Mad Red Monthly

Issue #3

Dum spiro, spero

Publisher/Editor: Joshua Dana

Cover Illustration: Nia Carreno

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of each individual author’s imagination.

The views expressed here do not represent the views of Mad Red Books LLC.

First edition December  2025.

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All Rights Reserved.

A Word From Our Owner

As I pause to reflect on the past six months, plus the additional six months of preparation that was required in order to launch this book store, my thoughts faulter, I have difficulty drawing breath into my lungs, feelings of lightheadedness consume me and I drift into what could only be described as a fit of superstition; that no good comes without the bad. That as much as we strive to consider the light, there could be none without the dark. And the battle between the two sides within me continuously rips apart and opens certain places that long ago had been shut tight. And I wince at the pain, and I stutter as I try to relate to the peculiar activities that recently have taken control of my life. And whilst dreams have grown incalculably larger since undertaking this endeavor, the battle will never cease. The war never ends, and so we must push on. Always.

-j

We are proud to present the Nobel Prize lecture by László Krasznahorkai.

© THE NOBEL FOUNDATION 2025

Dear ladies and gentlemen!

On receiving the 2025 Nobel Prize in Literature, I originally wished to share my thoughts with you on the subject of hope, but as my stores of hope have definitively come to an end, I will now speak about angels.

I.

I walk around up and down and I’m thinking about angels, even now I’m walking around up and down, do not believe your eyes—it may seem to you that I am standing here and speaking into a microphone, but I’m not, in reality I’m walking around and around, from one corner to the other, and back again from where I started, and so on and so forth, around and around, and yes, I’m thinking about angels; angels, and immediately I can reveal that these are a new kind of angels, these are angels who have no wings, and so, for example, there is no need to muse about how, if the two wings are sticking out from these angels’ backs, indeed, if these two enormous wings spread out so heavily even beyond these angels’ cloaks, then what kind of work is their heavenly tailor even doing, what kind of unknown knowledge drifts into his workshop up there when he is dressing them; the two wings are outside, of course, they are outside the unembodied body, but then where do they place those wings outside of that unembodiedphysical, robe that winds around them so sweetly and that also covers their wings, or, conversely, if their wings do not stick out, then how does this heavenly cloak cover their bodies together with their wings, oh, poor Botticelli, poor Leonardo, poor Michelangelo, indeed poor Giotto and Fra Angelico! but it doesn’t matter now, this question has evaporated along with the angels of old, the angels I’m talking about are the new ones, that much is clear as I begin to pace around in my room of which you can only now see that I am standing in front of a microphone as I announce, as the recipient of this year’s Nobel Prize in Literature, that I wanted to talk about hope, but I won’t talk about that now, so instead I will talk about angels, I will start from that point, and already there were hazy contours forming in my brain as I set to my task, assuming a meditative posture in my work space which is not too big, altogether four by four metres in a tower room from which the area of the staircase leading up and down to the ground storey needs to be subtracted, of course you should not be picturing some kind of romantic ivory tower, this tower room, built from the cheapest Norway spruce planks and located in the right-hand corner of a single-storey wooden building, rises above everything else because my plot of land lies upon an incline, because the whole thing stands at the top of the hill, namely the entire plot of land is on a slope and it inclines, moreover, it inclines deeply towards a valley which means that as I wished to build a much-needed addition for the ground floor rooms, namely I wanted this as the books were manoeuvring to claim every space, then, after a certain period of time this task became impossible to postpone, and because of this incline, the room that was built as an addition was already rising like a tower above the lower storey, weighing down upon it, well, here I would merely like to speak about angels,

and not about hope,

and not about the old ones, namely the old angels, because the old ones, the winged ones—think of the most famous of them in the paintings of the Annunciation, produced in immeasurable quantities during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance—were bringing a message, a message that The One To Be Born would be born; these were the angels of old, these heavenly messengers continually arriving with this or some other message, and according to the findings of angelology, for the most part they convey this message to the addressee verbally, or, as seen in depictions originating from the ninth and tenth centuries, they read directly from an undulating strip of paper, a sentence-ribbon,in depictions in which the word is granted extraordinary significance; yet these angels, even while fulfilling other missions, still convey—more precisely, they conveyed—the message of The One Above to his elected, the word veiled in light or whispered into an ear, meaning that, regardless of these depictions, these angels cannot be truly distinguished from their message—more precisely, they could not be distinguished from their message—so much so that we should actually say that these angels of old were themselves messages, they themselves were the message that always arrived from The One Who Can Not Be Supplicated, he sent them, he sent the angels to us, we who struggle in the dust, we who wander, condemned to Unforeseeable Consequences /oh, those beautiful times!/ in a word, every angel of old was a message from someone else to someone else, a message of tidings with the character of a command or a report, but I do not intend to take up this matter here standing before you while pacing around and around in my tower room which, as you already know, is constructed from planks of cheap Norway spruce and is nearly impossible to heat, and which is a tower merely because of the steep incline of the plot of land, well, I’m not going to talk about the old ones, even if the pictures that live within us—thanks to the geniuses of the Middle Ages and the early modern period, from Giotto to Giotto—even if these angels of old, with their fitting epithets of ravishing, sublime, and intimate, even if they can still touch our souls at any time, even now, even if they can touch our souls which are incapable of belief, for surely they were the only ones, who, throughout the centuries, because of their infrequent appearances, allowed us to deduce the existence of Heaven, and with that we could also deduce the direction that created within us the structure of the universe as a direction, because where there is direction there is distance, namely there is space, and where there is direction there will also exist a distance between two points, namely there is time, and there is, accordingly, for centuries now—oh! and for millennia!—the world that is believed to be created, where these meetings with them, with these angels of old, gave us a way to decisively sense the above and below as something genuine and real, and so if I wanted to talk to you about the angels of old I would be walking around in circles from one corner, then turning back to the same corner, but no, the angels of old are no more, there are only the new ones, and as for myself, I do not walk around in circles from one corner back to the same corner thinking about them as I stand here in the presence of your attention, because, as I have perhaps mentioned already,

our angels are these new ones,

and, having lost their wings, they no longer have at their disposal those cloaks sweetly winding around them, they walk among us in simple street clothes, we don’t know how many there are, but according to some obscure suggestion their number remains unchanged, and, just like the angels of old in the old days, these new ones too uncannily show up somehow here and there, they show up in front of us in the same kinds of situations in our lives just like the old ones did, and as a matter of fact it’s easy to recognize them if they want us to, if they’re not hiding what they are carrying within themselves, it’s easy because it’s as if they were stepping into our existence with a different kind of tempo, a different rhythm, a different melody than the one we walk to, we who are straining and wandering around in the dust down here, in addition we cannot even be so sure that these new angels are arriving from somewhere up there, because it does not even seem as if there would be an ‘up there’ anymore, as if that too—along with the angels of old—had given up its place to the eternal SOMEWHERE where now only the insane structures of the Elon Musks of this world organize space and time, and from this it may emerge that while you unchangeably see and hear only an old man in front of you, speaking in his own unknown language on the occasion of his receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature, an old man who of course is pacing unchangeably and precisely in that very same unheatable tower room, among the planks of Norway spruce, pacing around and around, namely it is myself, the one who now quickens his pace as if wishing to express that his thoughts concerning these new angels require a different kind of footstep and a different kind of velocity from the one who is thinking about them, and truly, now as I quicken my footsteps, I suddenly realize that not only do these new angels have no wings, but they also have no message, none whatsoever, they are merely here among us in their simple street clothes, unrecognizable if they so wish, but if they do wish to be recognized, then they choose one of us, step over, and then suddenly, in a single moment, the cataracts fall from our eyes, the plaque falls away from our hearts, namely an encounter ensues, we stand there in shock, oh my goodness, it’s an angel, they are standing here in front of us, only that… they don’t give us anything, there is no kind of sentence undulating around them, there is no light with which they could whisper into our ears, namely they do not speak a single word, as if they had grown mute, they just stand there and look at us, they are searching for our gaze, and in this search there is a plea for us to look into their eyes, so that

we ourselves

can transmit a message to them, only that unfortunately, we have no message to give, because we could only say in response to that entreating gaze what was said in response long ago, when there was still a question, but now there is neither question nor answer, so that well, what kind of encounter is this, what kind of heavenly and earthly scene is this, they just stand there before us, looking at us, and we too just stand there looking at them, and if they understand anything from this whole thing, we certainly do not understand what is going on, the mute to the deaf, the deaf to the mute, how could there be any conversation from this, how could there be any understanding, not even to speak of the divine presence, when suddenly it will occur to every lonely, weary, sorrowful and sensitive person, as is happening right now—if I may number myself among you—it will occur to me, I who seemingly stand here before you speaking into the microphone, but who in reality is up there in the tower room, as you know, among the cheap Norway spruce planks and the disgraceful insulation, the realization occurs that these new angels in their infinite muteness are perhaps no longer even angels, but sacrifices, sacrifices in the original, sacred sense of the word, quickly I pull out my stethoscope, because I always carry it with me, and I have it now too, as I speak from that tower room, pacing around and around, and very gently I place the diaphragm and bell onto all of your chests, and immediately I hear the sound of fate, I hear your fates, and with this I step across into such a fate, I sense such a fate beating which immediately transforms this moment, but mainly the next moment that would have stood before me, because no, the moment which seemed likely to follow is not the moment that follows, a completely different moment follows, the moment of shock and collapse strikes down upon me, because my stethoscope detects the horrific story of these new angels that stand before me, the story that they are sacrifices, sacrifices: and not for us, but because of us, for every single one of us, because of every single one of us, angels without wings and angels without a message, and all the while knowing that there is war, war and only war, war in nature, war in society, and this war is being waged not only with weapons, not only with torture, not only with destruction: of course, this is one end of the scale, but this war proceeds at the opposite of the scale as well, because one single bad word is enough, one single bad word tossed towards one of these new angels, one unjust, thoughtless, undignified act is enough, one single wounding of body and soul, because when they were born they were not meant for this, they are defenceless in the face of this, defenceless against crushing, defenceless against vileness, in the face of cynical mercilessness against their harmlessness and chastity, just one deed is enough, but even one bad word is enough for them to be wounded for all eternity—which I can not remedy with even ten thousand words, because it is beyond all remedy.

II.

Ah, enough about angels!

Let us speak instead of the dignity of humans.

Human being—astonishing creature—who are you?

You invented the wheel, you invented fire, you realized that cooperation was your only means of survival, you invented necrophagy so that you could be lord of the world under your command, you acquired a shockingly large intellect, and your brain is so big, so furrowed and so complex that truly, by means of this brain, you acquired power, albeit somewhat limited, over this world that was also named by you, leading you to such recognitions of which it was later to turn out that they were not true, but they helped you to progress in the course of your evolution; your development, pressing forward by seeming leaps and bounds, reinforced your species upon Earth and caused it to grow, you gathered together in hordes, you built up societies, you created civilizations, you also became capable of the miracle of not dying out, although that possibility existed too, but once again you stood on your own two legs, then, as homo habilis, you made tools out of stone, and you knew how to use them too, then as homo erectus, you discovered fire, and then because of one tiny detail—in contrast to the chimpanzee, your larynx and soft palate do not touch—it became possible for you to bring language into being, parallel to the development of the brain’s speech centre; you sat down with the Lord of the Heavens, if we can believe the silenced passages of the Old Testament, you sat down with Him, and you gave names to all the created things He showed you, then later on you invented writing, but by now you were already capable of philosophical trains of thought, first you connected the events, then you separated them from your religious beliefs; referring to your own experience, you invented time, you constructed vehicles, and boats, you wandered across the Unknown on the Earth, plundering everything that could be plundered, you realized what it meant to concentrate your strength and your power, you mapped out planets thought to be unapproachable, and by now you no longer regarded the Sun as a God and the stars as the determiners of fate, you invented, or rather you modified sexuality, the roles of men and women, and very late, although it’s never too late, you discovered love for them, you invented feelings, empathy, the differing hierarchies of the acquisition of knowledge, and finally you flew into space, forsaking the birds, then you flew up to the Moon, and you took your first steps there, you invented such weapons that could blow up the entire Earth many times over, and then you invented sciences in such a flexible manner thanks to which tomorrow takes precedence over and mortifies what can only be imagined today, and you created art from the cave drawings up until Leonardo’s Last Supper, from the magical dark enchantment of rhythm up until Johann Sebastian Bach, finally, in accordance with historical progress, you, with complete and utter suddenness, began to believe in nothing at all anymore, and, thanks to the devices that you yourself invented, destroying imagination, you are left with only short-term memory now, and so you have abandoned the noble and common possession of knowledge and beauty and the moral good, and now you are ready to move out onto the flatlands, where your legs will sink down, don’t move, are you going to Mars? instead: don’t move, because this mud will swallow you up, it will pull you down into the swamp, but it was beautiful, your path through evolution was breathtaking, only, unfortunately: it cannot be repeated.

III.

Ah, enough about human dignity.

Let’s talk about rebellion instead.

I tried to touch upon this in my book The World Goes On, but as I am dissatisfied with what I wrote, I will try again. At the beginning of the nineteen-nineties, on a humid, muggy afternoon, I was in Berlin, waiting at one of the U-Bahn stops on the lower level. The platforms, like everywhere in the U-Bahn system, were set up so that at the starting point of the correct direction of travel, just a few metres from where the train continued its journey through the tunnel, there was mounted a large mirror equipped with signal lights, partially to assist the conductor in seeing the entire length of the train and partially to indicate precisely where, exactly to a centimetre, the front part of the train had to stop, temporarily, while the passengers got off and on, after having arrived. The mirror was of course for the train driver, while the red light indicated that point perpendicular to the tracks where the train driver had to stop for passengers to board and disembark safely, at which moment these, namely the lights, embarkation and debarkation having been completed, turned to green and the U-Bahn could continue its journey through the tunnel—in my case, towards Ruhleben. Apart from a sign warning of the necessity of avoiding accidents and keeping the rules, a highly visible, thick yellow line had been painted onto the ground between the column bearing the signal lights and the tunnel entrance, this yellow line serving to indicate that even if the platform continued for a few more metres, as it did, the traveller must not step across this yellow line under any circumstance so that here—as in every station—there was a strictly forbidden zone in between this yellow line and the entrance of the tunnel where a person, namely a traveller, must not, under any circumstances set foot. I waited for the train to arrive from the direction of Kreuzberg, and suddenly I noticed that there was someone in this forbidden zone. It was a clochard, who—his back bent in pain, his face, in this pain, slightly turned towards us, like someone who counted on sympathy—was trying to urinate onto the walkway above the tracks. It could be seen that this urination was causing him a great deal of suffering, as he could only free himself of it drop by drop. By the time I had fully realized what was happening here, the people around me had also noticed what kind of an unusual incident was now disturbing the afternoon on our behalf. Suddenly and generally, nearly palpably, the unanimous opinion was formed that this was a scandal, and this scandal must be brought to an end immediately, this clochard must leave, and the validity of the painted yellow line must be reestablished. There would have been no problem if the clochard had been able to finish the job, sidle back in among us, then climb the steps to the upper level, but this clochard did not finish, presumably because he could not finish, and what brought this event even closer to trouble was that on the opposite platform there suddenly appeared a policeman who, calling out from there, almost eye-to-eye with the clochard, decisively addressed the transgressor, telling him immediately to cease what he was doing. These U-Bahn stations—once again, for the sake of security—are constructed so that trains moving in opposite directions, arriving at a certain stop and then proceeding onwards, are separated from each other, namely the two sets of train tracks are situated in a trench approximately ten metres wide and nearly one metre deep, so that if a passenger were to rethink his journey, wishing to go from a platform servicing trains arriving in one direction to another platform where the trains are headed in another direction, then this passenger could only do so by walking to the staircase at the end of the platform, climbing the stairs to the upper level, strolling across the corridor above the tracks over to the other side, then coming down the stairs, and only in this way could he reach the platform of the train travelling in the direction that he suddenly desired, whereas of course he could never simply pick himself up, jump into the trench with its two sets of tracks, and traverse those ten metres by walking across the tracks, no, this, if it is possible to distinguish degrees of prohibition, was even more prohibited, as well as being, of course, life-threatening, and I express this obvious fact in such detail, because the aforementioned and visibly enraged policeman—preserving something of his dignity, but making use of his mandate and benevolence—certainly would have to use the same route, namely he would have to head towards the stairs leading to the upper walkway on the other platform, then, climbing these stairs, he would have to run over to this side and come down the stairs, finally arriving to where we were standing.

This was the precedent, obliging the policeman to follow it as well, because from the moment he noticed the clochard, he yelled out a few times in his own hollow, high voice, but to no avail as the clochard took no notice of him, his head still turned towards us, looking at us with a gaze unchangeably reflective of his torture, while the drops of urine continued to fall onto the tracks; truly, an unparalleled insult to the regulations, to order, to the laws and to common sense, namely that this clochard took no notice of the policeman, and, to employ an expression that the policeman himself probably would have used: he acted as if he were deaf, causing this policeman particular pain.

Of course, the clochard had included the policeman in his calculations, that because of his painful advantage, the policeman would be faster than himself, and that he could in no way—either by his own will or the will of nature—bring this forbidden activity to an end in time, therefore, when he noticed that the policeman was hurrying, indeed breaking into a run on the other platform to reach the still distant upper level at the top of the stairs, dash across above the tracks, then run down here to our side, and grab this clochard by the ear, the clochard, groaning, with enormous difficulty, left off what he was doing, and began to escape in our direction so as to reach the closest staircase heading upwards as soon as possible, and then somehow disappear.

It was a horrific competition. Everyone standing on our platform fell completely silent as the clochard set off, because it was immediately apparent that this escape would lead to nothing, because the old clochard began to tremble all over his body; his legs and his brain that were directing his legs seemed no longer to be functioning properly, so that while he observed the policeman on the other side trying to reach the upper walkway—metre by metre!—the clochard, on our platform, could only advance centimetre by centimetre and only through horrific strain, arms flailing, while the policeman too, he too was looking at those ten metres that separated them. These ten metres signified a heavy torture to the policeman, an undeserved, punishing hindrance, whereas on our side, these same ten metres meant delay, a delay which in and of itself carried the meaningless, but manifest encouragement that the clochard still might escape the obvious indictment to follow. Looking at the matter from the viewpoint of the policeman, he himself represented the law, the Good sanctioned by all and therefore obligatory in the face of the transgressor, this repudiator of the rational judged by all—in other words, the Wicked. Yes, the policeman represented the mandatory Good, but in this given moment he was impotent, and within me, as, humiliated, I watched this inhuman competition between metres and centimetres, it happened that my attention suddenly became razor-sharp, and this razor-sharp attention caused that moment to stop. The moment stopped exactly when they noticed each other: the good policeman perceived that the wicked clochard was urinating in the forbidden zone, and the wicked clochard saw that, to his own misfortune, the good policeman had seen what he was doing. There were altogether ten metres between them, the policeman had grabbed his truncheon, and before he could begin running, he came to a dead halt, oh, there was an infinite, but interrupted strength in this movement, his muscles were tensed, ready to jump, because for a moment, it had flashed through him: what if he simply jumped across those ten metres, while on the other side, yet within the protection of those ten metres, the clochard flailed and trembled in his doubled helplessness. Here my attention stopped, and here it has remained until today as I think of that picture, that moment when the enraged policeman, swinging his truncheon, begins running after the clochard, namely, that moment when the obligatory Good begins running towards the Wicked that emerges yet again in the disguise of a clochard, moreover, not simply towards the Wicked, but, because of the consciousness and intention of this act, towards Evil itself, and in this way, in this frozen tableau I continually see, and I see even today, the one hurrying on the far platform, his quick steps carrying him forward metre by metre, and, on our side, I see the guilty one, moaning, trembling, powerless, nearly paralyzed from pain, for who knows how many drops of urine remained in that body, advancing centimetre by centimetre—yes, I see that in this competition the Good

all because of ten metres

will never catch the Wicked, because those ten metres can never be bridged, and even though this policeman might grab this clochard as the train thunders into the station, in my eyes those ten metres are eternal and unconquerable, because my own attention only senses that the Good will never catch flailing Evil, because between Good and Evil there is no hope, none whatsoever.

My train took me towards Ruhleben, and I could not beat that trembling and that flailing out of my head, and suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the question flashed through my mind: this clochard and all the other pariahs, when will they finally rebel—and what will this revolt look like. Perhaps it will be bloody, perhaps it will be merciless, perhaps terrible, as when one human being massacres another—then I wave the thought away, because I say that no, the rebellion that I’m thinking of will be different, because that rebellion will be in relation to the whole.

Ladies and gentlemen, every rebellion is in relation to the whole, and now as I stand before you, and those footsteps of mine in that tower room at home begin to slow down, once again that one-time Berlin trip on the U-Bahn towards Ruhleben flashes within me. One lit-up station glides by after the other, I do not get off anywhere, ever since then I have been riding that U-Bahn through the tunnel, because there is no stop where I could get off, I simply watch the stations gliding by, and I feel that I’ve thought about everything, and I have said everything about what I think about rebellion, about human dignity, about the angels, and yes, maybe about everything—even hope.

Translated by Ottilie Mulzet

Excerpt from the Journal of Dr. Jefferson

By J. Hernandez

          Talon Rose is one of the most unusual cases to come through my practice. She murdered her entire family in cold blood, including her dear younger sister, and she claims to have no memory of it. We found the written confession at the scene of the crime, blaming “The Roses” for what she did. I am not sure what her family name has to do with what she did, but it is most unusual.

          The oddest, and maybe saddest thing about her situation, is that she seemingly wrote her confession in her sister’s blood. It was written in her crisp handwriting that she was known for, but we are not sure what she used as a pen. She was found sitting amongst her dead family, waiting for someone to arrive.
          I was not at the scene when she was found, however, I was told that she seemed to be waiting for someone. She would not say who, no matter how hard they tried to coax it from her. I even asked her myself, to no avail. She would not say. Maybe she did not know.

          “Talon”, I said. “Who were you waiting for?”

          “I didn’t do it”, she responded. It was always the same response with her. She always denied she had killed her family.

          “I’m afraid we have evidence, my dear.” I had her confession with me, and I reached for it to show her.

          “Did the Roses get to you too?” she asked, eyes wide. “Are they why I’m here? Why I can’t get away?”

          “I’m not sure what you mean, Talon. Could you explain it to me?”

          “The Roses. They did it. They made me do it. Their presence is everywhere; in everything. I see them all the time. I can’t escape them.”

          “Are you talking about your family name, Talon? You are Talon Rose, are you not?”

          “Don’t say that name. She is dead. Talon is dead.”

          Of course, I had no idea what she meant by this. She was right in front of me, in my office, and I was talking with her. And her name was Talon Rose. Apparently, I had my work cut out for me.

          No matter how hard I tried, I could not get through to Talon. She was impossibly hard to crack, and even harder to understand. I spent many long nights thinking and trying to understand her. The only bit of information I was able to gather was that she hated her last name. It was almost impossible for me to even utter it in her presence. Maybe she had more in common with the flower than I had first thought; beautiful, but one cannot get too close, lest they succumb to the thorns.

***

          Weeks had passed without an incident of any kind. And then she started having nightmares. She would scream and yell in her sleep about a desert. Being secluded in the mountains, there were no deserts remotely near us, and neither I nor my staff had any idea what she was screaming about. She would wake up, and not seem to even remember her nightmares, or at least, made no mention of them. Even when provoked, she seemed to have no idea what we were asking her about.

          Some members of my staff were under the impression that she was possessed, but that was just nonsense. Possession was simply explained with psychology; there were no demons inside us. There was always a logical explanation for how people acted the way they did, and Talon was no different. She obviously disliked her parents, and resented her sister, most likely because she perceived her sister as the favored child. I doubt we will ever get her to tell us that, but that is my observation.

          The desert nightmares stopped, then Talon had nightmares about roses. Or maybe it was the guilt she felt. She would tell constantly at night about the roses, and how she wanted them to get away. The roses only lasted a couple nights, and this was after she was in our care for well over a year. It seemed odd that she finally had guilt about it now, but guilt shows itself differently in everyone.

          One night, when her nightmares were particularly bad, she woke up in a fit and started screaming. I was fetched by one of the orderlies, and when I arrived in her room she was still screaming.

          “I can’t believe I did it!” she screamed. “I can’t believe what I’ve done.”

          “What did you do, Talon?” I asked.

          The screaming abruptly stopped, then she blinked. And blinked. She seemed to be awake now. I could see her eyes darting around the room, trying to make everything out, like she was scanning for something.

          “What do you mean?” she asked. “I didn’t do anything.”

          “Talon,” I said. “You just said that you couldn’t believe what you did. What did you do?”

          “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I have no fucking idea why I’m even here. Why am I here, “Doctor?” She said doctor with a fake emphasis, attempting to discredit my years of work and experience. So, this was how it was going to be with her. Fine.

          “You know Talon, you don’t have to stay here.”

          “I don’t?”

          “Of course not. You can confess, and they can haul your worthless body out on a stretcher.”
          “Fuck. You.” she spat out.

          “Goodnight, Talon. Confessing will help with your nightmares.”

I walked out of her room before she could utter a response.

***

          There were a few more instances where Talon confessed in the middle of the night, while she was sleeping. But like the first time, she didn’t seem to remember once she was awake. It was quite baffling, if she really did not remember. I was under the impression that this was all an act to make my staff more sympathetic towards her, and go easier on her in regards to treatment. Of course, I could see right through her little act.

          “Good morning, Talon,” I said to her, but I knew it would not be a good morning.

          “Where the fuck am I?” she asked.

          “You’re exactly where you deserve to be, Talon. This will end one of two ways, with your confession, or-”

          “Or what, fucker?”

          “You will confess, and you can leave, or you will never leave this place, nor will you see the outside world again.”

          “I can’t confess to something that I never did.”

          “You killed your parents, Talon. Don’t you remember? They found the confession letter, and you had your sister’s blood all over you. There is no denying that you did it.”

          “No, I-”

          “Save it. You and I both know you’re guilty. Don’t waste your breath.”

Before she could respond, I walked out of the room. This was going to be harder than I thought.

***

          The drugs seemed to be doing their job, keeping Talon unaware. All I needed left was for her to confess. The whole plan hung on to that crucial part. I would get her to confess one way or another. Mark my words.

***

          Talon was becoming more difficult and less receptive to her treatment. My staff assured me that she was taking her drugs, but I had some doubts about that. A few times, she had a slight look of recognition on her face, but thankfully it did not stay. The plan would fall to pieces if that recognition lingered too long. She would regret what her family did to me, all those years ago. I built my practice from nothing. I did all of this without their help. Not that they wanted to give it anyway. This was all me, and I would get everything out of them in the end. It would all be mine.

          I guess it’s time for a confession of my own. Talon did not kill her parents or her sister. The confession note is in her writing, but it is not hers. The knife did the killer, but she did not wield it. It was all me. I did all those things. I had found a way to use hypnosis in my favor. I hypnotized her and made her kill her family for me. After they wronged me the way they did, it was easy payback.

          I came to them in my time of need; the Roses were well known to be wealthy, but generous. My parents had just died, and I was an orphan, left alone in this cruel world. I came to them to request some aid, so that I would not be homeless. I lost everything after my parents died, and I thought the Roses would help. I was from the lower class, and they refused to even hear my plea; I would end up homeless and alone because of them. The orphanage was full, so I had to venture out into the world on my own.

          From that day, I vowed revenge on them. I later found out that my parents died by an indirect action of theirs; the Roses’ generosity was going to the wrong place. It was going into the hands of criminals, to help keep their image up in the eyes of the world. They hired armed thugs to “take out” anyone that got in their way, or anyone that threatened to spill their secrets. It was all a plot for their family to take over power in the government. They were still working their way up when I finally got my chance at revenge. If I had not intervened, they would have amassed total control over our fair city. I did everyone a favor.

          Learning hypnosis was much easier in theory than in practice. It wasn’t difficult to get the basics down, but I went through more prisoners than I would have liked. Thankfully, it wasn’t hard to find prisoners to test the hypnosis on, however, it was much more difficult to find someone willing to be hypnotized to kill. The chosen prisoners were all bad people, murderers, rapists, and the like; I knew they would not be missed. I knew I couldn’t hypnotize myself, so I started my practice to find staff. This was significantly easier once I changed my name. Now I am Dr. Jefferson, but once I was Jason Rose. My family were cousins to her family, but we were on the unwanted side. They wanted nothing to do with us, as we were from the poor side. Of course, that all changed once my practice was open and accepting patients.

          Hypnosis was more trial and error at first. I had to use the right words and tools to hypnotize the right amount of time. Wrong word or tool, and they could go on a killing spree. I found that out the hard way once I had lost eight prisoners to one hypnosis. I had to give a thorough description of who I wanted to kill.

          Talon came into my practice just as a happy accident. Her parents were concerned because she seemed more down to them than usual. She was always a quiet child; I knew her as a baby. I was no longer Jason once I opened my practice, and I had quite the reputation for being the best around. Word must have traveled to the Roses, because I was surprised to see them with Talon. My plan would begin sooner than I planned. Perfect.

          “Talon,” I said to her. “Hypnosis is a great tool to get things under control. I would like to try a couple sessions with you and see how they go.”

          “Okay,” Talon said, “I think that’ll be all right.”

          It took months to get hypnosis right with her. She was very resistant to it at first, but after I had gained her trust, she was much more relaxed. I constantly assured her that she would be fine, and that no harm would befall her due to hypnosis. I never lied about that part.

          I worked her up from just killing a stray rat here and there, to a prisoner at random, to a full roster of kills selected just for her. She was good at it, almost too good. And after each hypnosis session, she didn’t remember her kills. It was too perfect. Revenge would be mine.

***

          On the night it was to happen, I had Talon bring a photo of her family, to better describe her targets. It turned out that I didn’t even need that. A part of her wanted them gone as well. I only had to say their names during hypnosis, and she knew right away who she was going after. I only had to suggest she write the confession and stay at the scene after she was done. The memory loss was just part of this type of hypnosis, which worked out in my favor; I had no need to suggest that the subject forget what they did.

          It all worked out perfectly. I finally got my revenge. There was, of course, one loose end that needed to be taken care of. That final loose end being Talon. My plan would only be completed once I got my hands on her family’s entire inheritance. I would use their money for good, give it to the people that need it. Children would never have to know homelessness, nor would they be in need again. No other child would grow up like I did, alone and afraid.

          It was much harder to finalize my plan, as I needed to be alone with Talon, and given her current situation, that would not be easy. If anyone else was around, they would end up hypnotized as well, and it would not end well for those involved.

          Weeks passed with her in my care, and finally I was able to attend to her alone. Most of my staff were on leave, and those that remained tended to the more unruly patients. Finally, my plan would be complete.

          “Glad to see you’re awake, Miss Rose,” I said. She was looking up at me from her bed, a mask loosely on her face, the mask that would end it all for her. I reached down and moved it to the side.

          “Where the fuck am I?” she demanded with a biting tone.

          “Remember Talon, we don’t use those words here. They make our other guests uncomfortable. You wouldn’t wa-” she sliced through my words, confusion, and anger in her eyes.

          “Fuck them. And fuck you if you won’t tell me where I am.”

“You are in the Rue Institute for the Criminally Insane. You killed your parents, Talon.  And your poor little sister Claire. You killed your father and your mother was gutted by your own hand. You then proceeded to stab your poor sister in the neck and watch her bleed out. You were sent he-” slicing through my words, again.

“No, my mother killed father. I did not do anything. My sister died in an accident, just a fucking accident. I did not do anything. It was all a fucking accident.”
          “You’re half right, Talon. It wasn’t an accident; however, you did kill your parents. With my help, of course.” Her eyes grew wide, the realization growing stronger.
          “You mean-”
          “Yes, Talon. I orchestrated it all. I am the mastermind that led to your family’s downfall. It was all me. I hypnotized you and forced you to kill your parents for revenge. They left me out in the cold, homeless and penniless, with nothing to my name. Nothing, except our name. Isn’t that right, Miss Rose?”
          “You’re Jason!” Finally, it was all coming together.
          It was time to start the hypnosis. It all would be mine, in the end.
          “Let’s finish this,” I said, a smile forming on my face.

With her signed will in hand, Talon was no longer of any use to me. It was time to put an end to her miserable life. Her inheritance, and everything her family owned, would finally be mine. I could be the good this city needed. But could I really kill her? I hesitated a little bit but forced the thought out of my mind. She was just as guilty as her family. She would be the final payment.
         

***

Newspaper excerpt: Ramblings of a Madman

Jason Rose, the long-lost son of the Rose family, died in prison today. We found a diary he had written, filled with the confession investigators have been looking for. This clue was the final piece that solved the puzzle on how the Rose family was killed. He masterminded the whole thing but kept writing about a daughter named Talon. According to our records, the Rose family only had one daughter named Claire, and a long-lost brother, now known to be Jason.
          The disturbing diary confessed to the killings of his parents and sister Claire. Jason also claimed to be a doctor, and work at the Rue Institute for the Criminally Insane, however, when we asked for confirmation of this, they told us they had no record of him ever working there.
          The diary is attributed to a Dr. James Jefferson, who we now know, was the fabricated name Jason used in his delusions.
          More information will be provided in the future.

The King and the Princess

by Joseph McConnachie:

The glimmering palace grew closer as the Princess and her party were escorted by the Lotheran Royal Guard and their King. They had acquired horses for all of them, from the cavalry that had come to their rescue in the streets. It was a quiet trek towards the palace, the Mekharan’s fanning out on the left side, the Lotherani on the right. Scheherazade did not know what to think of the boy King, riding easily alongside her, gripping his reins casually. He glanced towards her occasionally, his expression haggard and weary even still. The weight of the Crown was heavy, it seemed. She turned away from her husband-to-be, looking towards Aron who rode upon her left. His smooth mask of serenity had never changed, even under the threat of death. There seemed to be little at all that phased him, and in that way, she was reminded of her father. He seemed to notice her prying stare, turning his near-black gaze towards her. “What do you think of the city, Princess? I am sure it pales in comparison to the Jewel of the East, but nonetheless…” He trailed off and continued to stare ahead.

“It is adequate, I suppose,” Scheherazade said absently, adjusting her grip on the reins. Zamas grunted lowly over her shoulder. “The Princess is diplomatic, Inquisitor. It is a den of superstitious primitives, if our welcome is anything to go by.” There was an audible thump followed by a growl, the Princess turning to peer over her shoulder at her honor guard. Sanat and Thariti appeared at ease, hands hovering near the hilts of their blades, while Zamas glowered at Nefera who gave an innocent look his way before peering ahead. “He has quite the tongue on him,” Aron soothed with a dismissive glance towards Zamas who glared burning daggers into the back of his head. Scheherazade laughed softly, drawing Hadrius’ attention away from the road in front of him. “He was always in desperate need of a lesson in manners,” she said teasingly, Zamas face reddening slightly. Hadrius’ grim face was brightened by the small smile that curved at the edge of his lips. “You are not one to speak, Aron. Were you not such a valuable member of the court, Father likely would have had you flogged for your uncouthness.”

“Is it a crime to speak the truth, sire, however uncouth it may be?” Aron asked in a neutral tone, his eyes glimmering faintly. Was that amusement in those depths? Hadrius shook his head with a low chuckle. “No. No it is not,” he said with a faint sigh, the lines of worry tugging at the corner of his eyes. Scheherazade had expected hatred to overwhelm all other emotions she might have felt towards the boy King, but now, she felt only pity. Yes, Lotheran and its ideals were opposed to that of Mekhara and its vassals, but Hadrius had little choice in the matter. He was a product of his society, just as she was a product of hers. The treacherous whispers in the back of her mind made her tense in the saddle. What if it need not be this way? Would it be impossible to coexist? There cannot be Light without Darkness? She banished those thoughts, emptying her mind and submerging in the void as the Whisperer had taught her. In Nothingness, you shed all. Fear, doubt, love, rage. It is all dust on the wind. She suppressed a shudder, looking down at her hands, her hands nearly white with strain. Lord of Fathomless Night, grant me strength.

—

The Princess had expected very little from the chambers prepared for her. After all, the Lotherani were by all accounts, ignorant savages and seemed to care little for beauty. But she was glad to be proven wrong in this case. Patterned rugs were carefully laid out across the polished marble floors, the canopied bed draped with fine black silks that seemed to shimmer under torchlight. The wall hangings were all handwoven in the Mekharan style, depicting scenes out of their shared myths, this arrangement showing a version of the Naroth Cycle, beginning with his fall into the Pits, the forging of his Dark Progeny, and the world under their reign, when the Light of the Day was banished from the world. Oh, to have been born in such times. The gentle knock at the door drew her back to the moment, Zamas rising from the pale wooden chair beside the door. He moved with the fluid grace of a warrior towards the door, cracking it open while gripping the hilt of his sword. He immediately turned to Scheherazade, a question glistening in his eyes. She gave a sharp nod, the Ekhenti drawing open the door.

Hadrius entered, accompanied by Aron, the King’s hands folded behind his back. “Princess,” he bowed, much lower than needed, but she did not mind in the slightest. “I hope your chambers were satisfactory. Aron was a great help,” he said, giving a sidelong look to Aron who had remained by the door. The Inquisitor and Zamas were staring blankly at one another, neither breaking eye contact. “Aron knows well our traditions, for one raised in the West,” Scheherazade said, lifting her gaze to Hadrius with a small smile. The boy King returned her smile. “The contents of the carriage have arrived. If it is no great burden, I shall have the servants begin unloading now.”

Scheherazade did not allow her eagerness to show, simply nodding magnanimously and moving towards the canopied bed. Thariti drew aside the silk drapery, eyeing the King wearily as he followed her. Seating herself on the edge of the bed, she watched him through long lashes. He had changed out of the brocaded silk, favoring a cream-white tunic without any embroidery and pale trousers. The only ornamentation at all was the belt with the sevenstar emblem of Ailoth as the belt buckle. Her gaze drifted past him to the arriving servants who began setting down her luggage, her eyes searching for the carved casing containing the wine. She found it, being carried by an older balding servant who carefully set it on a crystal table set against the wall across from the bed. She could feel eyes upon her, turning to meet Aron’s cool stare. It was difficult to discern what the Inquisitor was thinking, his face a perfect mask of calm disinterest. Distantly, she could hear Hadrius’ voice. “…Once you are settled, I would be glad to dine with you. Alone, if that is at all possible. If you must, you can have one of your… what did Aron call them… Ekhenti? Yes, Ekhenti. One of them may join us.”

It almost seemed too easy to Scheherazade, that the boy King would for all intents and purposes, deliver victory to her on a silver platter. Too good to be true, one might say. But the Princess would count her blessings, if you could call it that. Her stomach churned with discomfort at the thought of Hadrius dead, his flesh blackened, his soul likely food for the demons in the Pits. Swallowing past the lump forming in her throat, she met his gaze. “That would be satisfactory. But first, I have a gift. One I hope we can share.” She rose smoothly, moving to glide over to it when Hadrius suddenly coughed into his fist. The knuckles and digits splattered with blood that was nearly black. The Princess’ eyes widened as he stumbled back against the wall, hacking so hard he nearly doubled over. Blood poured from his nostrils and down his chin, staining the pristine tunic. “Great Light…” Aron whispered, gesturing sharply to the servants who scattered, flooding out the door like a trail of insects. The Inquisitor approached Hadrius and placed a handkerchief into his hand, the King quick to place it against his bloody face. There was no apology given, no assurance that all was well. The King and the Inquisitor left as quickly as they had come, Hadrius leaning against the gaunt Aron who through some miracle, was able to hold him upright. The door shut with an audible clang, Scheherazade exhaling a breath that had caught in her throat. Zamas made a ward against the Light with his fingers and muttered a prayer. Sanat, Nefera, and Thariti did the same.

It seemed the forces of the world beyond were working in favor of Naroth’s victory. With the death of Lotheran’s King, without an heir to take the crown, it would crush their might. The Princess should have felt pleasure unending, but weakness had begun to infect her. She could not help that she liked Hadrius; his earnestness and gentle nature were something she had never encountered, save from commoners in her homeland. To vie for the Onyx Throne, ruthlessness was required. Kindness meant death. And yet, it was not so in this land. She sat down once more, cradling her chin with long fingers while her mind whirred. Too many possibilities to consider and yet only one was certain. The King of Lotheran will die.

—

When the time for dinner came, a servant came, offering to escort her and one of her guards. Scheherazade motioned to Zamas who saddled up beside her, resting the heel of his hand on the hilt of his sword. She took the wine from the carved case, carefully cradling it, as she would a child as they walked the long halls towards the royal dining chamber. No prayers were needed now to keep the poison at bay. Pale stone glimmered in the moonlight that shone in from the scattered windows and balconies scattered along this wing of the palace. Dawn’s Bastion was a fitting name for this place. Even during the Hours of Naroth, this structure would glisten with its own inner light. When they finally arrived, the chamber doors were flanked by guards in burnished gold armor. The servant opened the twin doors embossed with gold filigree and gestured them in. It was sparsely decorated, the long wooden table having only two chairs, one at either end of the table directly across from each other. Hadrius stood behind his chair, hand resting against the back of it. He looked… different. As though he had crawled from the jaws of death and returned a different being. He was still pale, as were most of the people of Lotheran, but his skin was flushed with a warmth she had not seen. His recovery was miraculous, though the clerics of this land may have had a hand in his recovery, if any of them could touch the Light.

“Princess. My… apologies for earlier. It is a recent affliction. Possibly the same disease that ended my father,” he said grimly, his eyes seeming to burn with resentment briefly before his features smoothed over. Aron was seated in the corner, legs crossed, tapping out an idly beat with his cane. Curious. “You need not explain yourself, my King,” the smile she gave forced. “I have brought the gift I spoke of,” she said as she moved towards the table, setting the bottle down onto the smooth wooden surface of the table. “It comes from my father’s vineyards. A token of peace, from my family to yours,” she soothed. She could feel Aron’s prying gaze scrutinizing her before he approached, planting his cane against the marble floor with an audible clink. “You show your hand quickly, Princess.” He said coolly, gesturing with a gloved hand. “You think me fool enough to allow this? I am sure you are well versed in pretending to sip. Poisoning is all too common in Mekhara, especially amongst those who wish to ascend the Onyx Throne.”

Hadrius’ face grew flushed, fury shimmering in his gold-flecked gaze. “Aron. You-”

“You all too correct in your assessment of Mekharan politics, Lord-Inquisitor Hek. But I am no longer in the lands of my forefathers. My claim to the Onyx Throne will be forfeit once Hadrius and I are wed. And what good would it do to slay him while I am a guest here? Should he die in this chamber, I will surely follow. And I have no desire to rejoin the Nothingness so soon,” Scheherazade said, surprised by her own calm. She gestured sharply to Zamas who stabbed a thin dagger into the cork, removing it with a pop. She marched purposely to a cart set against the wall, where covered silver platters and two golden goblets rested. She poured the tainted brew into one goblet, examining the stream that flowed from it. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary about it, thank the Night. She lifted the goblet and returned to the table, setting the bottle down with a clang. She raised the cup. “To your health,” she declared before pressing the cool rim to her lips and tilting her head back. A burst of sweetness exploded on her tongue, followed by a low burning in the back of her throat as she drank the tainted brew. Yet there was no taint in it, it tasted like any other she would’ve drank from the northern vineyards. Aron stared unblinking while Hadrius glowered at him out of the corner of his eye, snatching up the bottle. “You must forgive Lord Hek. Around every corner, he sees a plot against me. Now, if you would be so kind, my Lord,” he said coldly, Aron bringing the cart over and placing the goblet in front of Hadrius who poured himself some. He lifted the golden cup and swirled the liquid in front of his face, inhaling the scent with a faint sigh. The Princess’ heartbeat was like a pounding drum in her ears, doing her best to keep her breathing under control lest they suspect something. “To your health, Princess. And to the future we shall share.” When the boy King took a long draught, she lowered her goblet to the table carefully. “Now. Shall we dine?” She asked, Hadrius nodding and taking his seat.

—

The dinner was pleasant, lovely even. Much of what they spoke of was idle chatter, nothing of politics or the conflict of their opposing faiths. It was not often that she laughed, but the King had a sense of humor, one he was glad to share with her. It was… nice. And that made her feel all the worse. Her mission was nearly done. By morning, King Hadrius of Lotheran would be dead. Now, all that remained was to rise to the Sacred Temple and see if tales of the Guardian were true. On the return journey to her chambers, she made sure not to hurry. It was likely Aron had eyes-and-ears scattered across the palace in places none would think to look. She moved at a leisurely pace, suppressing the panic that suffused through every inch of her. The poison was alive inside of her, and though she could not yet feel it, she knew. And that made it all the worse. Zamas opened the door for her and she glided in, turning to the others, Sanat, Nefera, and Thariti. “My sleep draught, please.” She said airily, Thariti moving quickly to the alchemical case beside her bed, removing a vial that shimmered within. When she approached, Scheherazade snatched the vial and popped the cork, downing it in a single gulp. She let out a relieved sigh and gripped the vial tightly before relinquishing it to Thariti.

“Douse the torches. I will rest,” she said and removed her dress with Nefera’s aid, putting on a nightrobe of shimmering black silk. She lay in her bed, closing her eyes to bask in the glory of the Night before filling herself with its power. The power was euphoria as it flooded through her, the darkness before her becoming clear as day. She rose slowly from the bed, wrapping darkness around herself as she stepped to the window, gazing out at the city of Ai’Tilir. In the night, one could barely see the crammed buildings of the peasants below and could admire the manses of the nobility, wrought of shimmering stone. Her gaze rose to the Great Mountain of Saindor where the Sacred Temple resided. Without another delay, she soundlessly opened the door and exited into the hall. Many of the torches had been snuffed out, a scant few still lit. She remained in the shadows, avoiding the light that would shatter the illusion of darkness woven around her. She quickly made her way through to the Queensgrove and from there, to the Stairs of Heaven that wound its way up to the Temple. Winds whipping around her, she felt relief that she would be gone from this land soon. When the gates of gold-and-silver, she admired the relief of Ailoth casting Naroth into the Pit before thrusting her hand out, a whirl of darkness slamming the doors open with a screech. She stepped through and let out a soft sigh, examining the decaying temple with narrowed eyes. Was this the Sacred Temple? How far it had fallen. “Guardian. I have come bearing news. Your King shall soon be dead. A poison, one forged by a son of Vashaloth. This is the end and I would have you know it.”

“Is that so?” A voice like silk whispered near to her ear, Scheherazade’s blood running cold as she whipped around. Her smooth mask of triumph faded, her mouth hanging open in shock. The man in the tattered robe was beautiful, his skin bronze where it was not blackened by horrific burns. She saw in his features a resemblance of Aron, or perhaps in Aron there was a resemblance to him. “I fear you know nothing, Sister of the Night. The King is protected by my blood.” He bared his teeth in a grin, his sharp elongated canines glimmering under the moonlight. “You… You are…”

“A son of Vashaloth? Oh yes. And you, you are but a pawn. But you are mine now.” Scheherazade said nothing and shut her eyes. Waiting.

Still Life in Neon
by Keith Hayden

Ring 1

If I had a super ability, it would be invisibility. Not innate, but achieved through intricate self-glazing, easily breakable yet a sight to behold— all would be welcome, but only one could stay.

That’s the thought I had behind the counter today. Another slow one. Old book vapors run free here, I drink it in as I mind-sketch my next drawing in my head. For some reason, I see a candle, unburned as if ready for Christmas Mass, in a burnished metallic base. I get a homely surge in my stomach, anticipation of fresh-baked holiday cookies soon to be eaten, one too many. I want to draw it. It’ll be an easy addition to the Collection, just for me.

The bell to the door rings and a patron arrives— a woman.

“Welcome in.”

A stocky frame, sun-warmed chocolate skin, curly brown hair tied up with a pencil—she’s shorter than me, and yet she doesn’t seem small. She hesitates just past the threshold like she’s deciding whether to stay. Most people either drift in or bolt; however, not her. She stands there, allowing the air-conditioning to wash over her like a passing desert shower.

I’m not sure whether to speak again, so I get up then rearrange a display. Pretending.

Then she moves— jangling bracelets and a quick, unfiltered laugh as she heads toward the Mythology. Those shelves were my idea. There’s something reckless about the way she touches the books. She doesn’t just skim, it’s sapiosensual fingering through, akin to sloshing berry-bitter wine over the tongue before swallowing. There’s savory glances at the material that I notice. I don’t want to look away, but I force myself to so as not to cause her discomfort or to draw too much attention.

Out of my eye’s corner, I see her reach for the shelf, then flinch.

The laugh comes again, softer this time. Then she looks over, still holding a smile and her finger. My legs tighten and heart beats harder.

“Guess even paper fights back,” she says.

She’s rubbing her thumb.

“Got a splinter.”

“Oh, I can help.” Before I can stop myself, I’m already walking over, first-aid kit in hand. “Here,” I say, trying not to sound intrusive.

“It’s fine, really.” She looks at me, one eye green, the other amber— arresting contrast. “I’ll just—”

“Let me,” I interrupt. I don’t know why. I never touch customers.

She offers her hand anyway. The skin is warm. I focus on the task: tweezers, antiseptic, small motions. My breath holds somewhere between her pulse and mine.

“There,” I say, handing her a tissue. “You’re good.”

She studies me like she’s memorizing my face for later reference. “You work with precision,” she says. “That’s rare.”

“I prefer things to stay where they belong.”

She smiles— slow, genuine, slightly teasing. “And where do you belong?”

I have no answer, only the sudden awareness that she’s waiting for one.

“I gotta get going. Thanks for the patch up… didn’t get your name.”

“Quina.” It came out louder and faster than I wanted.

“Well Quina, nice to meet you, I’m Brass. Maybe I’ll see you again, if I need a medic.” She winks, then heads for the door.

After the door bell tinkles signaling her complete departure, the air feels disorderly, a semi-truck that roared by swirling trash in a waking swirl. I tidy the display again, though nothing’s out of place. Residual warmth still grips my palms— proof I failed at invisibility. I press the tissue she used into the trash, then stop halfway, realizing it’s still folded, clean except for a trace of her perfume, smoke-fused citrus. I slip it into the drawer instead. Tomorrow, I tell myself, will be slower. Tomorrow I’ll draw the candle.

Ring 2

Over the next weeks Brass returns, each visit adding a new layer of luster. Chiming door, rustling pages, waving orange-spice scent, scraping hints of vocals from her blasting earbuds, her aura is present even when I’m unprepared. Even after she leaves, bracelets keep ringing in my head. Like the Cayuse people I read about once— how they prized silence— I prefer isolation and miss the unspoken slowness of quiet. Yet even that thought feels false, just like the “one-day-I’ll-share-my-art” one.

On one occasion, the store is deserted as the cragged dunes beyond the valley when I find myself drawing. Flow is pure. The way ink bleeds lines is psychic architecture. Outline, shapes, highlights, details come together. In a few turns of the clock, it’s done, and it’s so her—

Brass.

I hear the bell dingle. And she waltzes in. Planetary disorder in. Neatness a sin. Chilly panic freezes within.

“Quina? Are you alright? You look a little sick.”

“No, no I’m fine.” I tell myself to relax, but that just makes me tense up more.

“Okay, well I came to return this book.”

“Another one you ‘borrowed’?”

“Hey, don’t arrest me for grand theft bibliography. I said I’d bring it back, so here it is. I always do.”

“You do. I trust you.” I peek to her bag, strapped, hanging low against her leg. Elegantly sculpted is how I’d describe her thighs, visibly sturdy branches thrusting out of her jean shorts.

“Do you have any more titles to return? Or do I have to search you?” Oh Dios mio, why did I say such a cringe thing! Now my heart rate’s high again from the exposed situation.

A curl of her lips comes when she steps forward. “What kinda search we talkin’?”

I swallow. One of those loud animated gulping ones. I imagine my heart conking out of my chest like those old Looney Tunes characters abuela used to watch. Total pounding embarrassment.

For a breath we both wait— me for courage, her for my next word.

“Well… the kind—”

Brass’s phone rings. It’s one of those generic factory ring tones that sounds like a beeping 2010s version of a once popular song long forgotten. For the first time, her natural shine slickens, glistening wetter. And I recognize my own mortal embarrassment mirrored. She views the phone.

“Excuse me, I gotta take this.”

Without another word, she flies out leaving me among a clutter of emotion. I want to draw, but all I see is a sputtering flame dotting the dark.

Ring 3

It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her. An over-makeupped older woman— who has a kikay vibe despite her age— stands where Brass got the splinter on that first day, which feels like a life ago. There was a before and after Brass, because that changing of eras granted perspective.

I see myself drawing her outline: face, lips, thighs— the pencil can’t keep its hands to itself. And every time the bell sounds on the door, which signals another potential sight of her, I get the rush of secretive wanting, I play with myself a game I can never lose, even though I hide the sketchpad, even though nobody notices, even though I still don’t draw the simple candle.

Another week goes by. Gone. I draw, hear the bell. Brass, in the flesh, makes my heart beat fast. She’s got a small box with her.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” I stand. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Come to pilfer more books?”

She doesn’t laugh. “Not this time. Sorry for the disappearing act. Last few weeks have been crazy.”

“Oh no it’s… it’s okay. I figured you were busy—”

“It’s over.”

“W-What is?”

“That call I got last month I was here was my now ex. We’d been off n’ on for the last few years. But since I’ve been studying out here, she found someone else. She’s finally happy.”

The bell ding-dings again. A long-necked and lank older Asian man walks in with two tweens. They go straight to Middle-Grade Earth, which is a section I named after my Lord of The Rings phase. It was just a phase. I feel the moment slip from my hands, and I let it, because the distraction feels safer than the truth of what she just said. A homeless man shoves a burdened shopping cart down the sidewalk outside, and I watch him longer than I should, because looking at him means not looking at her.

But my eyes are stinging for Brass, while my heart is jumping. Sadness and joy, sob and smirk at one another across my shoulders. The feeling leaves me in a kind of mental lock. I find myself staring beyond her, though I want to hold her.

“Brass, I’m sorry. That wasn’t your fault.”

She shifts uncomfortably. “I’m happy she found happiness. Even though it wasn’t with me.”

Quiet reigns for a while, while the kids browse the aisles. One of them pulls a book from the lower shelf— the mythology section, where Brass first arrived. The same shelf. My chest tightens.

Brass perks up slightly, and I notice her eyes have moved past me, to the counter behind the register.

“Wait,” she says softly. “Is that—”

My stomach drops. I’d left the sketchbook open when the family rushed in, when Brass appeared, when I lost the thread of self-preservation that usually keeps it hidden. Invisibility blown away. The pages face outward: portraits in pencil, unmistakable. Her hands. Her thighs. Her eyes— one amber, one green— rendered with a precision that leaves no room for denial.

“That’s me,” she says. Not a question. A revelation, gentle and certain.

I can’t speak. The words are somewhere behind my ribs, caged.

She moves to the counter with careful steps, as though approaching something sacred. Her fingers hover above the page but don’t touch it— a courtesy I don’t deserve. When she looks at the sketches, her expression doesn’t harden or retreat. Instead, something in her face softens, the way wax softens before flame. Slightly, her eyes water.

“Quina,” she says, and my name sounds different in her mouth— not a greeting but a kind of reverence. “These are… you got me. See me.”

I want to disappear. I want to burn the pages. I want to admit that yes, I see her, I’ve been seeing her, I can’t stop seeing her, which is precisely why I hide these drawings, precisely why I pretend indifference when the bell rings—

“Don’t,” she says, turning to me. “Don’t hide these.”

She reaches into the small box she’s been holding— the one I’d forgotten about in the chaos— and pulls out a brass candleholder. It’s burnished, glowing faintly even in the fluorescent light. She sets it on the counter, right next to the open sketchbook.

“I came here to give you this,” she says. “Because I didn’t know how to say… I didn’t know how to ask if you felt it too. If I was just “borrowing” books and your time, or if…” She trails off, looking at the sketches. “These answer that, I guess.”

The candleholder sits there, solid and warm-looking, a small beacon next to evidence of my now obvious obsequious obsession.

“I can’t—” I start, but my voice trips over another hard gulp.

“Yeah you can,” she says. “You already did. You drew me—really well, I mean, I’m not just saying that—and…” She trails, reaching into the box. “I should give you something.”

One of the tweens approaches the counter with a stack of books. Brass steps back to give space, and I move on autopilot to ring them up, my hands shaking slightly. The whole time, I’m aware of her watching me, watching the sketchbook, watching the candle between us like it’s the only true thing in the room.

When the family leaves, the quiet returns. Different now. Charged.

Brass picks up the candleholder the same color and rough shine as her name and holds it toward me.

“Take this, and light it when you’re ready to show me more.”

I take it from her hands— warm from her holding it— and for the first time, I don’t look away.

She steps closer. Just one step. Her fingers find the back of my hand, still wrapped around the brass, and she presses her thumb there— steady heat, real. Not a kiss, not yet. Just a point of contact that says: I see you seeing me.

Then she leaves.

The bell chimes softly behind her.

Ring 4

That night, alone in the locked bookstore, I light the candle.

The flame trembles, then steadies— a birthed star in the space dark. From outside, neon from the strip bar bleeds through the blinds in parallel lines, cutting the counter into bars of pink and blue. I set the candleholder next to my open sketchbook and I draw, and I draw, and I draw: her hands, the curve where her jaw meets her neck, the exact amber-green of her eyes catching candlelight. The pages multiply like a wood owl nesting, each sketch layering into the next, building that nestled feeling from paper and graphite.

When the candle burns halfway down, I stop.

I look at what I’ve made— what I’ve finally allowed myself to make— and instead of hiding it, instead of tucking it into drawers like contraband, I do something I should have long ago. My hands shake as I pin it to the bookstore’s community board, unsigned, alongside tomorrow’s events: book clubs, author signings, lost-and-found notices.

Just one sketch. A single proof that I exist in this place. One small act against invisibility.

The candle gutters. I blow it out and sit in the neon-striped night before locking up.

Morning comes like all mornings do— inevitable, ordinary, full of light.

I arrive early, before customers, to check the board. The sketch is still there, and for a moment, I’m certain everyone will see through the line work to the obsession beneath it. They’ll know. They’ll judge. They’ll—

The bell rings.

A young couple enters, browsing. An older man with reading glasses. A teenager with a backpack. Nobody stops at the board. Nobody notices.

But then Brass arrives— not for books, I think. For me.

She walks to the board and studies the sketch the way she studied the sketchbook: with the gentleness of someone handling something sacred. As if it were art you pay to see or an artifact, ancient and storied. When she turns to me, her smile isn’t triumphant or possessive. It’s tender, knowing, the smile of someone who understands that visibility is its own kind of courage.

“You did it,” she says.

“I did.”

“Light it again tonight?”

I nod. Not because I know what comes next— I don’t. Not because I’m certain this will work— I’m not. But because I’m finally, finally ready to find out what happens when you stop hiding miraculous nature.

She leaves a candle on the counter before she goes. A new one, unburned, waiting.

The flame in my chest— the one I’ve been extinguishing for years— finally catches.

Outside, the desert heat shimmers. Inside, where the paper is cool with possibility, I begin to draw again, knowing now that someone will see it. Knowing that being seen doesn’t mean disappearing— it means, finally, becoming visible.

THERAPY GOES TO THE MOVIES

VALERIE J RUNYAN

I never thought this day would come- I mean I hoped for it, dreamed about it, was afraid to believe, but here it is my last Saturday therapy session.

While it’s no Seven Years In Tibet, it has been an odyssey none the less through harsh terrain and brutal desert, with the most unorthodoxed licensed psychotherapist who Escaped From New York whose ringtone is Viva Las Vegas.

First of all I never thought I’d trust a sis-gendered white male, but my soon to be ex-therapist looks like “The Dude” in The Big Lewbowski his house could double as a less expensive studio shoot of Graceland, and he mic drops his age at any and every opportunity- that he sometimes creates.

I’m sure as hell going to miss him and his cinematic movie references for just about everything, I literally wondered moments after stepping into his home office “What the fuck did I get myself into?”

When he shouted at me from behind his huge Elvis memorabilia-laden desk “You want the truth, you can’t handle the truth!” then in a tone a bit less insane, told me to sit whereever I wanted I chose the far end of his blue suede sofa that could have sat ten people comfortably.

With surprising speed, that huge ass man knelt down in front of me and softly said, “Nobody puts “Baby” in a corner” in the span of what felt like seconds, we went from A Few Good Men to Dirty Dancing.

He extended his huge right hand that had a ring on every finger and gently patted my knee, he sat down next to me wrapping his long tattooed arm around my shoulder, pulling me against him and said matter of factly, “Much work to do we have.”

As I left that unassuming ranch-style house with the circular gravel driveway, I actually laughed out loud for the first time in forever “Holy shit, I have my very own Yoda!”

Over the next seven years via movie references and dialogue lines – his cinematic knowledge was encyclopedic – he helped me chip away at the concrete dam I had built, the first time I encountered his gun-metal gray Bull Mastiff dog named “Sarg” he scared the shit out of me!

“The Dude” a former Marine, told me what Semper Fi meant and one tattoo on his massive left forearm says “SHOCK AND AWE” I once asked him why degrees in psychiatry and holistic medicine, he said bones aren’t the only things on the human body that need mending, and besides he gets to wear his rings and display his tats.   

One of my biggest self-reveals certainly shocked and awed the fuck out of me, came from when he suggested I watch the movie The Matador he told me to watch for how the characters subconsciously morph a little bit like each other by the end of the film.

I hadn’t realized that I made parallel choices in my former career as a founding partner in an architecture firm, that my now deceased father made by becoming a managing partner in a corporate law firm my whole life as opposed to being the writer he wanted to be.

I on the other hand, broke the golden handcuffs to now own along with my three “queens” our vintage designer couture business, and the icing is that I can freely “get dressed” on my special Saturday nights in designer gown regalia.

In what turned out to be the last six months of my father’s life, he became okay with the “girls” and accepted my getting “dressed” I’ve taken a real liking to Kentucky Bourbon and sparkling mineral water- just like him, instead of my old favorite generic liquor store vodka and grocery store tonic water.

“The Dude” is retiring now which is why this was our last session, he and his giant dog are leaving for Costa Rica tomorrow to spend the rest of their sunset years with some military buddies on white sand beaches, and I’m going to spend the rest of my days in the “neon capital” of the world, with the family I have chosen to create.

Fire Signs at Work: A Spark of Innovation, Drive and Boldness

Fire signs in the workplace bring momentum, motivation, and unmistakable presence. Action-oriented and naturally assertive, these folks thrive in environments where they can take the lead and express their ideas with confidence. Their strong sense of identity fuels their fire, allowing them to push forward with clarity and purpose. Instead of dwelling on obstacles, fire signs focus on possibilities by sparking innovation, igniting team spirit, and inspiring others to move boldly toward new opportunities. In this month’s Astrology at Work spotlight, we explore how fire energy shapes workplace dynamics and how we can harness that fire to elevate teamwork.

Aries at Work: The Trailblazer (March 21 – April 19)

Aries is the first sign of the zodiac, and as such, these individuals are natural leaders who take control of any situation before them. They thrive on challenges, move quickly, and rarely hesitate when action is needed. Aries are pioneers and can see the path to new projects clearly.  When you work with an Aries, the “idea light” shines bright above you. They bring energy, boldness, and a spark that can change the atmosphere of a workplace instantly. Their presence alone tends to push teams forward, break stagnancy, and encourage fresh momentum.

Aries Employee

Overall, Aries makes a strong and dependable employee. They will not sit and allow others to make decisions for them, and they naturally push forward, often rising quickly in any company. Aries have outward personalities and will express their thoughts to anyone in the room, making them highly visible contributors. They are straightforward, sharp-tongued, which can make discussions lively and direct. They tend to be bossy, even when they are not in a leadership role, but this same assertiveness keeps projects moving and prevents teams from becoming stagnant.

Aries Leader
Once an Aries becomes a leader, the company will change completely. These folks are calculated, innovative thinkers who work best in environments where their mind is always developing a new way to do something. Their ability to visualize the future and plan far ahead gives them a strategic, leadership advantage that others rely on. Aries leaders encourage thoughtful debates; it keeps their minds moving forward. If you are under the direction of an Aires leader, be ready to grow with them as they move mountains.

Leo at Work: The Radiant Leader (July 23 – August 22) When a Leo walks into the workplace, their presence is unmistakable, they carry a huge smile that matches their even bigger heart. These creative charmers thrive with an audience and naturally draw attention through their expressive mannerisms, powerful presence, and grand approach to anything they do. With an inner fire that burns across cubicles, conference rooms, and even virtual spaces, they bring warmth, charisma, and a sense of safety to those around them. Their leadership potential is strong and unmistakable, often surfacing long before they hold an official title.

Leo Employee

Leos are loyal and devoted employees, often going out of their way to protect their team.  They take their jobs seriously and work best when they can manage something—whether that’s people, money, systems, or major events. Their natural charm makes them excellent presenters who can capture any audience’s attention. When they step into the spotlight, their inner fire blazes, inspiring others and boosting morale across the team. The Leo employee bring magnetic energy that elevates the entire workplace.

Leo Leader

Leos are natural-born leaders, and that leadership emerges whether their sun, moon, or rising sign falls in Leo. They are the employees who can speak in ways that make you want to listen and lead in a way that makes others want to follow. As leaders, they are persistent yet calming, guiding others with confidence and grace. Leos make excellent mid-to-senior leaders who complete their work effortlessly and inspire others to follow their lead. Once you’re aligned with a Leo leader, you often grow right alongside them, because their success naturally becomes yours.

Sagittarius at Work: The Visionary Explorer (November 22 – December 21)

You will notice a Sagittarius as one of the most unique people in the office.  They are optimistic, free-spirited, and unafraid to stand out. They beat to their own drum and bring a refreshing sense of creativity and possibility everywhere they go. Sagittarius employees and leaders alike can see a bright future for themselves and understand that change is necessary for growth. When it’s time for a new direction, they embrace it unlike most, moving forward with excitement rather than fear. They are philosophical, energetic, and motivated to explore new ideas, making them natural innovators in any workplace.

Sagittarius Employee

As employees, Sagittarians work best when they are given the freedom to explore a concept or idea in their own unique way. They are natural problem-solvers who often create complex equations in their mind, hoping to help others understand the bigger picture. Sagittarians are always ready to step up and assist; they make the best volunteers and enjoy being called to help with a mission. Their honesty is sharp and uncannily direct.  They will tell you when something is wrong and how to make it right, without sugarcoating it. At times, they may seem emotionally detached or fickle, but their intention is always progress, truth, and improvement.

Sagittarius Leader

Sagittarius leaders thrive in collaborative environments and appreciate team members who share their drive to “get it right the first time.” They are headstrong leaders who mentor with clarity and purpose but will not hand-hold, expecting employees to learn quickly and keep pace. They encourage independence and initiative from their subordinates which ultimately makes them worthy mentors. Sagittarius leaders believe in expanding horizons, and anyone who follows their lead will grow not only in skill, but in vision and confidence.

Why We Need Fire Signs on Our Teams

Fire signs bring the spark that keeps workplaces inspired, courageous, and forward-moving. They ignite momentum when teams feel stagnant and remind others that challenges are simply opportunities waiting to be conquered. Their natural confidence, creativity, and leadership instincts help organizations break old patterns, embrace innovation, and take strategic risks that lead to growth. Whether they are initiating bold ideas like Aries, uplifting others with Leo’s charismatic warmth, or expanding possibilities with Sagittarius’ visionary insight, fire signs keep the workplace energized and evolving. Simply put, fire signs help teams stay passionate, purposeful, and ready to take action.  Every thriving organization needs that flame.

About the Author
Nicole Calix Coy is a certified astrologer and author of Astrology at Work: Navigate Workplace Dynamics with Astrological Insight. Nicole has over 20 years of experience as a human resources professional and more than a decade of experience in social work. She holds advanced degrees in psychology, counseling, education, and legal studies, making her uniquely qualified to bridge the gap between people, workplace dynamics, and astrology.

She has a gift for making astrology practical, relatable, and easy to apply in the workplace—helping professionals build stronger connections, improve collaboration, and bring more clarity to their careers.