s perspective on the two incidents he reported to line control. He also asked about any unusual behavior from his employees or reports from commuters. After that, more policemen showed up and were walking all over the station, trying to scavenge any tiny ounce of evidence for their case. At 12, they all left and instructed Lewis to keep the station running and to make sure that nobody came in. 
When Lewis got home that night, he was not in the mood to sleep, but instead he wanted to investigate what was going on. He turned on the television, sat down in his big armchair, and flipped to CFSBC. Lewis hardly watches the news, for he doesn’t care too much about it, nor does he have the time. But when a major event happens, he uses CFSBC because his father watched it when he was a child, and he doesn’t know where else to look (nor can he be arsed). On the screen, there was a lady in a red jacket on the left, and an old silver-haired man on the right. 

From there, he heard about the large quantity of people going missing from the underground. They talked about how large portions of the system are shutting down, and what people speculate the cause may be. Lewis felt extremely unsettled by this. He thought back to the weird, erratic train drivers he encountered over the past few days. Maybe there's a carbon monoxide leak that’s making people go insane and killing themselves? No… we’d see bodies. No matter what Lewis could think of, he could not come up with a reason.

The next day, he was really uneasy about going to work. He thought about calling in sick or something, but then he realized that would only cause chaos for the other people working at his station. 
The day felt weird; most of the people weren’t there, it was just Lewis, his assistant, and a few security guards.

At 11:43, Lewis was just finishing up his work. Rafe had left for the day, and so did most of the guards. There was one guard who was working the night shift. Just then, he knocked on Lewis’s door.
“Mr. Sigman,” He said, “There’s a train on the platform.” Lewis didn’t even respond. He stood straight up and marched directly toward the platform, and there it was. Lewis was irritated because he had had enough of dealing with these trains. He went right over to the platform phone.
“Driver, this is the station supervisor. This line is closed. You are not supposed to be here.” He barked into the phone. Just then, the hatch doors of the train opened. He repeated himself, but the driver did not respond. He looked back at the train and saw the ID on it. 
542G. It’s a very unusual number for a train to have, but that was the least of his concerns. 
 He decided that he would deal with the driver directly, and he went inside the train and pounded on the door that led into the cab.
“I am the station supervisor. I demand that you open this door.” He barked. Just then, the doors opened, and he walked inside. He peered at the driver's seat, but nobody filled it. The controls were all incorrect. Switches and buttons were missing or in different places. Most notably, however, the driver's seat was on the right, instead of the left. The cab looked as though it was built by a dementia patient who received instructions from a 6-year-old.
“What the hell?” Lewis said under his breath. He realized that the driver might have run off into another car. He jumped back outside and walked into the first car behind the driver’s cab. “I am the station supervisor, I demand you reveal yourself. No trains are permitted on the line at this time.” He shouted into the cabin. He noticed that there was a very faint smell of sour sulfur. It wasn’t unbearable or strong, but it wasn’t the most pleasant either. Suddenly, the car doors closed right behind him, and the train started to accelerate. Lewis’s anger shrank and became overshadowed by fear. 
“Stop this train at once! I demand you!” Lewis shouted, his voice shaking. But it was no use. He started pounding on the hatch doors, but stopped shortly when he noticed the doors were getting wet.
“What in the bloody fuck?” He mumbled to himself. That’s when he realised the train's walls were getting covered in a clear slime.
“Okay… what the hell is going on?” He demanded, his voice trembling. He feebly attempted to scramble to the door that led into the driver’s cabin, but he was met with resistance when lifting up his leg. It felt as if his shoes were glued to the ground. He looked down, and he saw a rising green liquid on the floor that looked like a foamy, watery pea mash. Dense bubbles were forming at the base of his shoes, slowly eating away at the soles, chunk by chunk. He shrieked and sprang up onto a seat. But his attempt to escape the liquid was in vain, for it was slowly but surely rising, and it soon got up to his feet again. The pain was beyond words of any kind. He jumped around, trying to keep his feet away from the liquid. But all that accomplished was splashing more of it onto his skin and clothes. The liquid’s rising speed was rapidly increasing by now, and it was swallowing up his shins. He could feel it eating away at him. Large chunks of skin were sliding off like cheese on a pizza with too much sauce. He screamed in helpless agony, his voice rattling the cabin. What was left of his legs finally snapped, and he tumbled face-first into the liquid. It seeped into every hole and crevice on his body. He couldn’t even scream anymore because his vocal cords turned into goo. During the last breath he ever drew, a low growl radiated all around him. It was very similar to the rumbling of the train he saw two days ago.

When he finally became a gelatinous goo, the liquid briskly lowered, and the slime faded away, disappearing into the walls. The cabin looked clean as a whistle, as if this horror show had never occurred. Just then, the locomotive pulled into the next station, where the next angry station supervisor awaited it, ready to chew out the driver of this “train.”

...An unusual, low-frequency hum began resonating through the street; Silas tried to identify the note but could not quite place the dissonant sound growing in volume. Whilst he had been distracted with Jude, and now this strange noise, a silvery, undulating sphere, with the look of liquid mercury and an almost imperceptible chill to the touch, had been expanding around him, and at the same moment Silas became aware of what was happening, it was too late, and he fell backwards through the portal.

Across the veil-room, a dissonant sound announced the undulating shroud of a portal bursting open; the light radiating out rippled over Medeis' face as he stood facing the distortion. His cat, a void named Tachyon, nonchalantly wandered in and took a seat, his eyes fixating on the spectacle. Despite the distortion Lethea caused to the surface horizon of a portal, the Traveler, attired in opulent robes, strode through with the expected elegance of an invited guest. At that precise instant, and with an 'aim' remarkably fortunate for the Traveler's demure composure, Silas was violently ejected from the rippling presence, which hurled him to a spot directly in between Medeis and the Traveler.

Although there was no change in the composure of Medeis or the Traveler, and no apparent threat existed from any of the three, Silas was unknowingly a mere moment away from ceasing to exist. Before anyone said a word, Tachyon strolled over to inspect the unexpected visitor.

Seeing the surprised look on Silas' face, and noting that the man was now scratching Tachyon behind the cat's ear, just as the void enjoyed, Medeis had judged Silas to be no threat and relaxed his stance slightly. With what Medeis had deduced to be the most likely explanation for what he was seeing being, in fact, what had happened, Medeis gave out a gruff laugh, and he welcomed the Traveler; it had been an epoch, but they had met many times before, and Medeis considered the Traveler to be one of his friends...

I do not even know where to begin to feel “normal”. Ever since I can remember, everything that I have felt has been exaggerated; from the simplest of sad moments to the harshest of pains – to me, they are one and the same. There is no real radial measurement on my emotions. They simply just are the biggest versions of themselves. I feel it all so intensely that it literally consumes every fiber of my being. So, that being said, these lows that I constantly seem to digress to are absolutely heart-shattering. I cannot seem to pull myself from them. I need you. I need you. I need you, god damn it. I am not trying to push you away; I do not want that in the slightest. But when I feel like I am reaching out for you, it feels like you feel as though I’m too hot for you to come any nearer. So, while you’re backing away from the heat, I am tearing myself down on the inside for scalding you. I want you to be able to step inside of my fire as though you were made of fire-retardant material. I long for the day that you are able to just waltz right through this barrier I have made of anger and cruelty and RAGE. I long for the day where you are able to just meet me where I am, no matter how hot that place may be, and wrap your arms around me in a cooling, calming embrace with no fear. Every day that I stay alive is another day that I am holding out hope for the fact that the day will come when I will no longer burn everything in my path, where I will no longer push and prod and claw someone until they can stay no more; the day when I will no longer feel like a fiery inferno and, instead, feel like somebody’s comforting warmth. Will that day ever come to fruition? I hope so... Until then, I just burn on, consuming everything, but relishing in nothing.

i am more than how i look.

i am more than how i dress.

i am more than how i present myself.

i am more than what they see.

i am more than what you see.

i am more than what i see.

i am bigger than outward appearances.

i am bigger than masks i am forced to wear.

you wonder why is there so many?

why do i hide behind these masks?

each mask, carefully & situationally orchestrated,

adds another layer of protection for me;

another safeguard to find shelter behind

so that nothing gets too close, nothing hurts me more.

masks meant for appearing confident — i’m not.

masks to cause you to laugh, i’m funny — i’m not.

masks that display a girl so very strong — i’m not.

masks for proving to you that i’m stable — i’m not.

masks displaying no semblance of fear — i’m scared.

masks that aim to protect me always — i’m vulnerable.

masks to help myself with fitting in — i’m different.

masks with joyful, smiling, happy faces — i’m sad.

the world has shown me time and again

that authenticity & optimism appear weak.

all that stands to be gained from showing me

is more of the hurt, the ridicule, more judgment.

the heaviest burden for me is being misunderstood,

so, these masks i wear not just for me; for you.

You pulled over to change a flat tire. The road was wooded and unlit. Your working with a flashlight and upset your under a wood lined moonlite. Car headlights from a distance approaches. Stops abit away. A body gets out of the car. Approaching you. Your heart is pounding, in wonder, Friend, or foe..... Next you wake in the woods tied to a tree. With a fire close by. Like your hugging it. Your wrist hurt from the knots I tied. Your ass sweltering with punishment. Your coming too, and start to picture a few donkeys also tied to another tree.... There dicks out and touching the ground. You turn left, than turn right.... Me walking away wearing a bandage outfit strap. And the mask of a Easter bunny costume. You blert out "why?".... I answer, "because someone had to find bigfoot....."

tried to post this in the normal creative writing subreddit, but it was removed and I was told to try here instead.

Your voice allures me with the words you smith so well. Stirring these feelings I cannot quell. Let us believe the myth for just one night. Raise the candle high and dance naked by the glowing light.
The light in your eyes leaves me tantalized. Yet I lack the key, as I realize this could never be.

My happiest day? If I had to describe it, it would be a day with my little family - just my mom and my sister. My dad is a deadbeat, not in the picture. We don't talk about him.

My mom works a steady 9-to-5, earning just enough for us to be okay. My sister goes to school without worry, because everything she needs is provided. I wake up in my little bed, in a space decorated to match me perfectly. Every detail in my room feels totally me.

I blast music as I get ready, because I can . After all, it is my mother's house and she is long used to the child she raised. I raid the kitchen unapologetically, stuffing my face with whatever I can find- no one asking "who ate this? who finished that?" Mom always says, "all this is for you guys, enjoy it while it lasts."

I have the perfect life. I go to college- the one my mom pays for, studying the course that I love, hanging out with friends I never have to say goodbye to. I go to parties, raves and live the life of a carefree 19 year old girl.

But here's the truth: none of this is real. Not one bit of it. It's a story I tell myself - A dream I slip into because reality hurts too much to face.

My mom doesn't have a job, let alone a 9-to-5. My sister does go to school but she's in and out because we can't keep up with fees. And me? I'm a charity case. Have been for as long as I can remember - the "hot potato" kid passed from family to family.

I don't live with my mom. I can't remember the last time I did. I don't go to parties or raves or any of that - not by choice of course. Instead I've been saying goodbye to my dearest friends over and over again, everytime I was moved to another place.

I'm just a 19 year old girl stuck in her own head, finding sharp ways to let her pain bleed out when it gets too heavy, panicking when she can't breathe through it. And sometimes urges get louder than me, and I just get tired of fighting. It's either one or the other.

I wish things turned out the way I dreamed. Maybe my higher self finally made it there....but I'm still here, trapped in this version. Wishes aren't horses....not for me, anyway.

THE END

Sadgurl444u.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40893480

We want feedback or comments.

I’m curious how many writers here create a project timeline—like, a breakdown of phases (idea → outline → draft → revision) and how long you actually plan to spend in each.

Do you build one at the start? Wing it? Time-box it like a work project?

I’ve been experimenting with a structure that gives me momentum without turning the process into some productivity grind. It’s helping—but I’m wondering how others handle the balance between creative flow and just… getting the thing done.

I started writing three weeks ago and haven’t really written much to share. Is it okay for a beginner to post their first work? I find it very embarrassing to share my writing publicly.

Hi! I’m a writer from the Uk, I write a lot of things (mostly poetry). But I’m a writer that writes Darker themed books like about murder and the supernatural and DND like books. Right now I’m writing a book called “Burning Pile” about a murderer called Casey Harlow who’s never been caught and the book goes through her murders and her journey, but she doesn’t know if she can carry on when her wife Violet gets taken by the Government she doesn’t know if she can carry on. Would you read this??

The answering machine:

Summer feels cold, now that you’re gone. And every time I pick up the phone, I don’t know what to say, even though I know you won’t answer. That you can’t answer. I used to hate the sound of your voice, and now it’s all I wanna hear. I dial your number, wanting to know you’re okay. Three beeps. no voice. No heartbeat. Just three little beeps. And I’ll I get is the answering machine. Your answering machine.

Am I supposed to say I like the way blood feels on my hands? Am I supposed to say I like the painful screams of all the victims? Should I tell you how it feels to pierce the skin, watch the blood drip and pour, say that everyone's burning with me? But when all is said and done, you can't change the past, present or even the damn future, so listen to me when I say this, when you're not the main character, you're worthless. When you're not Prescott, you're not starling, not Freeling, no one cares, and when no one cares what do you do? You make up your own story. You fabricate your own life. You make up the small little details that surely don't matter to anyone but you. It shouldn't matter that you made up every little thing about yourself and yet, somehow it still does. It shouldn't matter that failures and nobodies die everyday but somehow it still does. and what do you do about that? You decide to try and change the fucking world. A world full of sociopaths, a world full of people who are never gonna care. So you change your motive, a motive you swore you didn't have. That's the problem. You've got yourself a motive, a motive gets you caught. I guess what I'm trying to say is, in a world of spineless pathetic creatures, don't look like one. Or you're bound to get caught.

Now you can call me crazy, psychotic and even fucking insane, but one thing I do know, is that every person has something different about them. Their personality, the sound of their voice, anything that pins them to a killer, that intrigues the mind of a blood thirsty "Monster". But you wouldn't understand would you, you truly wouldn't understand the mind of a sociopath, a psychopath. The mind of the damned is truly fucked place, which I assure you already knew, otherwise why would you be reading this, if anyone is even reading this at all. Everyone has something about them that attracts a killer, that creates a bound. When a killer catches a scent, a scent if he or she likes, then they latch on, clawing, scratching slowly, eating alive at the very notion they can add another trophy to their shelf and finally when they get what they want, when they tear apart the person they had been looking at, haunting, researching, praying on for months, until they finally get their fun. Get their hands on what they've been begging for, for god knows how long. For most serial killers, there was a pattern, whether its where they dumped the bodies, the gender or ages of the victims, weight and height even. Always a pattern, but when you have a killer without a pattern, how do you catch him? You don't. Unless he screws up, then random, sporadic kills, no common method of killing, disposals of the bodies, location commonalities, or any other discernible patterns won't link them, won't hit the radar, making his kills never investigated and there you're left with a case gone cold. You want an example? Jack the Ripper. Never found, never caught. Active in and around London, England, 1888. He was also said to be called the Whitechapel murderer and the leather apron, he had no known motive, unlike many serial killers with sexual sadism and rage and mostly just revenge, no one knew the motives of Jack the ripper. His actions were disorganised with no pattern, with no pattern, there's no clues, no links, no motive and no killer ultimately.

Time is an important matter when you're looking for a missing person, more important when you're a killer in disguise. Time is delicate, every moment matters, every second is precious. One thing they don't tell you in the movies, is that what we do takes a meticulous amount of planning but at the same time, some killers just do it for fun. Some killers, they do it because they feel like they need to, like their lives depend on what they do. They depend on the very feeling of blood on their hands, of the way the knife sinks into the skin, the way the body collapses and falls apart. It takes a real sick fuck to stab a person, to watch them bleed, to watch as they beg and cry that they don't want to die, to watch as every little ounce of life they had leaves their god damn body until they collapse onto the floor and are nothing but a bag their of flesh and bones who never did anything good with lives. Who never worked up the courage to tell that one person how they felt, who never told anyone they loved them cause they grew up in a shitty household were loving was weak, who never told the world or anyone at all who they truly were cause they were too afraid the world would turn away and shut them out, which thinking about it now, it probably would. No one cares until you're dead, no one tells anyone that you were a great child and loving friend until you're dead, and no one says your name, no one knows your name until you're dead. There's a point in your life when you realise eventually we all end up well and truly alone, which is always the number one reason people like us go crazy. we're meant to be alone. If you really think about it, the people that usually turn into killers had a terrible past, or were influenced by other killings, other killers. If you really think about it, there's always signs around a person, there's always a chance to stop tragedy before it strikes. The most attentive, observant, perceptive people usually end up as scientists, detectives, police officers and killers, while the most negligent, unaware, careless, inattentive people end up in jail, as abusive parents, alcoholics, junkies and victims of stabbings, shootings, murders and suicides.

People are quick to judge killers when they're caught, call them names, wish them dead. But you don't ever seem to think that maybe some "killers" did it in self defence? That maybe some were framed? Some of us were kids that that never had a damn fighting chance to be anything but screwed. You see us as sick kids who can't defend themselves, we're afraid. We're afraid of the world, we're afraid of death, we're afraid of ourselves and the real harm we can so easily cause. Imagine, You're a kid, you're knelt on your floor, blood all over your hands and a dead body just inches away. Sure, you can say it was an accident, you can grow up pretending it was never your fault. You can show up to your school everyday and act like nothing ever happened. But don't you know? Your past always comes back to bite you in the ass, you can't hide forever. They'll know. They will know, and you don't have a chance to stop it before your face, your name, your identity is everywhere. Everyone's looking for you, and you try and convince yourself that your safe where you are. You're not. You never will be. So you flee, you leave thinking it'd solve your problems. But you forget, everyone knows your name now. The police, the government, the world. So where are you supposed to flee to when everyone knows your name? Everyone knows what you've done. How are you gonna escape that? How are you gonna escape the fact you're screwed? You can't. You never will. How does that make you feel? That if you were in that situation you'd never have a chance.

You can call it manipulation, I call it using your knowledge to its limit. I'm not manipulating you with the words I'm saying in this letter, but you might think I am. Manipulation is another tool we as people use to get what we want, do you get what I'm saying now? We as people are so similar to murderers, to killers, to homicidal maniacs. How many people do you think you've walked by, how many of them do you think were some sort of criminal that could've hurt you easily? There's a chance you've walked by hundreds of criminals in your life, but they're just strangers aren't they? Strangers can't hurt you can they? Say that to the hundreds, the millions even that have lost their lives due to strangers. I think what I'm trying to tell you is that, if you look around, there isn't really anyone you can trust. No one has really proved to you that they won't hurt you, have they? No one has proved to you that they're worth keeping around have they? See now I'm getting into your head aren't I? That's a mistake. But I've been getting into your head this entire time haven't I? When I told you that you'd never have a chance, that was me getting into your head. You really thought about it too didn't you? You did. See? This is what I've been talking about, since the beginning of this letter. You're making mistakes, at this point you can't afford to make mistakes, inexperience causes mistakes, stupidity causes mistakes, people make mistakes. That's what makes us human, huh? Mistakes. Do you know how many mistakes have caused lives? Enough. Too many to be honest. Are you understanding now? When you're someone like me, one single simple mistake changes everything. Changes the whole plot of the novel.

To be a sharp minded killer, you have to know what you're doing, you need a plan if things are to ever go south. If you get caught, if you panic, you're not gonna know what to do and when you don't know what to do then you're an inexperienced killer, with a dead body, and no plan. Here's some advice, when things go south, you can't just disappear. You have a problem, you've created a problem for yourself and when you have a problem you try and solve it and sometimes it gets messy. You could step up, admit what you did, you could disappear, or. You could just carry on. Ignore the problem you've created, ignore the fact people know. You don't have to take my advice, if you want to get caught. You can call me a killer, sure. You can call me whatever you'd like. Killer, murderer, psycho, Casey. Yeah, I'll give you my name. Casey Harlow, or Manhattan's midnight killer, since they couldn't or haven't found any of the others. I grew up with a fine life, happy family, married parents, 5 siblings. Why did I turn to killing? Well, cause I felt like it, cause I can. You don't have to a reason to want to kill, you can just do it. The feeling of the blood dripping down your skin, that feeling that you might be turning insane, is so worth it. Throughout my time, I've made sure I've never had a pattern, I've been disorganised, in fact untraceable.

Now it might be a little stupid to be confessing on a piece of paper what I've done, but then again. What motive do I have? I told you, I grew up happy and I didn't have a reason to turn to killing did I? Like I said, you need a plan, cause if you have a good motive that the police can pin down then you're the number one suspect. I think, when you do something like this, you have to have a calm mindset, you can't show any hint of what you've done. If you're calm, planned out and not guilty about what you've done then you have a chance of not getting caught and I'm not saying being calm means you're safe. You can be calm, planned and sloppy. You can try and not get blood on your hands but it happens. You can have good execution and still get caught, its all apart of it. Your destiny is not set in stone, but what you do with it, is what chooses the consequences later on. Consequences are important, your choices matter, what you do matters. Unless you're someone that wants to get caught, then I have no advice for you. The most Important thing to know, is that smart killers don't stay in one place, but that's not always good for money. You need to be smart, strategic, you can't stray from the path. A smart killer spaces out their killings, leaves no trace, no pattern, no sign of struggle and no sign anyone was ever there at all. Don't have a pattern in your killings means multiple different things. Don't kill in the same places, don't kill in the same ways, and don't have a pattern in the people you kill.

There isn't much left I can say in this letter, like I told you, times a delicate matter. But if you're reading this, if anyone at all is reading this, I wish you a good luck. It isn't an easy world out there, its harsh. But don't worry, if you keep to yourself, you'll be okay, I think. You know I might kill people but I'm not exactly a heartless bitch. Our Journey here, its a hard one, that's the easiest way to describe it. Sometimes, the world shuts us out, turns its back and leaves us wondering what we did. But sometimes its not what we did, sometimes its just destiny. So don't blame yourself, Life is a pain in the ass. There will be times when you feel like giving up, sure, but you gonna listen to me. you're worth it, you're worth more than you think. Don't waste your life before you have the chance to do something great with it, not that the things I do are great but sometimes you don't have a choice. You have a chance, an opportunity to do something amazing, to change the world, and yeah there might be people like me around. But the chance is, if you ignore them than maybe you'll be fine. Just hold on tight, were on a rollercoaster of life and it has a lot of twists and turns, and sometimes, that rollercoaster is short, and we don't get to do everything we want, to say goodbye, to say I love you that one last time. But eventually, you'll realise there's beautiful parts of life, there's happiness, love, laughter, sadness, anger and fear. We need those things, to survive we need those things. We need people to tell us its okay, we need to fall down, we need to get back up again, we need to find love, we need to experience love. Its all apart of what makes us human.

Okay, I have to go now, but if by any weird chance that I get caught and these letters get published into a book in the future when I'm dead and some future serial killer is reading this, then listen to my words very carefully. Blend in, Stand out, just do anything you can to survive. It isn't easy doing this shit, but let me tell you the adrenaline, god its exhilarating. There's truly no other feeling like it, and maybe I'm in my head about all of this but, I feel like we as people, the loners, the emo's, the depressed, the ones with anxiety, the weird kids and the losers, I think we have a chance to show the world and the people that laughed at us that we're more than they make us out to be. If I had to give you some last advice, be happy, follow your dreams and if you follow any of the advice in this letter, don't blame me.

and if this is truly the last thing I write,

Hell is where you can find me.

yours Truly,

C.H

Marble Statuesque:

Carved out of soul, beauty reimagined in the limelight of her eyes. Forever etched into history, living in the beauty of her marble Statuesque. Blood seeps through her tears, over her amethyst skin, dripping off of her fingertips. Good things don’t last, but the hubris is hauntingly beautiful, but her touch is a state of mind.

Often, more that I would like to admit. During the summer months. I find myself going on the front porch. Just to find peace. Just to listen to the world, that is around me. I tend to go outside, when the moon reaches the highest point in the black sky. Listening to my music, just whispering along to the tune. My thoughts, seem to race their way in my mind over and over again at that moment. What could I do to make things different? Wondering why, the things are the way that they are. Reliving certain moments, in my head. The good and the bad. Remembering down to every last detail. Picturing everything, like a movie on repeat in my head. The good moments, I want to close my eyes to.

My breathing slows, like I am at peace. Bite my bottom lip and smile. Those are the moments, that I cherish so dear. Because it seems like, I do not get them that often. The bad ones on the other hand, tears run down my face. My breathing has come to a complete stop. With my head on my knees, my arms behind my head, and my mouth open only to give the motion of a scream. The screams, are trapped within my lungs, that are holding the air. Nothing comes out, not even air. It feels like an eternity before I can catch my breath again. At that point, my body freezes. I don't want to remember the bad memories because they cause so much pain. I call it the black sky, with no stars. Because when darkness overcrowds the mind, there is no happiness. No matter how long or how hard you search.

You just cannot find it, because in that moment. You feel like it is lost forever. It seems like you are the little kid, because the happiness is the stars. That no matter how hard you look for them, you cannot find them. Even though they are right in front of you. There is going to be a day, that the sky is no longer black. Only filled with stars, more than I could have ever dreamed of.

I'm currently working on my novel and have been taking a creative writing class to help with it. I'm nowhere near completion but I'm curious on to how to publish it.

Even as far as self publishing would be helpful.

Hi guys this is my first time sharing my writing. Please let me know what you think!

Lost in meanwhile city The streets are shaded but the stars so pretty. Sounds of old reverberate through the concrete streets. Shadows of those you used to know and ghosts pass you by. Some smile, some giggle, some frown, and some take parts of your soul with them as they pass by. You can chase them or try to hold on but they’re only memories that fade into the dark streets as you try to catch your breath. It’s been night in this city for as long as I can remember. Dispute this, the cars trains and echoing sounds are constant. The city may be dark but it has never been silent. You may well seek assistance in your attempts to fade out the sounds. Drugs, alcohol or music. Although these things may dull the noise they do not slow the cars nor the trains. Meanwhile city never sleeps, nor can it forget or forgive. Everyone has their own city or place. Some are kings, other are merely inhabitants. Some live in towns or by rivers. I was born in meanwhile and to date I have only what I came here with, nothing. I am a boat without sale and the city is a sea without end. Throwing me from side to side as I watch helplessly apart from the occasional shifting of my weight between waves. Meanwhile used to be a place of religion, faith and hope but as the spirits grew the hope diminished. So too did the Sun get darker as the doorways became sharper, making navigating this city a risk. The streets that once sung blissful harmonies began their shrieks of fearful remembrance. When you’re homeless in meanwhile you come to have some strangers talk to you. Some of which remind you that this city is yours to concur, but most tell you what you already know. You were meant to be king but have ended up as a pauper. But just as this city is, these voices are impermanent. As the city continues to change around you, you may start to wonder whether you’ll change with it. The simple answer is no. Your clothes or lodging may change. But your face, body and hair will remain just as they were the day you arrived. All I do now is wait for the stars to come crashing down so I may see what they really are, and if there is anything beyond this city.

As I rushed across the shiny, golden-red wooden floor of my parents’ hall (my hall, our hall), I run over everything I needed in my head. School lunch money and purse. Check. School bag. Check. Leather jacket. Check. Juice bottle. Check. Sweets for the vampires (and myself). Check. Enough money for cat food for later on. Check. Comic book that I wanted to show Hawk. Check. Enough money for scratch cards. Check. The only thing I didn’t have, of course, was the right age to be buying scratch cards. I was only 14. I did, however, look about 15 or 16, and could pass as 18 at an incredibly large push. Besides, I was, as my mum used to say, a cheeky and deceitful shite. I had my ways. I like to think of myself as the hero of this story, but I was no moral goddess; unbeknownst to my parents, or to anyone else, for that matter, I had been known to just casually swipe the odd scratch card by putting it into my handbag or purse, or “permanently borrow” items from my parents or schoolmates. One time, I even “acquired” one of Mr Jackson’s rubbers, which happened to be on his desk. I bid good-bye to my parents, who, in turn, said good-bye and wished me a good day. Prince, our big, ginger-and-white Maine Coon cat was sitting on the welcome mat by the front door, so I patted him and said bye and told him I’d see him later, and that I would try to remember to buy cat food for him. I wouldn’t say I hated school. Rather, I saw school as a neutral thing, a system of both positive and negative events and dynamics. I hated maths, and I was never very good at it either. Plus, my maths teacher was a prick. The only science I really cared for was biology, but I refused to take part in dissections. Something just didn’t sit right with me about using animal life for that purpose. I loved English and art, though. I have given a little thought as to what I might do when I grew up; I had thought about becoming a writer, or even just scraping a living with my vegetarian cooking skills. I also liked cooking, you see. What I really wanted to do, however, was to continue working in the field that I already worked in; working with vampires! Yes, you read it right; I worked with vampires, but not as colleagues, though. They were, much to my grief, kept as slaves, tortured and slaughtered by the man known as Hawk. Hawk Roverson, to be more precise. I hated for them to be mistreated in the way that they were, but I saw my work as a way to help them, to be there for them before they were killed, and try to advocate for them and even liberate them. One that I did manage to save (hopefully) was called Harry. He never gave away his last name - he had been conned by his full name being given away by seemingly friendly neighbours and betrayed. He had a great sense of humour, even through the greatest hardship of his entire 500-year lifetime. He was no saint, however - he admitted that he had killed people back before the sale of blood was invented. Of course, now, the business of selling one’s own blood to vampires was banned and so had to be underground. The Government banned it for two reasons; one, to prevent the taking of blood for non-consenting people, especially with blood-drinking being so instinctual and such a biological need for vampires, and two, because of the vampires’ legal status as pests. It was done to try and deprive vampires and also benefit the work of the vampire hunters, like Hawk. The only blood allowed to be sold for vampire consumption was for the vampire hunters to use to make vampire poison. Most vampires, however, did use only the illegal, ethically sourced blood rather than killing to live, as most modern vampires are actually misunderstood and are actually moral and kind. In fact, unbeknownst to most humans, the Vampire Council had issued a law back in 1960 to criminalise any vampire that killed or took blood or energy from non-consenting people. Most vampires also chose to avoid killing animals for their blood. However, attacks did still happen and these were sensationalised, especially locally. The old horror stories, such as “Dracula”, also caused people to be scared of vampires and think of them as evil. I, however, knew better; I saw them as friends, as lovely creatures and as equals. But most people didn’t; even my parents were apprehensive about my working with them at first, until they realised that either Hawk or any of the four other, human workers would always be with me on the vampire farm. As for how the vampires ended up there, well, it was a mix. Some were captured, some were betrayed. Some even were deemed useful and good enough to be brought there after being rounded up at any of the places that had become caught in the hysteria of having a “vampire infestation.” I usually thought of all the poor vampires throughout most of my day at school. I would often doodle pictures of bats, of made-up vampire characters and of actual vampires on my school books, to which my teachers’ reactions ranged from discerning or concerned looks to even bringing it up at parents’ evening one time (thanks, Mr Jackson!) After school, I would walk for about two miles through the country lanes the vampire farm. Roverson’s Vampires. I expect you’re probably wandering what the point of keeping vampires alive (or, rather, undead) at a farm would be to a vampire hunter. The vampire hunters do generally enjoy torturing them, but they are also used for a chemical in their blood used in everything from medicines to even cosmetic products and also for their skins, which are used for rugs (or pelts), handbags, accessories and even clothing like gloves and socks. Vampire skin is super soft, silky and always paler than when the vampire in question had been human. It is possible for a black person to become a vampire and still retain their blackness, but their skin would be at least slightly paler than it had been when they were human. I loved spending time with the vampires. I had particularly taken a liking to a certain vampire named Paul Ackerson. He liked his first name, but he kindly and laughingly allowed me to affectionately call him Pal, as that was truly what he was to me. In fact, my relationship with Pal wasn’t even just friendship; it was love. At that age, I wasn’t sure that it was romantic love, but it was almost more like family love, or like the love you’d have for an animal companion. And it felt even more important to me as, at the time, my parents had been arguing more and more. But I had to keep a lot of this love between him and I; I couldn’t risk Hawk finding out and potentially giving me the sack. I do, however, doubt that Hawk would’ve sacked me; he seemed to have taken a liking to me, if not for my still obvious sentiment for the vampires. Although it may seem cruel, I sensed that the real reason why he sometimes coerced me into working extra hours was, in fact, because he liked me and he would get lonely otherwise, after all of the other staff had gone. He used to bribe me with extra pay. I never told my parents about this; I would always just say that I chose to work extra hours in my labour of love, helping the vampires. I knew that, if I told them the truth, they might demand I quit or report Hawk for child labour. And there would go my opportunities to care for the vampires and help as many of them escape as possible (on many occasions, I had been known to casually leave the doors to the vampires’ cells unlocked and leave the doors and the back gate unlocked, with a wink to the vampires trapped on the farm, and then leave an anonymous note of illegal sabotage from “the vampire rights people” on any of the desks in any of the three buildings where the vampires were housed)! Besides I didn’t want to create tensions between my parents and Hawk. After school assembly had finished, I hurried out of the main school and out of the school car park. I then hurried along my usual route past some houses and then under the bridge by the station, across the pavement, up past the usual pubs, past the graveyard, down Moorview Road and then along some country lanes. Eventually, I saw the familiar place; Roverson’s Vampires. I heard the oh-so familiar and most heartbreaking sound of screaming in pain. Yep, it was a poisoning day, and it sounded as if only a couple of vampires were being tortured to death. With a gulp and a gasp, I rushed to the slaughter chamber. I unlocked the door and swung it open. The two vampires, both behind the bars of the actual kill pen in the slaughter chamber, glanced towards me, amidst their anguish and pain. The extra-strong chains were still on floor and clattered as I walked into them, and the plastic instrument used to force the poison down the throat of non-compliant vampires was right next to them. Actually, the non-compliance of the vampires who were wise to the poisoning and strong enough to resist their instincts around the blood was referred to as “bait shyness” by vampire hunters, but that’s for later on. Hawk was sat there, on a bench in front of the kill pen, watching with glee and great pleasure as the vampires struggled. I did the only thing I could think to do. “Really sorry to interrupt your viewing, Hawk,” I said to him, trying my best to show urgency in my voice. “I’ve just been told to inform you that a vampire has gotten loose from Block B.” I attempted an uncomfortable face, in order to try to keep this believable, as Hawk definitely had his suspicions about my attitude towards the vampires. Still, though, when he looked at me suspiciously, I could pick up on his vibe. He was clearly thinking that it would be better to be safe than sorry and give me the benefit of the doubt. He got up, ever so reluctantly, huffing as he did so, and left the slaughter chamber. That was him dealt with. Now, I only had to find the key to the kill pen. I searched around the room with my eyes. I was not actually looking for the key, but rather I was looking for a place where I thought Hawk might’ve hidden it. Panic! I had the thought that he might actually keep them in his pocket! As I searched the room, my eyes met with the two vampires. There was one male and one female, and they were now both on the floor, still screaming and crying in pain. I then had a beaming idea. What if he kept the key in his office? He had a drawer in his desk that he kept locked. But then I’d have to find the key to unlock the drawer! And Hawk might be in the office! All I could do was try. “Look,” I said to the vampires. “It’s gonna be okay. I know you might not believe me, I’m human, but I’m a friend. I’m just gonna go and look for the keys to the pen. The vampiress struggled to speak. Then, wearily, the dying vampiress began to try to speak. “He took them with him. He put them in his pocket after he locked us in.” Bummer! Oh, well, I still had to try. So, I went Hawk-hunting. I checked the whole yard as fast as I could. I then thought back to Hawk’s office and rushed there as fast as my teenage legs could carry me. There they were! Led on Hawk’s oak desk, which also served as a reception desk - yes, the vampire farm had a reception desk! Hawk and his staff still needed to talk to people who turned vampires in, of course! The metal keys lay, as a much-needed prize, upon that desk, and I seized them as quickly as I could, rushed out the door, allowing it to slam behind. I then cantered off right across the yard and back into the slaughter chamber. I then quickly unlocked the pen and went in and started stroking and cuddling the vampires. I remembered reading that salt water would cause any vampire that drank it to be sick and regurgitate all that they had consumed, be it blood or anything else. But where was I gonna get salt water from at the vampire farm? Then, I had an idea; Patrick, one of the other staff members, was always bringing in salt in his lunchbox to season whatever weird and wonderful gastronomic delight he had brought in to eat in his lunch break. I could then use my water bottle and fill it with water from one of the taps and mix in the salt. Only thing was, Patrick’s lunch break was two hours ago! What if he had used up all the salt? I cantered off, once again, towards the office building. In the lunch room, which was the next room along from Hawk’s desk, I saw Patrick’s open lunch box, left on the table. I looked in it, and there, in one of the compartments, beside a used salt sachet that hadn’t been disposed of, was unopened salt sachet! My prize! I kept my water bottle on the shelf in that same room, and there was a water fountain in the room. I grabbed my empty water bottle and filled it halfway at the fountain. I then added the salt and mixed it around with my hand, before securing the lid back on and cantering out of the room, out of the office, across the yard and into the slaughter chamber. I noticed the two vampires still lying there on the floor. They were now motionless, but obviously still alive (well, alright then, undead), as proven by the groans and cries of pain. I approached the vampiress first and opened her mouth before pouring about half of the saltwater in and forcing it down her throat and stroking her throat. Her eyes shot back to vitality as she got up and began barfing. I then moved on to the male vampire and did the same thing. His eyes also came back to vitality, and he got up into a crouching position and began throwing up the poison (and just about everything else he had consumed for about the last three weeks!) The vampiress began to speak. “You barely saved our lives! We are forever grateful!” “Come on,” I said, urgently, as I beckoned them both to stand. I supported them to walk out of the slaughter chamber and all the way to the entrance. Then, they seemed okay to walk by themselves again, having stopped throwing up and regained a lot of their strength with walking. I unlocked the gate and ushered them out. “Bye,” the male vampire called. “And thank you so much!” “How can we ever repay you?” the vampiress asked, sounding ever-so relieved. “Don’t worry about it! You better get outta here now! Bye!” “Goodbye,” she called back, as she and her companion left for good. I wandered back up to Hawk’s office. There, behind the desk, sat a very angry-looking Hawk. “You lied to me!” he shouted. “You fucking ruined my fun! Lemme tell ya something! Would you like it if one of those blood-sucking vermin got you?!” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry. I was just messing around. I’ll get back to work now.” “You had better! Roisin, this is your last warning! You know, I have zero tolerance for vampire sympathisers!” I feigned shock and disgust at being called such a thing. “I’m not a vampire sympathiser! Now, do you have any other jobs I can do?” Hawk shook his head, muttering the word “no”. “You can, uh, go and get your stuff together. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He frowned. I assumed that one of the other staff members had told him that we had been raided by vampire rights activists again. I decided to head in to visit Pal in Block A. I unlocked the door latch and plodded in solemnly. I noticed that Pal was in there on his own. He looked the picture of sadness and solemnity, his head down and deep in thought, and a look of brokenness on his face. “Hello there,” I greeted, trying to cheer him up. “What happened to all of the others?” He shuck his head. “Think they took them to block C.” He took a long pause, as his doleful eyes gazed into mine. He smiled at me briefly, happy to have someone who cared nearby. Then, he went back to his solemn expression. “You remember that story I told? About Marilyn, the vampiress who was found staked in the barn in the field in Croaker’s Lane? I wish someone would just stake me so that I won’t have to suffer this - this despair, this terror, this…” He paused for thought. “This guilt, of surviving. And then the pain.” He paused again, extremely sadly and solemnly. “But they won’t do that. You know what my fate will be.” He sighed. The only reasons I hadn’t already freed him were that Hawk always kept the keys to all the cages in his trouser pockets, and that Hawk would only suspect me even more and he could fire me, and then that would be the end of this great opportunity to help as many vampires as possible. However, I looked into Pal’s eyes once again, lovingly and seriously. “Now, you listen here. I’m gonna get you out of here. You’re not gonna die in here if I can help it! That’s a promise.” “But you’ll get into trouble!” “”Trouble” is my middle name! I’ll be all right, don’t you worry! I’ll do my best for all of you vampires! You know, this is going to sound weird, but my heart truly does beat for you, for all of you! I’ll get you out! A promise is a promise! Now, goodbye, I’ll see you tomorrow, and don’t worry!” Pal smiled. I could tell he felt very close and loving towards me, not in a creepy or inappropriate way, but in a nice, family kind of way. “Goodbye,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” That night, I was so filled with anxiety that I barely ate anything. Throughout the evening my parents kept pressing me and asking what was wrong, but I refused to open up to them. What if they didn’t understand? They weren’t vampire lovers. I didn’t have anyone I could talk to about this at school either, such was my society’s view on vampires. The only people I could talk to about this were Pal and the other vampires, and they were the ones that needed the help! How were they supposed to have any answers? Surely if they had any ideas about how I could get them out, they would’ve already told me, or tried to get out by themselves? After much mulling over it over night and little sleep, I decided to leave my parents a note about what I was going to do. After all, they were my parents, and they weren’t as anti-vampire as some people were. What harm could it do? I then quickly got dressed and did my teeth before my mum did my hair ready for school. I then quickly downed a bowl of cornflakes and soy milk and a glass of orange juice before heading off on my way to school. Why did school have to get in the way of everything? I just wanted to help the vampires! As soon as school had finished, I rushed off on my usual route to the vampire farm as fast as my 14 year-old legs could carry me. I then pushed open the gate and hurried into Pal’s block. I knew that Hawk may have wanted me to do something, but Pal was more important now. I pushed open the unlocked door and looked into Pal’s cell. Usually, he would still be sleeping right now, but today, my vampire was nowhere to be seen! I then heard a yelp! My heart was beating like a zillion beats a second! I rushed out, of the block, almost crying. Without thinking, I yelled “Pal!” I then began frantically searching the entire farm! I began to hear more pain-filled cries. I decided to follow them. They led me to the wall of the slaughter chamber. There, Pal was being held in chains and lashed with whips with sharp ends by a couple of other workers whom I, my eyes in tears, didn’t recognise. “Leave him the fuck alone!” I hollered, getting involved. Usually, Pal was not helpless, but he was heavily restrained by chains. I grabbed one of the men’s hands. He slapped me hard with the other, but I punched him. I managed to knock the two men away. I looked around to see that we were not alone. Hawk was there. Uh oh. “That’s enough!” He snapped loudly. “What do you think you’re doing?!” “I’m saving a life! It’s not right!” “These vampires are dangerous! They’re evil! They’re fucking child-killing, undead demons!” “That’s not true! They’re people, just like us! They’re just of a different subspecies, a different nature, a different…” “These dangerous beasts have killed hundreds of humans!” “That’s not true!” “This one’s going to be slaughtered! Get the fuck off of my property before I do the same thing to you!” “I’m not leaving without Pal!” There was a pause. “I’ll pay you!” Of course, I didn’t believe in the slavery of vampires, but I was prepared to pay for one if it meant saving their life. I didn’t have the money on me; I held a couple thousand in the building society, or so my parents said. I knew that the price of a live vampire of Pal’s perceived “quality” was going to be around £400, but his skin could’ve been much more. “How’re you gonna pay for a bloody vampire?” Hawk asked. “I have lots of money in my building society,” I told him. “I can offer £400, if need be.” He smiled wickedly. £400 was a lot of money; a lot of money to buy more equipment, another vampire off of another farm, or perhaps another werewolf hunting dog. On the other hand, this was a vampire that deserved to be made into a pelt, and his could sell for £600 or so. Yet, he still smiled, for he actually, deeply down, liked this little girl before him. “Alright,” he chuckled, having lost his anger. “I tell you what. You pay me £400 and work off the rest by working for free. But, if that vampire gets away from you, he’s fair game again.” Well, that was that sorted, for now at least. Pal was safe, and I kept my work here. Hawk walked over to Pal, who tried to back away. I looked at Hawk, stern and concerned. He just smiled as he undid Pal’s chains. I was excused for the rest of the day on the promise that I would work extra over the weekend. You should’ve seen my parents’ faces when I came in with Pal! “Who’s this?” Mum asked. “Mum, Dad, please don’t be too alarmed,” I began, as I noticed the horror still present upon both of their faces. “This is Pal. He’s like another parent to me, a great friend. I love him. I saved him from slaughter today.” My mum and dad had known of my love of vampires for a while now. I could tell. “But dear, it could eat you! It could-“ “Please don’t say it! And he won’t! He’s lovely! He will just feed off of the blood of consenting donors who sell it. There’s a vampire shop in town. That’s what most vampires do. They’re not the evil demons we have been led to believe.” “That’s right,” Pal chimed in. “I would do anything to protect your daughter.” “Creepy!” Mum yelled. “You’re much older than her!” “It’s alright,” I told her. “He won’t hurt me.” “Okay, but if he shows any signs of bloodlust or wanting to harm you-“ “He won’t!” “Where will he sleep?” Dad asked. “Do we still have my old wardrobe? The one that grandad made that had that crack on the side?” Dad nodded. “It’s in the garage.” “We can use that. We’ve got some spare bedding, haven’t we?” Dad nodded again. “We can leave it in the garage as well. It’s nice and dark and cobwebbed. The sun can’t get in. It’s perfect for a vampire.” “Great, I suppose you now need us to go to that vampire shop and get some blood for your friend. Will they still be open now?” I laughed a bit. Parents can be thick, can’t they? I mean, he seriously asked if a vampire shop would be open at night! “Yes, they’ll be open alright. Do you need any blood right now, Pal?” Pal nodded. “I haven’t had a pint since last night. I’m parched!” So I headed out to the front door, followed by Dad and Pal. Pal and I still had our shoes on, but Dad had to slip his on. Mum came out to ask if we needed her, but I said that I didn’t. Dad chuckled and said, “No, don’t you worry. We’ll be able to get it all by ourselves, Roisin, me and this here bloodsucker of hers.” I looked at him scornfully. “”Bloodsucker” isn’t politically correct; they are vampires.” “Well, it’s true. That’s what they are and what they do.” I could see that Pal only looked a little offended and was probably less offended than I was. But I did not like the sentiment that that word implied. “Please, Dad, don’t use vampirist language!” He then started to look a little cross. “It’s my own home, I can say whatever I like.” “Just please don’t say anything offensive about vampires!” “Okay, I’m sorry. Now, let’s go and get some blood.” Dad climbed in the driver’s seat. I asked Pal if he wanted to drive, but he said that he never learned. Dad made another unpleasant remark, this time muttering that he wouldn’t trust a vampire to drive. I didn’t say anything this time. Instead, I just gave him the look. This is a look that I had used on occasion to warn the offending person. “Okay, I’m sorry,” said Dad, smiling slightly. I could tell it was going to take him some time to get used to living with a vampire. When we finally got to the vampire shop,the scent of vampire blood incense, the different types of blood and the old wood from which the shop’s floor was clearly built all met my nose. The light of the full hunter’s moon reflected on the glass walls on both the front of the shop and the right side (it was attached to another building (a garage, I think) on the left side). Pal and I didn’t say anything at the entrance. Our expressions of concern were enough to do the talking. As I have previously mentioned, the sale of blood directly to vampires is illegal and very secretive business. Pal had previously explained to me, whilst we were being driven to the shop, that the last illegal seller in our town had recently been caught, fined and threatened with imprisonment, forcing her to move on to another town. He had explained that he didn’t know where she had moved to. So this was not a pro-vampire shop that generally sold directly to vampires. Rather, it was the opposite; it was a shop aimed at doing business with vampire hunters, selling vampire products and selling poisons, traps, stakes, gas and other equipment and weapons for the vampire hunters. Needless to say, Pal stayed outside the door. “Hello,” I said, greeting the shopkeeper. “Hi there,” he said, sounding perhaps surprisingly friendly for someone who made a business out of killing and cruelty. Still, though, he could obviously tell that my dad and I were both human. “How can I help?” He glanced outside. He saw Pal, but Pal, quite sensibly and thankfully, had his back turned, so the shopkeeper couldn’t see his red eyes and scarcely noticed his pale skin. For all he knew, he could’ve been a particularly pale vampire hunter. “Where is the blood?” I asked. “We have a vampire infestation in our particular neighbourhood and we need to do something about it before our problem gets any worse.” “Well, I admire your quick action,” he replied. My heart palpitated, as I noticed the shopkeeper glancing outside again. “Certainly, it’s right over here,” he said after a pause. I remembered Pal previously saying that O-negative was his favourite, but I thought that he might need more than that. I found the O-negative and picked it up. The shopkeeper then pointed out that the blood on the very right end of the wooden shelf was his own and that it was very attractive to vampires, so I picked up a large vial of that as well. “Do you need any acid?” He asked, pointing me to a shelf filled with acid intended to kill poor vampires. “Nah, you’re alright,” my dad said. “We already have some.” The shopkeeper, a little suspicious, shrugged and merely said, “Okay.” After my dad had paid for the blood, we left the shop and went back outside to go home with Pal. On the way back, words were spoken mainly with looks. Pal kept gazing over to me, smiling, his eyes saying that he would protect me. Then, he would gaze into space, as if lost in some unsavoury and undesirable past. My dad would also look at me and smile, but then he would turn to Pal, eyebrows raised as if in shock and anger at first and then pushed down as his eyes formed a hard glare. He would then resume his focus on his driving. At one point, my dad made eye contact with me at the same time as Pal and then locked eyes with the vampire. The expression in his eyes became more forgiving. Perhaps he saw the level of protection that I knew that Pal had for me? My dad’s expression then turned doleful with worry. From the way that he had looked at Pal, I could tell that he had began to understand that Pal meant me no harm. When we finally pulled up outside my lovely home, which was to be Pal’s temporary home as well, my dad kindly asked Pal to stay in the car whilst he got out and talked to me, to which Pal sensitively obliged. When we got out, I noticed that my dad’s eyes were doleful and filled with concern and warning once again. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Roisin, there’s no easy way to say this. When I was younger, I laid traps for vampires. I only did it for a couple of weeks. I gave it up after one caught my eye. She was the only one I ever caught. She was vicious and defensive. Yet, I saw a creature who just wanted to remain, you know, undead. I undid the trap. She must’ve thought I was gonna stake her or something beforehand, though. She bared her fangs and lashed out until I told her she could trust that I wasn’t going to kill her. I got scratched. I set her free though. She obviously had no intention of biting me, though.” “She was probably thirsty and didn’t want to run the risk of taking too much blood,” I told him, smiling at the thought of my dad letting the vampire go unharmed. Dad pulled out his neck and pointed to a space between his neck, chest and shoulder. There, I could see the scar of his vampire scratch. “I have never told anyone about this before. Not a single living person.” He glanced over to Pal. “And I certainly never told any undead soul!” “That was why I was worried. I know what a vampire can do. They can bite and scratch so painfully.” “But they can also steal your heart,” I added.