Paperback Romance

PULP LIT MAG

PAPERBACK ROMANCE

Table of Contents Fuzz, If vertigo was a god, No Man’s Land, The Mind, Elsewhere, & As if newly dead by Charlie Bowden Exploratrix, The Crust, Soda Jerk, Sonnet: My Dominatrix, & Merchants of Venus by LindaAnn LoSchiavo re: november 2014 & hubby by Ellie Cottrell The Persephone Plan by Simon Collinson A Toenail Thing by Nate Mancuso Room 119 by Joe Nasta Love In the Air, But I Got a Mask by Goldieline A Parisian Gallery by Emanuel Rodowicz Centruroides Sculpturatus by Zacheriah Tucker My Dearest Richard by Troy Hornsby The Urgency of Delight, The Enigma of the Mirror's Secret Arousal , Lingering in a Delirium, Suspended in the Enigma, Haunted by an Afterthought, A Sudden Irresistible Tingling, The Caress That Prolongs Your Whispers, & That Intimate Openness by Bill Wolack

Contributor Bio’s Charlie Bowden is a student from Hampshire, England, who discovered a love for writing poetry in lockdown after spending years studying it at school. His work has been included in collections by The Mays, Black Cat Poetry Press and the Stratford Literary Festival among others and he won the 2021 Forward Creative Critics Competition. You can follow him on Twitter and Instagram @charliebpoetry for more.

Native New Yorker and award-winner, LindaAnn LoSchiavo is a member of British Fantasy Society, HWA, SFPA, and The Dramatists Guild. Titles published in 2024: “Always Haunted: Hallowe’en Poems” [Wild Ink], “Apprenticed to the Night” [UniVerse Press], and “Felones de Se: Poems about Suicide” [Ukiyoto].

Forthcoming: “Cancer Courts My Mother” [Prolific Pulse Press, 2025] and an Ebook version of "Vampire Ventures" fully illustrated by Giulia Massarin. Book Accolades earned: Elgin Award for “A Route Obscure and Lonely” and the Chrysalis BREW Project’s Award for Excellence & Readers' Choice Award for “Always Haunted: Hallowe’en Poems” and the Book World Front Award for "Apprenticed to the Night."

Ellie Cottrell is a writer and poet working on Whadjuk Noongar Country. She has been featured in Hooligan Street Poetry, StylusLit, Poetry d’Amour, Creatrix, and the anthology Ourselves: 100 Micro Memoirs (Night Parrot Press). Ellie released her first poetry collection, Speakeasy, via In Case of Emergency Press in 2023.

Simon is a writer from England. He seeks solitude and shadow.

Nate Mancuso is a Florida-based attorney, fiction writer, and lover/advocate of free speech and civil liberties. Nate’s work has appeared in several literary magazines including Disturb the Universe, Synchronized Chaos and Horror Sleaze Trash. Nate is currently working on his first collection of short stories and other works in progress.

Joe Nasta is vibing in Seattle. He has whispered four collections of poetry and a book of short stories into the world. Ze is an associate editor for Hobart.

Goldieline is a writer across various genres who views writing as a special art form that gives way for self expression with words, her favorite communication medium.

Emanuel Rodowicz is a 29-year-old Polish immigrant living in the United Kingdom since he was 9. He was raised in a Christian cult from birth until he left it 3 years ago, an experience which changed his entire life, now venting emotions through writing.

Zacheriah Tucker is a hobbyist historian and writer. He holds degrees in psychology and sociology from Oregon State University, and still lives in the Pacific Northwest where he enjoys hiking and exploring the outdoors. His work focuses on bringing new and unique perspectives to classic subjects. His stories take place across many different locations and time periods, trying to discover the human elements that unite everyone everywhere.

Troy Hornsby is an African American author of three published books (a novella, a short fiction collection, and a novel). As he writes, he is also attempting to get a degree in English and Creative Writing.

Bill Wolak (he/his) is a poet, collage artist, and photographer who has published his eighteenth book of poetry entitled All the Wind’s Unfinished Kisses with Ekstasis Editions. His collages and photographs have appeared recently in the 2025 Dirty Show in Detroit, Amorous Art 2025 in Indianapolis, the 2025 Rochester Erotic Arts Festival, the 2020 International Festival of Erotic Arts (Chile), the 2020 Seattle Erotic Art Festival, the 2018 Montreal Erotic Art Festival, and Naked in New Hope 2018. He was a featured artist in the book Best of Erotic Art (London, 2022).

The Persephone Plan was published in Flash Fiction North.

A Toenail Thing was published in Horror Sleaze Trash on 2/1/25 Exploratrix, The Crust, Soda Jerk, Sonnet: My Dominatrix, & Merchants of Venus were published in "Concupiscent Consumption" by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

by Red Ferret Press.

No Man’s Land Akin to giant squids on movie screens, my diamond earrings dim with frantic dark when you float above ground at Little League.

That the neighbourhood girls, their yellowed park, might coax you from your marble island fun makes hair on my arms stand to attention every time. Love, look what your money does.

For that one night I’ll forgive the rest.

Look how I hate this amorous tension.

For the gliding hand of God that swept I do not dare step a hair out of line across my body, all Teresa of Ávila, on outdoor pitches in case you arrive, independent of higher thought as green as the grass that I wish was mine or function or furrowed brows, to gift the girls. You know they’re barely five, I’ll fetch my things without making hardly understand what I do this for. a scene in front of the entire company.

Your statues are rich and my state’s so poor.

The scissors are mine, but you can keep the paper angels I excised with them.

Like them you glow, white-hot to the touch, never knowing how to understand human flesh.

Maybe you just struck gold that single time.

That would make me feel better if it were true, but you don’t get beatified out of sheer luck.

Fuck you and your uncorrupted arms and the way they made me feel.

Fuzz

If vertigo was a god I would offer it yellow flowers and prostrate myself before a limestone statue of whatever it deigns to look like.

It’s limestone because, though not combustible or flammable, this carbonate rock might react with incompatible materials, like organic acid or love, and burst a hole through the natural order of things.

I would worship the pseudo trickster god if it taught me to sway and sicken people so their fingers cling to my stable side.

Not even people, person, one person, one particularly efficient load-bearing wall of an individual.

I want him to fall into my face.

I need my god to shake him around a bit.

If vertigo was a god I wouldn’t bother it again once it knocked my beloved through a limestone cenote and into my subterranean stream.

I’d be back, him nailed to my hand, to wipe the statue down every week.

The Mind, Elsewhere The smile that fills my room is feline in that it skitters away before anybody, myself included, can think to catch and probe it for the truth. I don’t know what a Protestant ethic is but I must have something like it, an overpowering stench of heady, ancient sweat. I’d rather work than look the problem – you – in the face, your dogsbody face, your menial lovability.

Your chest was just puffed up, your colouring oddly bright; why wouldn’t I want to fling myself into distraction?

It had nothing to do with you until it did. I can only hope to land on my feet, not yours or God’s.

As if newly dead my knees rake the coffin door, sending screeching sounds down Roman catacombs as I stay the course, rock climbing towards clouds, newly dreaming.

That’ll teach them for being economical with my casing.

The cheap thing holds me forever like a chastity ring, a promise bound to be betrayed, a ripple of metal unwound.

What’s purity when you have a body?

When you have joints to scrape against wood, playing the jilted lover with a cobweb hood, wine and wimples, scaring the locals?

Serves them right for making a basement of my tomb.

When I was newly dead I choked in the water of a nearby lagoon and when they scooped me out my eyes drooped like a woman zombified, singularly imperfect, pressing my fingers to the neck of the loudest person in the room for interrupting my clouds and cobwebs and soon-to-be scrapings.

My knees are the only pure part of me left for the taking.

Exploratrix Three penises helped launch me, fired up An urge to conquer new worlds, see how far I’d get before my mirth got flat. The first Was Nina — small, sweet hemophiliac Type penis, easily bruised by contact With too sharp questions, eager to avoid Dismantling what hung there billowing.

The Pinta, more substantial, came around Imagining the lives it could lead astray.

This compass of my heart put spin on things, Propelled me into catastrophic waves.

The Santa Maria made distinctions Appear much larger, and deserved its new Name: Morning Glory, working muscles I Had never thought to think about. These three Inspired me to higher standards — more Than oceanic orgasms. I’ll fund Titanic quests, determined to procure A place for “Venus envy” another use For”‘penis” as extended metaphor.

The Crust Why can’t I move? Your sheets seem well-preserved, Like most brands with their own loyal following.

Perhaps they straight-jacket me as I try To follow your pie recipe from here.

Your noise makes me see apples, scrotal plump In your deft palm — this red fruit helpless now, Intent. Am I prepared? Can I believe What I’ve touched touches me, or leaves me whole?

Can I read stories in discarded peels That curve and tangle? I snake out an arm, Escaping the familiar heat of covers, Still lying here paved with dream substance, eyes Ripe, garnished with fresh possibilities.

Your kitchen steam has fogged both windows up.

Who else is listening for snow — — small tongues About to overcome the brown dry land?

Sonnet: My Dominatrix Whatever is metallic now recedes: My swords, my shields, my money. John’s the name, One more Napoleon of Whine, ashamed, And needing peace through pain— her specialty— Correction by this chiropractor. Pleas Invite her whip: “Come in, come in!” The tame Can concentrate on sex. Not me. The flame Of punishment claims me, unsoiled, love-free.

He’s staring at my breasts. They’re needling him, Restrained and forced to obey whips and canes, Skyscraper pain controlling time lust topped.

Men tell me that I’m good at this. I skim Life’s scourge called “memory.” Heat’s tamed, maintained.

It takes more skill than they might think— to stop.

Soda Jerk My bare feet warmed to burning from the sand, I’d wave to you, obscured by boardwalk crowds.

Did you greet everyone the same as me?

I watched as you’d extend a palm beneath A ripe banana, tenderly, as if To ask permission. Or you’d let me tuck Wildflowers into cleavage held aloft, Slick, sweaty, suntan oiled, flecked with sand crumbs.

You like it dirty — — even though your hands Are spotless when you mix strawberry shakes.

You’re wondering how sugar hits my lips, Eye my reflection showing that pale crack, Tanned flesh that’s poured inside blue fitted jeans.

Now you’re hunched over the cracked countertop, Sweeping a butterknife across burnt toast.

“I’m just so hungry. I’ll eat anything!”

Your words and steady gaze have made me blush.

I drop five dollars in your jar and leave Without my shake because I’m staying here Two more weeks and imagining how we Will taste right after, mixed in with the dark.

Merchants of Venus I’m dreaming Venice is inclined towards us.

Reality is not that likable.

My city here is warring with itself.

Your city there contains your awful wife.

It’s my dream, so I’ve picked Venezia, Inclined towards us, its nighttime waves uncoiled, Restricting no one, pathless, lapping sea To stones. Forget the official version Of our unquiet love. This dream stars me Parading in my slip — — Venetian-laced Like my communion dress, white altar-wear.

Desiring to distraction, I watch you, My priest of love, black-robed and bearing down On me, expecting that I’ll open wide For what, my host in Venice, I’ve been told My teeth are not supposed to touch. Affairs, It seems, teach you to swallow; pride goes first, Then other things. I learned, my mouth secured, Kiss-tied, arms fastened — — holding, letting go, Restricting no one. Wet words lapped us up.

You put the taste for dark clouds in my mouth, And waves in both hands. You walked on water.

You still do, ruling this, the bubbling world.

My willow soul seeks moisture under dirt Through open holes in heart’s halls, sucking you Into my pungent labyrinth, content, Moving in love’s gyration dance, absorbed.

High on the oars of feeling, joy comes, lasts.

All bridges are suspended near my home, Where I’m at war with my untoward life, Painting — — not Turner’s Venice, light let loose, A pious town tipped with paired steeples, belled — — Instead a quiet crawl alongside you, Bearer of unattainable aged dreams, On this black canvas of estrangement, not Part of your city where rains come hard, not Half of a damaged marriage — — still employed

By Lawfirm Love, where we’re secret partners.

re: november 2014 texting ‘you mean the world to me’ with the globe emoji the one that shows Australia cos you were in Kansas (of all places) and I was in Perth (of all places) and I needed to feel like we were on the same earth agitating to jump through the screen, hurting to touch your face in 3D hurting, like the pixels were bullying me god, that yearning.

I wanted I wanted to drown in your eyes I wanted to suffocate in your chest hair I wanted to superglue my hands to your dick I wanted to forget all words except ‘you’

hubby i don’t have the patience for yearning, for accoutrements of quiet desire i’m hot from first gaze til i split my thrice-bitten lip your aunty bought us pillows they say hubby, wifey i’ll take the hubby pillow you can be the wifey i’ll wear the hubby parts like your cologne: a kiss on my wrist a pulse in my pocket you’ll wear the wifey parts like my softness: soft hands on your chest soft lick of your neck together we’ll be hubby, wifey no patience for yearning just desirous, and desiring

The Persophone Plan Are you an A or a B? That is the most important question.

At birth I was given the names I am known by and then given the letter B. This letter follows you to your grave.

It dictates the life you lead, more precisely where you live and where you die.

I know that the world has become vastly overpopulated.

There wasn’t enough land to build flats to accommodate all.

It was decided that half the population would have to live and work underground.

Naturally, living in such a dark and hellish place was not a prospect anybody relished. To never see nature again would be unendurable.

So it was thought the fairest and most bearable solution was to divide the world into two groups. one group would live above ground for a year and then swap places with the other group and live underground for a year.

The groups were named A and B. So all the “A’s” would have their time in the sunlight and then they would go into the dark underworld and the “B’s” would have their year of life in the daylight.

And so it would continue.

They called it, “the Persephone plan”.

I’m thinking of this while I await in a crowd of lines all at one end of the stadium. Me and all the other local B’s.

Not that I’ll be getting many chances to watch any sport over the next 12 months.

Or watching anything at all.

Really trying to see things is a waste of time where we are going. There are no trees or flowers where we are going.

The other group will soon be emerging from the ground, no doubt contemplating feeling the warmth upon their bodies and readjusting their eyesight to the Sun’s glare.

As all us B’s prepare to greet the gloom.

But it will be worth it to catch sight of the fair Rosalind.

We met at this exact point in this stadium last year.

You just know when you catch someone’s eyes and you both connect. Like electricity.

It’s like telepathy. Two minds with the same thought. Two sets of hands touching through the holes in the wire.

We whispered our names to one another.

She was amused that mine was Gaius Octavius Ceasarion.

We were Separated by an 8 foot green wire fence. For she is an A as are all the other people on her side of the wire.

My heart leaps as I catch sight of Rosalind. I wave giddy like a silly schoolboy. Her smile beams back and she waves excitedly. I blew her a kiss. She returns two from the other side of the wire.

We both jostle our way so we can face one another by the wire. Fingertips touching.

Not much is said. Some thoughts are best left unsaid.

I know where Rosalind has come from.

And she knows where I’ll be going.

But such meetings are fleeting and the whistles of the security staff will soon have us moving. Rosaland with the rest of the A’s to the gates that led out of the stadium and daylight. I and the other B’s down the seemingly never ending steps into the ground where the darkness devours the light.

The stars must be laughing at the fates dealt to the likes of me, a B who has fallen in love with an A.

But I am consoled by the thought that I’ll see Rosalind again this time, at this spot next year.

Even if it’s only for a few minutes.

I know this cannot be love in reality, for she is an A and I’m a B.

A Toenail Thing “SORRY, I KNOW I’M NEW AT THIS, BUT ISN’T THAT CANNIBALISM?” I ask Carol through the mouth opening of my black latex bondage hood as I turn my head around to look up at her. Before she can answer, I add, “And if it is cannibalism, how does that fall into any of the BDSM categories?”

I’m lying on my stomach on a crumpled bed in a cheap dingy Motel 6 suite while Carol sits comfortably on the back of my bare upper thighs with her bent legs firmly straddling my hips. She wears shiny black thigh-high faux leather boots attached by garter straps to a tightly-laced black vinyl corset. In her right hand she grips the shaft of a braided black leather flogger, now rested at her side after our light warm-up session, while holding silver metal nail clippers in her left hand. After I turn my head around, she thrusts the nail clippers into my face and snarls at me.

I joined this BDSM dating website just a week ago after a long spell of unsuccessful online dating through more mainstream sites in the two years since my divorce. Though I’d never tried BDSM, or anything too kinky, I’ve always been drawn to pushy domineering women (and vice versa) so I figured BDSM may be my bag. After a little internet research, I registered on the site as a “sub” (submissive) seeking a relationship with a “dom” (dominant), hoping for a match. Carol is my first date.

Carol is angry now and glares down at me through the small eye openings of her face mask.

“Do you even know what BDSM stands for, you submissive little bitch?” she asks me harshly while raising her right hand and flicking her wrist so that the leather tails of her flogger fly back behind its neck.

“Yes,” I reply eagerly. I’m exhilarated and energized by the threat of another flogging. “I googled ‘BDSM’ last week before I registered on the website; it’s an acronym for bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism.” My heart rate picks up in excitement and anticipation as I watch Carol brandish her flogger.

“You forgot domination and submission, you fucking imbecile,” Carol barks at me while cocking her right arm and readying the flogger for another downward attack.

I acknowledge her with a quick nod. “I understand, but domination and submission are redundant of other letters already in the BDSM acronym so they’re included under the D and S letters for discipline and sadism. It’s just cleaner that way instead of having duplicate letters.”

Carol rolls her eyes at me with an exasperated smirk while lowering the flogger to her side.

“OK, Wordsworth, so which of those BDSM letters are you?”

I think about this for a moment, then reply, “Well, like I said, I’m new to this so I’m still trying to figure out which BDSM subgenre suits me best,” then add, “But under any conceivable definition of the BDSM categories, I really don’t think that cannibalism qualifies.”

Carol purses her shiny black glossed lips then nods in agreement. “OK,” she responds hesitantly, “But it isn’t really cannibalism per se if I just want you to eat my toenails and not any actual body part.”

I flash Carol an empathetic smile, then try my best to ease her obvious discomfort without being patronizing. “Well,” I explain patiently, “I never took an anatomy class but I do think that toenails are considered a body part. I mean, think about it, they may not have nerve endings or sensitivity but they couldn’t exist without a human to attach to – right?”

Carol nods coolly, reluctantly acknowledging my sound logic. “OK, but going back to the BDSM categories, if the point is to inflict pain on me when you remove my toenails, then I think that’s either sadism or masochism even if the eating part is technically cannibalism.”

I nod politely then ask as diplomatically as possible, “Well, if you want me to inflict pain on you, then why are you handing me nail clippers? Aren’t those supposed to clip your nails painlessly instead of just ripping them off your toes, and thereby inflicting pain? I don’t mean to be difficult, Carol, but it just seems like me using nail clippers on you is antithetical to the whole BDSM routine.” I pause then add, “And also, if you’re the ‘dom’ and I’m the ‘sub’ in this scenario, then aren’t you the one supposed to be inflicting pain and not me?”

Carol looks down at me silently. Her large brown eyes – so fierce and confident just moments ago – now look sad and doleful like a puppy lost outside in the rain.

Unable to restrain myself after sensing Carol’s vulnerability (and smelling weakness), I pounce like a jungle predator: “Carol, I don’t mean to be rude – and I’m sorry to be so forward – but have you ever done this before?”

Carol blushes deeply and turns her head to avert her eyes from mine.

I feel Carol squirm uneasily on top of me and sense her embarrassment like a sharp pang in my chest. I feel horrible knowing that I’ve humiliated and disrespected Carol in her “dom” role, and I can tell that I’ve violated some cardinal rule of BDSM etiquette. Maybe this isn’t my game after all.

Thinking quickly, I do my best to backtrack and rehabilitate myself with Carol. “I’m so sorry, Carol, I don’t mean to be a prick, I’m just new to this – it’s literally my first date since I joined the BDSM website – so I’m still not really sure how it works. If you’re still feeling your way along here too, that’s totally cool – we’re both taking this journey together, like exploring a new city that we’ve never visited before.”

Carol relaxes and I can feel the tension drain from her body. She pulls off her face mask and looks at me with a shy grin. “Actually, yeah, I am new to this. It’s only my third BDSM date.

The first guy made me slap him with a hog crop then peg him with this silicone strap-on that he brought to the hotel in his backpack, and the second guy cut himself on his ankle spreader bar then just ran out of the room.”

She sighs deeply then continues, “But they both felt so sure about what they wanted that I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to do my toenail thing,” and adds, “With you I just felt so much more relaxed and confident, like I could ask you for anything and you wouldn’t judge me.”

Tears begin to well up in Carol’s eyes. She ungrips her leather flogger, which falls lightly onto the bedspread, then raises her right hand to her face and wipes the budding tears from her eyes before they can cascade down her flushed cheeks.

I turn over on the bed then pull off my bondage hood and lay it beside me on the bedspread so that Carol and I are facing each other. I reach my right hand to her face and gently stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “I get it, Carol, I really do – and I’m sorry to make you feel so self-conscious and uncomfortable. That’s really not my intent.”

Carol lowers her face and gazes down at my bare chest while nodding slowly. She reaches her hands out and removes the small metal clamps that she’d fastened to my nipples during our warm-up session. I feel a warm tear drop from her face to my solar plexus and watch it trickle down over my side, gaining speed as it passes over my rib cage then onto the bedspread. “Most guys I meet just aren’t into my toenail thing, so that’s why I joined the BDSM site. I just thought maybe I’d meet someone who’s more open to it.”

I take a deep breath then say, “I thought we really hit it off at dinner – we both love sushi thai and had so much to talk about with our careers and goals and hobbies and everything – but the whole BDSM part of this date is kind of going off the rails and not how I expected.” I add, “Honestly, I don’t even know what to expect, this being my first time and all, but I don’t want this to ruin our date. I really do like you and I hope that you like me. Maybe we can just hit the rewind button and start this part over?”

Carol nods her head in agreement while wiping her eyes again. She looks relieved and refreshed. “I feel the same way, I really like you and don’t want to screw this up over my toenail thing.”

I smile up at her, pleased with myself for reviving her spirits.

Carol raises her eyebrows and asks with renewed vigor, “Wanna go back to my condo to watch a movie?”

“Sounds awesome,” I reply with a reassuring grin, “Any specific movie in mind?”

“Of course,” Carol replies with a suggestive smile, “Edward Scissorhands … I really like him.”

A few hours later, we’re at Carol’s condo after stopping on the way for gelato.

Dressed back in our civilian clothes, we’re nestled together on her living room sofa watching the final scene of Edward Scissorhands, which Carol is thoroughly enjoying. She turns toward me and lifts her far leg over my lap then begins to grind her crotch against my thigh.

“I love this part,” Carol whispers into my ear as she begins to grind harder, “The way that Edward uses his scissors to save Winona Ryder is so fucking hot.”

“Right!” I agree enthusiastically.

The movie ends after Edward stabs and kills that what’s-his-name nerd kid from Breakfast Club (and Sixteen Candles and Weird Science). As the credits begin to roll, Carol purrs into my ear while continuing to grind my thigh, “Wanna play Edward Scissorhands?”

“Sounds great,” I reply. Though I’m not quite sure what this game entails, I don’t want to be a buzzkill again after our date was barely rescued earlier at the Motel 6. Everything is going well now, but I know that can change on a dime with Carol if I say the wrong thing.

Carol beams at me then jumps up from the sofa. “Cool!” she exclaims, “Just stay here while I go put on my dominatrix outfit and get my scissors!”

“Carol, that’s OK,” I say before she runs off to her bedroom. “You don’t have to bother changing your clothes—,” But before I can finish my sentence, Carol quickly pivots then strikes me with a hard openhanded slap across my face, which immediately stings while my face burns hot. “I’m the one giving the orders, you fucking slave! Now you’ll sit there, keep your goddamn mouth shut and wait for me like mommy’s little boy-whore!”

I curl up on the sofa and nod to her dutifully with my best sad-eyed Edward Scissorhands face, reminding myself to stick to my submissive role in Carol’s exciting new game.

A few minutes later, Carol emerges from her bedroom decked out in a skintight full-body black vinyl catwoman suit and a new face mask with feline ears protruding from the sides.

She struts into the kitchen on black stiletto heels and opens a drawer beneath the marble countertop next to the refrigerator. She looks and then rifles furiously through the drawer with both hands. After about a minute of searching through all her kitchen drawers, she pounds her fist against the countertop and bellows, “Goddamnit! I can’t find my scissors. I must’ve taken them to work and left them there!”

Carol enters the living room, looks at me sternly with the nail clippers that she now holds firmly in her right hand, then points them at me. “I guess these’ll just have to do. Now sit up and take your shirt off!” she commands me.

“Wait a minute, I’m confused,” I say, “Aren’t I supposed to be Edward? And even if you’re Edward, he never used nail clippers.”

Carol nods silently to herself, walks back to the kitchen then returns holding a large carving knife in her right hand with the nail clippers in her left.

“A kitchen knife?” I ask, barely able to conceal my surprise.

Carol clearly is frustrated and looks at me impatiently for a moment before responding. “It’s a knife, why does it matter what it’s supposed to be used for?” Her voice quivers when she shouts out her next command, “Now just shut the fuck up and strip!”

I’m unable to subdue the laughter that escapes my throat. “But Carol,” I explain in between laughs, “There are special BDSM knives and daggers. Nobody uses kitchen knives. I thought you just wanted to poke around, not carve me up like a pot roast!”

Once again, I push too far and let my mouth get the best of me. “And you still have the nail clippers! Carol, is this whole Edward Scissorhands game just a ploy to get me to eat your toenails again?”

Carol’s face reddens like an electric stovetop while she looks up to the ceiling and screams something unintelligible, then flings her knife and nail clippers across the room at the wall.

She drops to the floor with her hands pressed to her face, then turns on her side and begins to weep uncontrollably in front of the sofa.

I hop up and lift her onto the sofa, where she lies down then hugs her knees to her chest and curls up into a ball. She rocks back and forth in this fetal position while her weeping intensifies.

I wrap my arms around Carol’s shoulders and feel her shaking like a poodle while her violent sobs continue. I try to calm her down with quiet soothing shhh whispers. After a minute or two, Carol’s sobbing slows down and she looks up at me with tear- stained cheeks. “I’m sorry.

I’m just so fucking bad at this. I’ve never used a knife on anyone before, but watching Edward just gave me the idea and got me in the mood.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I whisper softly into her ear while gently caressing her hair.

Carol’s sobs subside while I massage her arms and shoulders to loosen her tension. After a few moments, she looks up at me in embarrassment and says, “Sorry I’m such a hot mess tonight. I’m trying too hard to fit into this dominatrix role and it’s just not happening for me.”

I smile back at her while giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “Tell you what, why don’t we just shelve the BDSM play for tonight and take a bottle of wine out onto the balcony? It’s a beautiful night.” I nod my head toward the balcony with a wink.

Carol sits up on the sofa and looks out the sliding glass door to the balcony, then turns back to me with a smile. “Sounds perfect,” she says with a quiet sniffle. She stands up from the sofa and walks to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and takes two wine glasses from a wood cabinet above the countertop. She walks over to the balcony door, looks over at me with a grin and nods her head toward the balcony. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”

I walk over to Carol and take the wine bottle from her so that she can use her free hand to open the sliding glass door to the balcony while holding the wine glasses in her other hand.

We walk out onto the balcony and then sit on cushioned chairs on either side of a small patio table where Carol sets down the wine glasses, takes the bottle from my hand and pours us each a half glass.

I raise my glass and nod to Carol to do the same. I look out over the balcony rail into the starry black night sky then turn back to Carol with a soft smile. I extend my glass toward hers and toast, “Here’s to our first date, and to your toenail thing.”

Carol giggles as we clink glasses and says, “To our first date, and the end of my toenail thing.

I’m over it” We both turn our heads to look out past the balcony and sip from our wine glasses. I move my hand across the patio table and place it atop hers on the armrest of her chair. We sit quietly and enjoy the comfortable silence while taking in the beautiful night.

My heartbeat slows down and I close my eyes. I feel perfectly calm and at ease. I open my eyes when I feel Carol’s soft warm lips gently kiss my cheek. I look over at her with a smile.

Carol leans up in her chair and moves the patio table forward so that she can pull her chair next to mine. She rests her head against my shoulder. “I’m so glad I met you,” she says as she raises her soft brown eyes to mine.

I squeeze her hand as we drink our wine and gaze out into the serene night sky.

Neither of us speak a word.

Room 119 Ollie walked steadily towards the Willamette River, hands reaching towards the creature’s serpentine head rising from the water. The dawn fog had only just settled and the chill of early morning bit at the top of his ears and shocked his lungs for the first half of each inhale, but not enough to numb the churning want that ground his ribcage. It had been a long night.

The river creature’s green scales caught the first gray strands of light and shone like the yellow eyes that locked into his gaze. “Closer, closer.”

As Patrick drove into Eugene hours before, the sun drenched itself and went out. In early spring the days stretched longer each day but once the dark settled around the trees and rumbling SUVs 9:30 pm was the same as midnight. First once a month, then a single night a week, now every few days he drove into city limits and sent a Grindr message: “I’m almost there.”

He pulled into one of the many motels whose red Vacancy signs glinted in the drizzle. The clerk at the check-in counter barely looked up as he checked in under a fake name. “Room 119.” Knock Knock.

The twenty-two year old’s skin caught the white parking lot lights that splashed around him as he stood in the doorframe. Pale and thin, he writhed and made hissing noises when he was supposed to.

Typically Patrick and Ollie didn’t speak; the ritual of their care no longer required voices.

Their embrace immediately quenched their mutual ache and wonderful delight tingled from their spines. Musk and chewing tobacco mixed with oat milk and allspice between their flaring nostrils while yeast and spearmint swirled into their wet mouths.

The thirty-seven year old’s chapped lips were soothed by the boy’s smooth tongue and split by his bites. The door shut, plunging them into the damp dark as they staggered to the bed, taking turns leading and resisting each other.

“Ollie, we have to stop.”

Afterwards, Patrick’s first whisper aloud since February sliced the tender yearn off their exposed bellies. They were laying arm next to arm, moist with sweat. All he could let out was a soft moan that reached to his toes.

“The judge finally decided. I’m going to see the girls again.” The pieces that had been missing from his chest had been reinstalled so that the twenty-two year old was too tight a fit.

All the blood pooled in his stomach. It was expected, after all. The night always ended and they both went back home to their individual sadnesses. Ollie cleared his throat before he silently rose, slid into his boxer briefs and Carhartt pants, and left with the door thudding softly behind. He pretended to walk the long way home – he had no intention of making it there until the morning.

When he reached the asphalt path in the park, a familiar stirring in the water caught his attention.

The creature swayed with the night breeze as it beckoned. Its underside faded from emerald to a blanched color. Ollie wanted to run his hands along the whole length of it and feel the rush of the current while he wrapped his arms around its thick skin.

The starlight still faintly poked through the rising light like the creature’s eyes. Together they would make their own constellations. He’d held onto hope – that the love he felt was real – since he was a boy. Whenever he felt desperate he would end up here with his longest friend. He believed in the creature more than he believed in the men who held him for a few months before their universe shifted and there was no more room.

Patrick didn’t stay the night. It was time to forget how he’d made it through the trial, the long months alone without purpose. One message to send, a memory left on the bed. He hoped it was going to be the last time. “Come back.”

Back when they first met, they’d gotten a bite to eat at the Dairy Queen.

“You ever heard about the Willamette River Creature? It’s always been my best friend.” Ollie sipped on his vanilla shake hard through the straw. Cream too thick to swallow caught in the tube and he laughed.

“You’ll have to show me next time.” The thirty-seven year old dipped his fry into chocolate.

“I’d really like to meet someone so important to you.” They smiled together.

No one had ever wanted to meet the river creature before. “He’s shy. I don’t know if he’d trust you.”

He didn’t say, “The creature only comes out when I’m alone. I’m not alone because I’m with you. I don’t want to see my friend ever again if it means you never leave.”

He said, “No, I don’t think you need to meet it. You’re more important to me than the monster.”

When he made it back to the motel he didn’t need to knock because the safety deadbolt held it open a crack. There was nobody but a small stuffed animal from a bar’s claw machine left in room 119. A green and yellow serpent.

Ollie didn’t cry over any of these men. They were always the same but he still loved them all.

At the end he always turned back into a snake, slithered away. When he held the token Patrick had left to his chest he felt the same as when they were together but more at peace since the desire had left. It was its own escape to no longer reckon with the man’s body, his unspoken need. The shades kept out the growing light, the covers kept him warm, and everything was safe.

There were only a few hours until check out but he was so tired. It had been a long night. He snuggled with the fluffiest pillow and what he hoped was the final last memory. Exhausted and alone again, the twenty-two year old took a nap

Love In the Air, But I’ve Got a Mask It is valentine’s soon and the only thing I’m looking forward to is going to the cinema; my favorite cinematic universe is releasing another movie. A piece to suite my heart and heal my inner child, considering I was never able to get love then and now.

I still remember the first and only valentine’s I ever got love shown to me, it was a beautiful local feline, but it breathes so it counts right?

My inability to fall in love or view romance, without including my logics keeps costing me everything, including my recent and last attempt at love for a while, after five years of no dating, my soul reached out and yearned strongly for another so I allowed loneliness to win and attempted to fall in love.

The lack of relationship clarity from my partner, plus my reoccurring problem of regret every single time I get into something romantic was the push to the domino of my failing relationship, it literally collapsed and in the words of a songwriter that resonates with me “We don’t talk anymore”.

Sometimes, I wondered what it would have been like if I didn’t grow up having to bury my emotions to please, or if I was met with love instead of fear because I’m strongly of the opinion love and fear are opposing emotions that shouldn’t coexist. In my way of being just like any other person, I’m adept at blaming childhood traumas for all my relationship fails because if not then the alternative is that I’m just horrible or not suited for dating.

Loneliness is not all that scary, neither is it that undesirable, I have been coming around to the idea and considering I fall into many intersectional identities that set me outside the norms, it’s well expected.

Ice cream tubes, flowers, bouquet, teddy bears, perfumes, jewelries, money just name them and I desire it all, my chest sometimes tightens in jealousy watching them exchanged while my finger scrolls quickly to find something else because the only time that’s my reality is while my fingers are on my screen.

After surviving the endless love celebrations in the past last years, I’m convinced and renewed in my belief that this particular valentine is not above me, I’ll sworn and coo for the cute couples, get jealous of the ones in my face and scroll away for the overbearing ones but I will survive.

I am elated that for the first time in so long I have other plans on valentines than pondering over my failed attempt at love and burying myself in jealousy, the cinemas and my bed got me this year and my weekend break also got me.

A Parisian Gallery The wilting flower conceded a petal to the breeze. It fell to the flat balcony railing, staring eyeless at the vase – its lost home – where the melancholy father swayed with knowledge of finality. The wind blew again, and the petal was gone. An impassive loss of yet another child which would bear him no fruit on that concrete void residing stories below. Its death was witnessed by no one.

The wind was voiceless as horns protested in-between the unending hum of petrol; the distant cacophony sourced by a thousand golden stars moving across the city in pairs. That ironic silence of the civilised hive. Not here though – here on the edge was quiet. The other torches of life sat still in the surrounding Haussmann-renovated apartments, blinking off as their occupants lost interest in the waking world.

There was a defiance to the night as the colours of the balcony saturated with a light from within, the flower gaining a sharp crimson. A click and a twist followed, loud on the quiet street below where the streetlights gave an ochre dim of nostalgia, shading the parked cars in half- shadows.

As the localised serenity was resisted by the swoosh of a passing car, a man stepped onto the balcony, reaching back inside to turn off the light and close the door. With rolled-up sleeves of a dress shirt he rested his bare arms on the railing, maturing hands limping over the edge.

All he offered the city was a slight hunch, a hidden bow, as his eyes lazily travelled over the familiar vistas. There was beauty here on the first day, the second. With time came unfortunate familiarity.

The muffled radio in the room behind started playing Ma jeunesse fout le camp. One of his hands moved to his trouser pocket, missing a clash with the vase by inches. He took hold of the pack and opened it with flair, a sad lone performance. The other hand was already back from its own flight and with the lighter, eager. His thumb and index grabbed onto a cigarette like a claw and let the rest of the smokes be taken by gravity. He put the prize in his mouth, face invisible. The flower lost another petal, the wind playing with his thick, sable hair like a proud brother.

There was a crack as the lighter birthed its purpose, shaping his face with a warmth that stood in contrast to the navy of midnight. The illuminations of the city were consumed by his bright amber eyes, iris’ sparking with hijacked golden shine instead of reflecting the likeness of the landscape. He had hard lines, a respectable jaw. Not a model, but he was content with his looks. An irrelevant, empty thought – aesthetic focus was weakness. The night enforced its mandate of darkness as the lighter was snuffed, a point of rebellious glow coming off the cigarette’ tip.

As he returned to rest on the railings, he again investigated what stood in his front despite it becoming routine, his retina moving in jerks of miniscule adjustments. Still all there, and the same.

Ah, the city of…

He dared not finish that ridiculous phrase, to resurface that putrid word. His lips curled to the beginnings of a hollow smile then stopped, not allowing them power beyond necessity.

The fresh cigarette still dangled from his lips, a leaning pillar, its silken smoke dissipating with ascent. Here he was, and there was nothing else to do. The soulless street below beckoned for him to inhale.

Yet he did not. Instead, his gaze caught a retort to his mistaken assumption. There was life below. A lone figure stood, its shape a vague femininity, dark hair entrapping the oranges of earth and the blues of heaven. The figure turned towards him. He awed at humanity’s art, beauty besieged by a lifeless gallery, his own evident philosophical hypocrisy ignored. Their eyes met and spoke of hope. He caught a passing smell that carried the memories of a future smile. There was a change of tempo in his chest. The cigarette fell from his fingers.

And so it was that the wind stopped.

Centruroides Sculpturatus Centruroides Sculpturatus, order: Scorpiones, class: Arachnida, kingdom: Animalia.

This native of the California/Mexico border scurried along the baking hot desert dirt.

Beneath the mid-afternoon sun, she endured a heat many ‘higher’ forms of life would find intolerable.

It was not so long ago she encountered the male, who eventually became her mate. Together they enacted their intricate courtship ritual. Even as she skittered across the solitary wasteland, life was growing inside her.

Though incapable of any rational or logical order of thought, she was still, on some primal level, aware of her maternity. Relatively young by the standards of her species, she had never given birth before. The male which took her virginity was not so inexperienced, having impregnated other mothers in the past.

He fled soon after their encounter, and ran afoul of a large bird a few days later. It ate him.

By happenstance, the soon to be mother was not more than five yards away, and saw her mate taken. Yet any significance it may have had, if it possessed any at all, was lost on her.

She had not eaten in some time, and could feel the pangs of hunger spurring her onwards.

She was looking for a small insect. Her tail, with its stinger, was prepared. Her intention was not to kill, though death would be the likely outcome of her strike. She only wished to paralyze so that she could feed.

She lacked the higher reasoning necessary to commit an act of malice. Driven purely by instinct, she sought a meal to sustain her own life processes, and to allow those within her to grow.

Suddenly, she stopped. She could sense through vibrations in the ground that something was coming, something large. It was large enough to trigger the threat detectors in her brain.

She darted into the nearest hole. # Homo Sapien, order: Primates, class: Mammalia, kingdom: Animalia.

The ’91 Mercury Capri slowed its pace as it rounded the bend in the road. After the turn it continued a few yards further, before finally coming to a stop. The two riders disembarked.

Lizzie raised her hand to keep the sunlight out of her eyes. She was young, with an athletic and rather masculine figure that still retained very pretty features. Her hair was short and blond, and her face was complimented by a light dusting of freckles. “Where are we?”

Her companion was already waiting for her around back of the car. Jackie was tall and gaunt, with a stern look constantly affixed to his face. “Somewhere in Mexico, not too far from the border.”

She walked towards him, rifling through her pockets as she went. Jackie waited patiently for her to finish, and eventually she pulled out the object of her search, a piece of bubblegum.

She spat out the gum in her mouth, her fifth piece that day, and popped in the sixth.

“Don’t you ever stop that?” he asked “What? Chewing gum?”

“Doesn’t it damage your teeth or something?”

“It hasn’t yet.”

She returned the wrapper to her pocket and pulled out her keys.

Paul Rendell, the man inside the trunk of the car, had been uncomfortable ever since he regained consciousness. That was about an hour after they had reached the mainland from Avalon and gotten on I-5. The sun blinded him when the trunk opened.

Jackie brushed the dust off his jacket. “Well, we’d better get started.”

Paul was yelling when they pulled him out of the trunk. “You, and your girl! Both of you are dead! When my people find out what you’ve done, you are both dead!”

Jackie sighed, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his top shirt button. “These are the coordinates. Make it easy and tell us where the hard drive is. Strictly speaking, I don’t believe torture is ethical. But I will still shoot you in the kneecap if it means ten million dollars.”

“People already know I left with you two. Even if you kill me, you won’t get away with this.”

“Paulie, we don’t want to kill you,” cooed Lizzie. “Just tell us where the hard drive is. We’ll find it on our own if you don’t, it can’t be far. If you help us, we’ll let you go and no one ever sees the two of us again.”

“We’ll see you again, be sure of that. You two want the hard drive?” Paul asked. “Sure, I’ll give it to you. You two lovebirds better spend it fast though, you won’t live much longer.” # Scorpions have no conception of money at all. How could one appreciate what humans would do for the sake of numbers in a computer? The centruroides sculpturatus did not even understand the strange cold metal object she sat atop. She could not smell the cordite packed tight inside of it, but even if she did, what interest could gunpowder have to a scorpion?

She had only one thought when the stranger thrust his hand into her hiding place.

Danger!

She lashed out with her stinger, and the one who threatened her and her unborn babes screamed out in pain.

“Jackie! Look out! He’s got a gun!”

The humans unleashed their own stingers with loud bangs. The man who encroached on the scorpion’s domain fired his shot in a wide arc that landed uselessly in the sand hundreds of yards away.

The other human’s stinger painted the desert red. # The two humans took a moment to gape at the dead man in front of them. Lizzie popped another piece of bubble gum into her mouth.

Jackie rolled the stone off the hiding place, and watched a bark scorpion skitter further down into another crack to escape her exposure. He grabbed the hard drive and they walked back to the car, while the sun continued to shine. Slowly, however, it began its steady decent down the sky.

Finally, it hung just above the horizon by a single thread, and the two of them drove away together towards their future.

My Dearest Richard

June 7th, 1837 My dearest cousin, Richard, I hope this letter finds you well, as I have had you in my prayers since your father informed my family of your sudden illness. Pneumonia was it? Oh, how forgetful I am these days, even in youth such information would flee my mind, never to return. Even so, I wish to write this letter in hopes you receive it in good health.

It has been long since we spoke last, yes? I believe since my father forced you out of the house at the age of thirteen. I still do not know what for, and if you committed such an action to elicit a terrible reaction from my father, then it must have been quite amusing. I have thought long about you, as we never saw each other or spoke again, the only information I was able to receive about you was through Mrs. Potts at the bakery who often spoke of you with such excitement in her voice. ‘Oh, you two were such great friends, whatever happened to the two of you arm-in-arm as you strolled through the streets of Manchester?’ It is quite an amusing question I do admit, for I never had the answer for her. I created many excuses to explain your absence at my side, and if you visited her at times I am sure you had to do the same.

Did you think about me often during our period apart? I am writing this in the seclusion of my closet, I am afraid my father may bore me with his lectures as to why I mustn’t speak to you. Should this letter reach you, my closest friend, do write with haste, for this life is much too short to spend on standing idly for a letter that may never come.

June 13th, 1837 My dearest cousin, and closest friend, Catherine, How good it is to hear from you after nearly a decade of decrepit silence. It warms me to know that you have thought of me, for I have done the same in the horrendous labyrinth that only consists of endless coins made to my scrupulous father who milk men dry in the name of the law. Such a shame it is, being a tax collector’s son, men and women look at you with shame and disgust as though I am at fault for my father’s occupation.

I apologize, Catherine, I know you do not wish to read my endless rants of my treatment and such. To resuscitate your failing memory—which I see has lasted from childhood—yes, it is indeed pneumonia. It is not a serious case, I am told I will be well in a few mornings, so all is well! However it is a shame, Catherine, dear friend, that your letters may end so abruptly as they had begun. I longed for word of you—another answer to your question, yes: Mrs. Potts spoke often of you and I had to excuse your absence many times—and so it is quite a shame.

Do you remember the times where my father and I would travel to your estate and we would climb the sprawling trees? Oh, such the days of innocence that have rode by us without a passing glance, such sorrow it is to live in memory and forget that we are indeed living. At times I wished to return…but I could not for a reason I wish to keep to myself for this moment, perhaps there will be a time where I will confess to you the nature of my putting out, but I shall leave that for the hands of time.

Do write with haste, Catherine, if I am to sweat and moan in this bed I wish to do so with your words to entertain me.

June 18th, 1837 My dearest friend, Richard, Oh! How you spite me so, dear cousin, keeping such intriguing information from me when I am desperate to uncover it. That is fine, keep your secrets you jesting swine (did you remember I once called you that when you joked of my ripped gown?).

You underestimate me, Richard, I did wish to hear of your seemingly troubled life, such an abrupt ending to your tragic tale truly upset me. Nevertheless, if you will not tell yours, I will tell mine.

This past year since my twentieth birthday, my father has demanded I find myself a suitor to marry and harbor children for (such a horrid thought). Through every day and month, he introduced fine gentlemen to seduce me with their charms and riches into their bondage that would subdue me to a captivity I wished not to endure. It was a pathetic and hilarious attempt at first, until suitors constantly harassed me to no end, promising me pets, jewels, a life of peace by the sea where I should have no need for another man. I have not been with one man, Richard, why must I yearn for more? This year I have cowered in fear at the coming of men to my once secluded abode. My mother gifts them with meals and wine, my father gives them tobacco and rum for their patience.

It was at those times that I did wish to be with you, to be younglings climbing the sprawling trees with their dark branches. The trees have withered since your departure. I was disappointed by it and I am sure when you read this paragraph you will be too.

I also must comment on such beautiful penmanship you have garnered since our departure.

Perhaps you have taken the role of a gentleman, yes? No more boisterous adventures for the youthful Captain Richard? The boy who crossed The Atlantic Ocean to battle The French on his own. No, you must have changed since our last meeting, and I do not know if I am saddened or enlightened by such a fact. Have I changed to you? Am I different from the young girl who once dreamt of ballrooms that rained diamonds or who wished Christmas lasted a lifetime?

I do not wish to cease our writing, dear friend. Do write with haste, our lives are flames slowly dwindling from the erratic wind.

June 24th, 1837 Dear friend, Catherine, If you must know, so you do not read this letter in anticipation: yes, you have changed from the young girl who dreamt of lifetime Christmases. It seems to me, young devil, you have learned empathy. Ha-ha! Oh, how I wish to see the expression you are making. The young girl who threatened a fever for the two of us by forcing me to play in the rain, now suddenly wishes to know of my condition? Oh, such comedy life is, it truly is a comedy indeed.

To rid you of another aching thought: yes, I have survived the horrid case of pneumonia, and have returned to my duties as the tax collector’s son. Such a frivolous existence it is, to stand idle as all those eyes curse you, and I cannot do such a thing to remedy their thoughts of me.

I have been forced to remain at home ever since I was attacked three years ago by a debtstricken man grieving for his dying child. I empathized with the man, even as I took my beating with his dirty fists, however, such kind feelings towards the man led me to my seclusion in my own home, where I am cursed to darkness and solitude. It is lonely, as I am sure you know of my mother’s death and my father’s constant trips across Europe.

The only blessing of this cursed existence is thoughts of you and my playwriting which I have been gradually improving in. Ah, another answer to your jesting questions: no, I have not become a gentleman, darling Catherine, I have simply become a man, much evolved from the young imaginative boy you once met long ago. However, without my jesting, dear Catherine, you have also changed, though I cannot say how.

Do write in haste, closest friend, these playwright’s hands tire at the constant soliloquies and drama he is used to.

June 30th, 1837 Dear Richard, How you force me to pray to God that I may smite you with a thought. You flatter, amuse, and berate me so, I do not know if I should embrace you with that of a sister’s love or strike you with the palm of my hand (either would suffice to me, as you know). Oh, I am sure you are chuckling at your pathetic attempts at humor as you write. And yet, your pathetic attempts do bring joy to my weary heart.

I am sorry to hear of your tales of woe in regards to your situation. ‘Companionship is necessary for those who have never loved,’ my mother would tell me. I believe she is right in my status, for you, I cannot say. Perhaps your father worries for you, as he has returned to Manchester for your aid. I cannot say the same of my parents, who have brought guests this evening in hopes that I may choose one to marry, such a shame.

Speaking of such, you did not speak of my suitors and berate them as I did. I give you permission if you are fearful of offending me, I pay no mind to these swiveling gentlemen who trip over their feet at my beauty—I say this in jest, dear friend. I have no care for them, so please, insult them as Shakespeare would to his lively cast of “Tweskesbury mustards” and “three-inch fools.” They write me poems and speak with such flowery speech, it disgusts me.

No…perhaps it is not them or their speech. I can’t say, dear friend, assist me in solving this dilemma that has worn me so thin. We have been inseparable since our meeting in infanthood and our parents named us “cousins” for this, and I believe you are the one person who may allow me to solve such a confounding puzzle.

Away from my jests, Richard, how are you feeling? Are you well? I wish to see you soon. I am glad that we write, but it is much too long and I worry that the worst may be upon us should we be discovered. In this faint moment we have together separated by dried pages and fresh ink, do me a favor if it does not frighten you: I wish to read a play of yours. If possible, let it be an act, or a line, or a word, I wish to read it and revel in your written art.

Do write with haste, Richard. I will miss you.

July 10th, 1837 Dear Catherine, I apologize for the lengthy absence of my writings. It has been a trying few weeks, I wish to elaborate it all for you, in case you are angry or saddened, perhaps the latter more than likely.

Your humor and irritation of my good humor led me to write another play—ACT I should be included in this letter—and so I did so. As I wrote, my father intruded my quarters and forced me to confess my actions. I explained that I was indeed writing a play and hoped to showcase it to a local theatre. He forbade me from doing such an action and turned me out of the house. I assume he thinks less of me of sorts, the great tax collector’s son reduced to drama, such a legacy, yes? It does humor me in such a way I have never been, to trail from my father’s preconceived path for my fate. As of now I am safe and have lodged in an apartment not far from a theatre and am attempting to finish this play to see if I may bring this fruitful story to the stage.

You told me in one of your previous letters that you have not been with a man? To tell the embarrassing truth, Catherine, it is the same for me. I have lusted over women and have wished to be with one, and yet I have not. I do not pursue them, even if their affections are reciprocated, I do not see myself painted at their side with a quartet of children below us. It is strange, is it not? Our strange dilemmas we share after years of silence for one another.

Separated by fate and yet connected in similar experiences, only to interlock again. As much as I hated God for taking my dearest friend from me, I am equally grateful towards Him for bringing you back to me.

As much as I have attempted to conceal it, I am strangely jealous of the men who have visited your abode and stared into your blue eyes—I remember them to be as bright as the ocean, so vast and beautiful, yes—who have smelled the lavender of your home that once clung to your multiple dresses, and have listened to your voice which I imagine has grown to become as graceful as a harp.

It truly angers me so, Catherine, that I have not held your dark hair that reminds me of the tree that you say has withered, it truly angers me and I do not know why. Perhaps it is the bond we once carried that has been broken by our time apart? It must be so, but I do not know. It pains me to say, dear Catherine, that I cannot solve your dilemma as much as I cannot solve my own. Ha-ha!

If you recall in your last letter, you asked how I am and if I am well. To answer: I am well, yes. How are you, my dear? Do you sleep well? What do you dream of in these current years if not raining diamonds? Have you missed me during my short absence from our letters? I hope you did, it does brighten my soul to know someone cares for me as you do.

Do write to me in haste, Catherine. Perhaps my torment will end with your loving words.

July 14th, 1837 Dear Richard, You are a bumbling, sniveling, fool who has nearly drowned in me grief with your absence.

Such tears should not be wasted on a gentleman who has abandoned his lady, and yet many were shed. God, Richard, how you disappointed and saddened me with your absence, I was afraid that I would battle this wretched world without a trustworthy companion for my aid. My heart aches for you, my playwright, such sorrow should not be brought upon a good-hearted man as you, and yet Fate decides to intervene on her occupants without mercy. It is good to know that you are housed and fed, that is the only endearing piece of your journey that does not make me frown and hurt for you. Do not apologize for abandoning our letters, I understand that means beyond your control may force you from such comforts—as I hope these letters do comfort you. Your father has sought aid from my own father, speaking belligerently about you, about your artistic goals and how they disappoint him. They anger me, Richard, to have such a man that has influenced you in many ways, speak of you in such a distasteful manner. I wish I could hold you, Richard, to comfort you and provide you the companionship you desperately deserve.

Ah—such companionship that you attempt to avoid, yes? Ha-ha. Such sentimentals could only last for so long, dear cousin. You say you were jealous of the mentionings of my suitors, but you have not imagined my reaction at the mentioning of your own lustful thoughts towards other women, yes? My God, such a visceral reaction has never agitated me more than your mentionings of these women who have seen your star-filled smile and met your warm touch, it fills me with such longing that cannot be shortened. I am hateful, sinful, aggravated, and sorrowful, all for you, Richard. Is that strange? I believe it is. Perhaps it is our long separation. Perhaps…

I enjoyed the first act of your play, your words have since lived inside me, and I wish to cherish them. Do send me more of your words, Richard, if it is not a letter, then let it be an act of your play. Allow me this one request, dear friend.

You ask me if I am well, I cannot say I am. My father has grown angrier at my lack of choices for a suitor. ‘If you do not choose one, I will choose for you,’ he says before storming away and remaining in his study for the remainder of the day. As the days grow colder I find myself in the forest miles from my home, listening to the free and wistful birds that fly by my eyes, never to be met again. Perhaps those birds are your soul, Richard, lingering by me and yet so far, your voice is familiar and distant.

Oh, how I long to see you, Richard, the star of my soul. The bird that evades me, and yet is never far. Do write in haste, Richard, I cannot bear another moment without the warmth of your words to wash away the cold.

July 19th, 1837 To My Dreamer of Diamonds, My, my, such a mighty confession has overtaken you, dear Catherine, my dreamer of diamonds. No, I cannot jest to you, my friend. I wished to seclude this secret from you, but it seems as the ocean of our letters grows, so does my heart for you. My confession to you, dear Catherine, is that I was turned away from your father’s house because I announced to him that I would marry you in the future when we were both of age. Such amusing rage erupted from the man and he turned me from the house and forbade me from speaking to you again. I admit I was saddened as I wished to see you and escape from the world that attempted to separate us, but I could not. You were in your room and I could not reach you, and so I traveled the path to my home while I wept for weeks on, and even now, as the pain returns to my chest I weep again.

I do not wish to frighten you with such a confession, I do not wish to be subdued by the darkness of solitude as I was once. I do not wish to return as the tax collector’s son. No, I wish to be your playwright, your gentleman, your Captain Richard who will take you across the seas to explore our world. The candle dims ever closer to darkness and I do not wish for my own to dim as an elder with regrets and spite in my heart. Your suitors anger me, your sorrow and your father aggravate me endlessly. How I wish I could cease your tears as I did when you ruined your blue gown in childhood. If God could rid me of my artistic and imaginative mind, he could rid me of my money, he could even rid me of my life, and I would not mind as long as your tears cease. You little understand, Catherine, I would allow the world to rain diamonds for you. I would bring Christmas to you everyday if the power pulsated in my palms. Every word of my plays are written for you, they are not dedicated to any woman but you, they are not meant for the theatre or the eyes and ears for those who act or watch, they are only meant for you, Catherine, my beating heart.

Do write in haste. The ship of our lives is departing, and I wish for you to be aboard.

July 23rd, 1837 To My Playwright, Richard…you may laugh and jest as tears stain this page. I have finished your recent letter, and now I struggle to write…you evil tyrant that has infested my life with such tragic tales and wonderful words that I love and despise. How must I obey my father if such a man that I have longed for is within these pages for me, and only for me? Why must I suffer, Richard, why? My father is attempting to ready a suitor of his choosing for me. I am meeting the man tomorrow and I am afraid, Richard, terribly afraid. I do not wish to be burdened with a man unknown to me, I do not wish to be buried underneath duties that do not fit me. Richard, the light of my soul, the fire of my life that has only rekindled within the month, I wish to be with you. If I am to be subject to the horrid imaginations of becoming a wife then I would rather suffer with you. If I must be imprisoned I wish for you to be my captor. If we are to live in horrifying conditions then it shall be so, as long as your warmth is able to battle the cold that has enraptured me so, I do not mind. I wish to breathe you, to wish you here and within a second you are facing me with admiration and love in your raven eyes. I remember, your eyes, your dark eyes that I once followed all those years as a child. My God, Richard, my dearest, Richard, let us go, let us depart from this wretched land and forget the troubles in our wake. You shall no longer be the son of a tax collector, but a playwright; and I shall no longer be the daughter of an aristocrat, but a lady of the people, anything to escape such custody that has haunted me.

Write to me in haste, Richard. Our sun is slowly descending, even with our wish of an endless morning.

July 25th, 1837 My Dearest, Richard I love you, Richard. More than I have ever loved any other man in my existence. It is because I love you that I must request to retract your advancements towards me. We have been discovered, I have been berated by my mother and father and your letters have been burned.

As I stated, I was forced to meet my suitor, but even with my notable disinterest, an engagement was made. I remain in solitude, my love, my tears of sorrow now stain the ink as I write, I am unsure of what I should do. I cannot flee, I will be found. Suicide is perhaps an option, but then I fear for your own state if I leave this world behind. Sadly, my love, I must endure the torment brought about to me without a word to persuade against it.

My dearest, Richard, your letters filled me with life that I had thought remained buried underneath my own self-loathing and grief for my coming fate. I do not fear what may come, but I am saddened that I was not able to see you, to caress your cheek—I assume stubble is on there now, yes?—to lay my lips upon your own. I now share myself with another man and not you. How that saddens me, Richard. I wished to share the sea, the air, and the Earth with you. I wished to share a home and a child—perhaps children—with you, and now I am afraid that may not be possible.

My dearest…this is my last letter for you. I will read every play and poem you write with interest and love in every word. You say every word is for me? I will feel it. I feel love in every line of ink you write for me, and I hope you feel the same from my own.

In one of your previous letters you asked what I dreamt of: I dream of you.

To my gentleman, my playwright, the light of my soul, I thank you for bringing me the last embodiment of joy I will feel in life. Love courses through these veins, and in the years following, I hope it is the same for you.

July 30th, 1837 To Catherine, My Words in Living Form, May these words find you well as I wish you good fortune in your future affairs. I cannot write for long, for if I do I may never write again. Your words stab me further than any other blade could ever achieve, and yet I cannot be upset at you for forces outside of our control. Just remember, my love, my beautiful Catherine, that these black lines which I write with tears falling upon their fragile bodies are for you. My stories, my adventures, every laugh, every cry, every gasp that the audience exhibits at my written words and actions are for you. If success is written in these pages, the world will move for you, my love, and do not forget these final words.

Should pneumonia fall upon me once more, do write with haste, my ocean-eyed Catherine.

My diamond dreamer. My dearest, Catherine.