Visions of Jane

By Ruti Frohlich

Looking through his matted eyelashes, laden with a mixture of sand and sweat, the golden-haired boy gazed onto the mountains of desert ahead. His legs ached, and the sunburn on his scalp blistered. How long was he walking for? Days? Weeks? He couldn’t remember. He could only remember one thing. And he needed to find her.

Protruding from a distant sand dune, a faint outline of a brownish-red cabin blurred into a haze. He wasn’t used to seeing any form of civilization; the boy’s eyes had grown accustomed to parched wasteland and endless horizons alone. He hesitated, unsure whether to make his way towards the structure. Maybe he would enter into emptiness, and the expedition to a far-away dune would have been for nought. But the boy was thirsty. His cracked and bleeding lips ached for a drop of water, and his heart thirsted for Jane. 

Water. Jane. Water. Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane.

Sweat clinging to his porous brow, fingers blistering from the climb, at last, the boy arrived. Ahead of him was a large wooden door, but all he could see was her. Her eyes protruded from her sunken cheeks. Her lips were chapped. Her boney hands reached out, begging for a savior. 

Extending towards the door, the boy took a step forward. But his gaunt legs couldn’t carry him further. He made no sound as he collapsed to the ground. His eyes were still gazing into hers; Jane needed him. As the boy’s eyelids began to close, he parted his lips ever so slightly and whispered, “Jane, Jane, Jane…”

And then, silence. 

The boy’s eyes fluttered open under the night’s desert wind. His boney hand slowly removed the oily hair glued to his eyes while he pulled himself into a seated position. But as he turned to the direction of the cabin, all he could see was a never ending chasm of sand. The cabin was gone. 

He blinked, unsure if his eyes were playing a trick on him. Had he imagined it all? A moment ago, he was staring at the door. A moment ago, he was staring at her. He was so close, So close to finding answers. 

Clutching a handful of cool, grainy sand in his hands, he hurled the particles between his fingers into the hollow abyss. Tears falling down his face, the boy clawed at the sand, muttering to himself, “I’m weak. I failed her. I failed Jane, again.”

Brushing the sand from his tattered pants, the biting wind drove the boy to stand and continue onward. He journeyed right, hoping to encounter a passerby, ideally someone with news of Jane’s whereabouts and some water, too. 

The golden horizon glowed as the sun rose higher in the morning sky, and the boy’s eyes grew accustomed to the landscape around him. It became clear that he wasn’t walking on sand and rock alone–there were objects scattered beneath his feet. Not just one object. As he looked closer, he noticed hundreds. No, he thought, thousands.

Bending down to get a closer look, the boy reached for the nearest object. It was a small, red shoe, fitting perfectly into the palm of his hand. Meant for a three year old, maybe. Moving his hands along the contours of the shoe, the boy wondered how it got here. There was no one in sight; why was a three-year-old's shoe here? 

He carefully placed the shoe back onto the sand, upright and resolute. As he adjusted it to brace the wind, his eyes caught glimpses of other shoes peeking from the sand. More shoes. Shoes alive with color. Shoes whispering with stories of life lived. Of life unfinished.

As his fingers closed around another shoe, he looked up—and there she was. Falling back, her emerald eyes glared into his with fervent anguish and terror. 

“Save me!” she screamed, her voice trembling with agony. 

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, his voice heavy with despair. “I’m coming.”

“Not fast enough,” she begged with tears in her eyes. “Find me!”

And as her final words escaped her lips, she vanished. 

He gasped for air, but the same desiccated air filled his lungs. His gaze fell to his hands. His fingers remained tight around the shoe. But he couldn’t stay. The more shoes he extracted, the more questions arose, the more time slipped away. He had to find her.  

After hours of walking, each step feeling like a ship battling through surging waves, the boy noticed something in his periphery—a blurred, inconspicuous figure. A person, perhaps? Without a thought edgewise, he ran towards the figure, fast and unyielding.

“Slow down, my son, slow down,” the figure shouted across the plane. “I’m not going anywhere.”

So he slowed his pace, and after several minutes of careful movement, he finally made out the figure of an elderly woman before him. He spent the walk determining the words to say, but he came up with only one:

“Water?”

The old lady adjusted the woven bag that rested on her shoulders, and pulled out a clay jug.

“Here you go,” she said as she handed it to the boy.

He grabbed the jug and desperately poured the water down his throat, spilling water from his mouth as he drank. She needed the water too, but she let him drink. She saw enough starved children die. She couldn’t bear to see another.

Tipping the jug to catch the last drop of water on his tongue, he handed it back to the old woman.

“Thank you,” the boy said, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Do you... do you know Jane?”

At the mention of her name, the old woman's face darkened.

“Who is Jane?”

“She needs me. She needs water—”

“No, I didn’t ask what she needs. Who is Jane?”

“She… she…” The boy faltered, unable to find an answer. He didn’t know.

The old woman placed her wrinkled hand gently on his shoulder and whispered, “Son, Jane isn’t real.”

He shook his head, rejecting her words.

“She’s real. She needs me.”

“I know you, my child,” she said softly. “I called for someone, too. My son. John. For thirteen years, I searched for John. For thirteen years, I wandered in circles, following his voice. But it was my heart, empty and shattered, searching to find nothing. He was gone.”

The boy stepped back. “No. She’s not gone.”

“Son,” she said, “the desert plays tricks on you. It makes us see things. It makes us see what we long for. Jane, oh honey, Jane isn’t real.”

The boy’s face flushed with anger. Pulling away from her hand, he yelled,

“No! She’s real. She needs me!”

Without another word, he turned sharply and staggered away, his steps slow and uneven. The old woman watched as he left, her dark expression turning into something more—deep, deep sorrow of a life once lived, and a life which will forever be lost. 

"She's wrong," he thought. "She's old and senile. She doesn't know left from right." But still, her words lingered in his mind, echoing: "Son, the desert plays tricks on you."

Stopping for some rest, the boy pushed her words aside. Jane is alive. Jane is real. 

The boy sat down on the nearest rock, rolling his pants up to cool down his legs. Suddenly, he heard a distant shriek. It sounded like a girl. Jane.

He bolted forward, tripping over rocks and sticks as he ran. The shrieks continued. Chasing the piercing sound, he looked like a bear hunting his child’s killer. He pushed forward, panting, until he reached the source of the sound. But there was no girl before him. Only a coyote, howling in the wind. 

An unsettling feeling welled inside of him. He swore he heard a shriek. He swore he heard Jane.

The boy looked down and noticed that his legs were covered with blood. Using a smooth rock, he wiped the blood off, only to reveal a constellation of open wounds on his skeletal legs. So he sat down, this time with resolute assurance that he will rest until he heals. 

As he paused, the boy tried to recall Jane. He sat there, determined to unravel who she had been and what she meant to him. But the more he tried to recall her, the more unclear Jane became. There were flashes—moments of joy and sadness—but her essence, who she truly was, was a mystery.  Who was she to him? The answer was beyond his grasp, a fleeting dream, a puzzle left unfinished.

Two days passed, and the boy remained motionless, at last resting after his arduous journey. He rolled up his pants, and while there were countless scabs engulfing his legs, there was no blood. Steadily, he stood, a sense of ambivalence toward Jane settling over him, yet he felt he was missing something. He could still hear her. How could he let her go?

Stumbling forward, his eyes caught a glimpse of something ahead—an oasis of sorts. He approached cautiously, unsure if this was yet another trick his mind was playing on him. A single palm tree in the center of a pool of water. A dream or a gift? 

The boy pressed his hand into the still water, bringing his finger to his lips to taste the liquid. It was real. A disbelieving laugh escaped from him, like a newborn discovering its own toes. The water was real. 

As he scooped another handful of water into his mouth, his eyes drifted to the lone tree at the center of the water. There, beneath the branches, sat someone. He froze. He knew that face. He’d seen that face a hundred times. It was Jane. 

“Jane! I’m here! I’ve come to save you!” the boy cried, waving his hands frantically in the thick air.

But Jane didn’t move. She was motionless, gazing at the boy with deep sadness. 

“Jane! It’s me!” he shouted again, desperately trying to get her attention.

Again, no response.

Without thinking, he dove into the water, the fresh scabs burning against the cool current. He swam toward her, but as he broke the surface, she was gone. The tree stood alone.

Jane was gone. 

He dragged himself toward the tree and collapsed. He tried to make sense of it all. Was she real? Was he imagining her? Questions rippled on the water. What was happening to him? 

The boy sat against the tree for hours. His chest weighed down with uncertainty. But he couldn’t stay here. With his legs trembling beneath him, he swam to shore. Wiping the remaining water from his blistered nose, he stood on the burning sand and journeyed forward. 

Exhausted and broken, the boy walked straight. It could have been minutes. Hours. Maybe even days. But his mind was somewhere else. He could see Jane. He could hear Jane. He could even feel her at points. But he didn’t trust himself anymore. He didn’t know what was real, what was fake, what was just a figment of his imagination. 

He trudged onward in an unrelenting cycle—resting, walking again—each step an exhaustive march leading to a destination he did not know. 

While his thoughts continued to spiral, the boy looked up to see a decaying, seemingly abandoned cave. He entered, seeking respite from the hot sun’s blazing rays. Unable to see anything in the dark cave, the stench was the first thing to hit the boy—a smell of mildew and old furniture engulfed him. 

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he ventured further into the cave, gradually discerning the intricate details on the walls. Exploring more of the cave, the boy noticed something glistening in the corner. It was a mirror. He moved toward it, expecting to see himself. Expecting to see the boy he knew. But as he peered into the mirror, he saw a hollow-eyed figure staring back at him. His tattered clothes hung loosely, barely clinging to his skeletal body. Who had he become? 

Deliberately placing his hands on the wall behind him, the boy attempted to make himself look stronger. But as his hands grazed the wall, he felt something beneath his fingers. There was something etched into the walls. Tracing the words with his pointer finger, the words read “let go.” 

Suddenly, the boy collapsed to the ground. In that moment, the memories flooded back with clarity. He remembered Jane. She was his sister, born from the same womb as him. But she was gone. She was the first to die in the plague that terminated their village. He could still see her swollen hands reaching out to him. 

The grief from her loss was unbearable. He fled to the desert, hoping that running away from Jane would ease the pain. But the desert was no refuge—the desert plays tricks on the mind. And Jane, well, the ghost of her, was a symbol of his implacable sorrow, of his grief that was never addressed. No matter how far he ran, there was no way to truly escape the loss. 

The boy collapsed deeper into himself, and a torrent of tears escaped from him. This time, his tears were not of confusion or despair but of raw, unbounded grief. He wept for the life he had lost and for the person whom he loved. 

Tears stained into the fabric of his pants.The boy journeyed outside of the cave, eager to find civilization. But as he stepped outside, his legs gave way, and he collapsed. He hadn’t eaten in weeks. His body couldn’t handle another voyage. 

He laid there for hours, and as the desert wind buried the boy in the sand, he opened his mouth and whispered, “Jane. I’m coming to find you.”

A Deal Over Dinner

By Aiden Harow

The steak was lovely, really.

The ribeye was a perfect medium-rare, served with mashed potatoes seasoned with garlic and parsley and a mound of buttered peas. The man sawed off a small piece, relishing the crispiness a good sear can put on a well-seasoned piece of meat, and thrust it into his mouth. Normally he would have paired this meal with a bourbon, something smoky, a little sweet, but he was very careful never to drink during a negotiation. 

His counterpart had elected to order the fish, gently flaking it apart with her fork before delicately designating the perfect proportion of salmon, steamed vegetables, and rice pilaf for each well-balanced bite. A glass of chilled chardonnay rested by her right hand, blurry streaks left in the condensation by her grasping fingers. She nonchalantly lifted the glass and sipped from it. 

The man cleared his throat and set down his utensils. “I think we’ve done some good work here, but we still have a long way to go,” he said.

The woman cocked her head and smiled at him wanly. “The way things look to me, we pretty much have everything settled. Just give me your signature and I can have the paperwork in tomorrow.”

“I believe I’ve made it very clear that I am not okay with the way things currently are.”

“I know. Unfortunately, I just can't give you what you’re asking for.”

“I’ve put in just as much work as you have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

“You haven’t. And you know you haven’t. Don’t make me prove it to you.”

The man put his head in his hands and sighed deeply. “They’re mine just as much as they are yours.”

She looked at him not unkindly. “Yes, I know you believe that. But I need to make sure they are in safe hands and I can’t trust you as a partner. Haven’t been able to for a long time. We can talk about bonuses for holidays and special occasions, but I’m taking control here whether you like it or not.”

The man picked up his knife and fork and set them down again, hands trembling. His voice caught in his throat. “I can’t… I won’t let you do this. I…I’ll fight it in court.”

She appraised him coldly now, her gaze laced with equal parts sadness and exasperation. “I really didn’t want to do this,” she said, “but it seems like I don’t have much of a choice.” 

“Please. Don’t.” He met her eyes directly, pleadingly, but quickly looked away, startled by the lack of sympathy he found there. “I…I love them. You know I do.  Please don’t take them away from me…” He trailed off, desperately choking back a sob.

She shook her head vigorously. “Do you think I wanted this? I would have given anything for some help, some…some support.” She sighed angrily and swept her hair back from her face. “I’ve gotten used to being there for them on my own and it’s going to stay that way, for their sake and for yours. They need to be with me. And I’m going to prove it to you. Once and for all.” She looked over her shoulder and raised one finger expectantly. 

The waiter returned with a crystal glass, about a quarter full of liquid the color of warm amber. The glass tinkled invitingly in the candlelight, gentle rainbows glittering softly in the dim glow. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead as she took it off the tray and held it out to him in her slender, delicate hands, hands that he had once held and been held by. Heart thumping, tears tracking down his cheeks, he took it and raised it to his lips. The faces of their children, his children, his beautiful son and daughter, flashed briefly, brightly, in his mind. He paused, momentarily paralyzed, needing them, missing them, but soft, warm darkness, inky black and ever so comfortable, rose up inside, beckoned to him, wrapped itself around him. With a devastating pang of grief, he pushed them away, gently, lovingly. He closed his eyes and drank deeply, welcoming the return of the familiar, numb embrace.

Gatsby, A Man

By Liev Markovich

“There’s gotta be some sort of pattern here, right? All these great works of fiction and storytelling —what do they center on? What is their common theme? Male loneliness. Add in a little bit of arrogance and striving as well. Look at something like The Godfather Part Two. I mean, half of the movie is just shots of Pacino standing alone, his face blank, and it is one of the masterworks of American cinema. Michael Corleone survives, builds an empire, beats all his enemies, and then he sits alone. The Great Gatsby, the American novel. Who is Gatsby, if not an anonymous, terribly lonely man striving to make any sort of connection? He throws lavish parties to speak to one woman. I’m not as familiar with European stuff, but this seems like an especially American phenomenon. Television, the most American medium, really demonstrates what I’m saying. All of the greatest TV shows, the ones that made up the golden age, that have all the same prestige. The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, Mad Men. Once again, male loneliness, and its corollary, arrogance and striving.”

She sits across from him, looking slightly skeptical. He had never spoken about his opinions like this before—this was not part of their relationship. 

“I guess so.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I mean, for one, you’re cherry-picking. And even if this was the common theme in acclaimed American media, I don’t see why the loneliness has to be specifically male. Why can’t you say it’s just about loneliness in general? Couldn’t Gatsby have just as easily been a woman?”

“No, I don’t think so. Female loneliness and male loneliness are very different. Like if you read Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, let’s say. She’s lonely and manic because she feels ignored. She is shut down and boxed in by the society around her. Female loneliness occurs when there are oppressive societal constraints and women are unable to strive. If someone listens to a woman, or if they gain freedom, then their loneliness dissipates. It’s the mixture of achievement and loneliness that is uniquely male, and that is so American. As Gatsby achieves more, the lonelier he becomes. It is success that makes men lonely. There can’t be a female Gatsby. It just wouldn’t work.”

“Okay,” she says. “You’re right.”

They eat in silence. He orders two more drinks. They finish the drinks, he calls for the check, pays, and they walk out of the restaurant into the city streets. It is a cold night, and they are in a more residential neighborhood, surrounded by illuminated apartment buildings where people in identical windows make dinner or speak on the phone or watch TV. The streets are full, and it is a two across sidewalk, so they often have to separate momentarily to let other pedestrians pass by.

“It’s cold tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want my jacket?”

“No, I’m alright.”

They walk a little longer in silence.

“So are you lonely?”

“What?”

“Well, you seem so interested in the topic, I just thought it might be because of something personal that’s going on.”

He stops, deep in thought for a moment. 

“I’m not sure. At times, of course, I am, just like everyone else, I presume. Maybe a little bit more often than the average person. But when I feel lonely, it somehow feels unauthentic. Like I’m not really lonely. Like my feelings are somehow constructed. That’s why the media thing is so important, I think. The fact that I’m surrounded by loneliness, that I see it everywhere, that it ties together these cultural artifacts; it both engenders the feeling and undermines it at the same time, and I’m left in this strange in-between, where the loneliness is present more often, but I can’t quite feel it fully. Does what I just said make any sense?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’m not sure I feel the same way. In fact, it is almost the opposite for me, like I’m not abstract enough—I’m too deeply involved in my emotions. The loneliness you talked about, when I feel that way, I feel it deep in my bones, with a heaviness in my chest. It gets in the way of my life, of my work, and it takes all this effort to disengage. So I’m actually a little  jealous of you.”

They arrive at the apartment building and stand outside for a few seconds, shivering. She fumbles around for her keys.

“I don’t think I’m going to come up tonight.”

She stops fumbling, looks up.

“Okay. Yeah, I’m fine with that. It doesn’t always have to happen.”

“I enjoyed this. Just talking.”

“I’m glad.”

He reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. “Don’t worry, I’m still gonna…”

“No, it’s fine. Next time.”

“No, you know, an opportunity cost for you. Time is money.”

“Please. Not this time.”

“Okay.”

They look at each other for a moment. Then he turns and walks into the teeming streets.

A Long Hunt

By Rafi Snowbell

Pooled naked on the road, the moonlight tinged the blood silver. A cruel twist of pine and withered leaves swayed, revealing the edge of a glossy metallic muscle car off the wooded road's dark muddy shoulder. Under the midnight sky an empty lane cut through the opposite of the forest and, except for the gun's quiet rhythm in the back seat, the car sat shrouded in thin silence. Each round fell heavily in, the silver bullets scratching along and filling the inside edges of each compartment. Then clicked shut and spun in the cylinder. The driver's hand had gotten stiff resting against the loose headlight switch. Still, with the lights inert, the driver kept was motionless in the dark, mimicking the shaded grey concrete road angled ahead, knowing anyways they would be smelled before they were seen. His body and eyes were focused, while his foot restlessly massaged the edge of the pedal. Really the wind made it much harder. He knew to react to movement, the constant shuffling of branches felt crippling, but like always he would react when he saw it. The wooden shank felt tighter, bound along his thigh. His partner leaned forward in the middle seat behind him. The tail of his long jacket folded against his back, and he wore the same loose heavy black uniform and cloak as the driver, who again heard the spin of the gun's cylinder and the quick metallic avalanche of silver into his partner's palm. Again the reload. The driver tried to control his breathing. A hunt had never taken so long. His leg trembled. High stakes. It was silent. High stak—

The car lurched forward. He suddenly released the headlights and drove his foot against the pedal. He flattened it into the car's vinyl floor. Its wheels tore cold mud and stone splattering onto the road. From the back seat a bullet zipped by his ear, instantly shattering the entire windshield and pounding the car's interior with sound as it slammed into the Wolf. Sam stuck his leg out of the backseat, leaned out, looked ahead, then haggardly jolted onto the pavement. Luke screamed and contorted from the gun's volume but he couldn't see any wound in the Wolf’s flesh. He swept out the front door. The Wolf’s grey iris stared, reflected in the blue of his own, and Luke’s hand winced as he pulled against the frigid metal of his revolver. The bullet-head tore through interlaced layers of muscle and fur before flinging the Wolf's torso parallel against the road. Its heavy immense thigh flexed even more monstrously now, the bullet’s silver burning and aggravating the animalism of its flesh. The Wolf rolled over onto its limped leg. Still pulsing with feral flesh, he bared its teeth and leapt forward awkwardly. Its moon-white ivory claws extended from the muscular and furred mass of his fingered paws and swiped forward, tearing the car’s metal radiator. Luke sidestepped then threw himself on the ground. He lifted his head off the pavement to see the bloodied limp figure of the Wolf frantically bearing down the moonlit road, before sharply turning and tearing through the raw woody ticket.  

The hood of the car, like an accordion, was now compressed and mangled. Its headlights burned the splintered husks of dead log on and alongside the road, the rest of the trees swaying through the cold dense air. The hunters climbed back into their seats. Luke heavily sighed as he checked the date on his watch. He would ask them early to send a new car while they waited. Another month would pass, but they sat frustrated while the car’s black oil dripped into dark red below.

Poet

By Aliza Billet

“Oh, wow,” Annabelle said. “I’m flattered, but I’m not really dating right now. Sorry.”

All of a sudden, Chris was acutely conscious of everything. The way his sleeves clung to his bony arms. The squirrel scampering up that tree. The sound of some guy’s skateboard wheels scraping the pavement as he passed. Annabelle’s eyes darting to the picnic table behind him. Did the world get louder? What was that roar building up in his head?

“Oh, yeah, no worries,” he heard himself say.

Annabelle gave him a quick little smile and walked past him, towards where her friends sat, waving. He made a conscious effort not to watch her go this time, but he knew exactly how her shiny hair bounced when she sat down at the table, how her body bent as she slid onto the bench. How her green eyes lit up when she greeted them. Today may have been the first time they’d spoken, but he knew her almost intimately. Key word being almost. Damn it.

His face felt hot, like two pokers were sticking out of his brain and pressing into his cheeks from the inside. He could feel the girls’ eyes on him. They felt sticky. It took everything he had not to turn around until his body had taken him behind some trees where he knew they couldn’t see him.

When he finally looked through the branches back at their table, they were engrossed in conversation. And laughing, obviously at him. The roar in his head got louder as the heat from his face transferred to his hands, which began to shake. The welcome signs of rage. This is how she repaid him for dressing up nicely and meeting her during her lunch break at her favorite spot and asking her to dinner. That bitch.

By the time Chris got home, his rage had transformed to full-on fury. His vision was fuzzy and he couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of his brain. His fists felt stuck in the clenched position he held them in for his whole walk home. He wrenched open the door to the cellar and began the familiar tromp down the creaky steps. How long had it been? A few months, at least. Why did he always think this time would be better?

The tiny lightbulb flickered as Chris yanked on the chain, illuminating the shelves of jars on the wall. But he didn’t even glance at them. There would be plenty of time to admire his collection later. Right now it was time for a new addition. He headed straight for the table in the center of the room, as though pulled by the magnet of desire.

Chris practically ripped open the ancient leather-bound book that lay there, ignoring the dust on the cover from the months it had sat there, untouched. He grabbed a quill pen with fingers so eager that he snapped it before he could make one stroke. It joined the growing pile of feathers on the floor as he seized another one from the drawer. At least he knew himself enough to be prepared.

Finally, he uncorked a vial of ink, blacker than he used to think was possible. It used to hurt his eyes to look at it, but that was a few hundred years ago. Today he didn’t hesitate. Today Chris began to paint a picture out of words.

He started with her hair, the way it fell in ringlets and smelled how it looked, of hazelnut. The way it poked out around her face when she wore it in a cap, the way it shined when she wore it loose, before the customers came in and she pulled it back. With every swipe of the quill he felt calmer, picturing her hair and how it would soon be his. He felt giddy at the pain he knew she’d feel when it was ripped from her head.

Next, her flesh, light and soft and smooth, like the milk she mixed into cappuccinos. The fullness of her cheeks and the angles of her face. The roundness of her eyes, how they almost changed color in different lighting. Every curve of her body and the elegance with which she moved, like a dancer, or a swan. He could picture it in his mind’s eye, but he wouldn’t need to for long.

On and on he went, until he’d composed an epic from infatuation. He had drawn her with words and, glancing over them, he knew no one could have done better. No one knew her as he did, and no one ever would. He finished with a flourish and scrawled her name. Annabelle, in loopy, beautiful letters.

Satisfied, Chris got out one of his glass jars and a lighter. He unscrewed the lid with fingers which were much more relaxed, but still eager. Creativity complete, it was time for the physical creation. He unrolled the scroll inside the jar and pressed it carefully onto the still-wet poem. When he picked it up, some of the ink had transferred, just as he intended. He inspected the original, but of course it was intact and smudge-less, and he now had a copy of the poem on the special parchment. He set the book aside.

Now for his favorite part. Chris flicked open the lighter and watched as the little flame appeared. He loved that destruction went hand-in-hand with this imminent creation. He loved picturing the lives of those who wronged him burning when he ultimately always got what he wanted, got them. If only they listened when they had a chance, the whole ordeal would have been more pleasant and they might have actually enjoyed themselves. But no matter now. He waved the lighter under the scroll and held it over the jar as the crisp parchment began to burn.

As every line went up in flames, its contents materialized in the jar. First her hair, then her tiny body. He watched her eyes pop into place, heard her fingers click onto her hands, and stared as her dress materialized. He’d given her his favorite of her whole wardrobe, the one he’d seen her wear to a party one of the times he’d followed her home. Finally, a complete, tiny Annabelle stood in the jar, screaming. Chris smiled to himself as he screwed on the lid, which had holes in it for breathing. She would stop soon enough. What mattered was that she was here.

Annabelle’s hazelnut hair shone in the dying fire just the way he liked it. The tears in her eyes only made them more beautiful. He had picked a good one, this time. He always picked the best. Chris picked up the jar and carried it to one of the shelves where he slid it next to Lily and below Maya.

He let out a sigh of relief, feeling much better now that the rejection from earlier was over. The best thing about living forever was there were always people to meet. Tomorrow was a new day. And he looked forward to it.