POETRY: HAIKU'S IN TRIPLICATE

Pond is running dry,

Ducks and cranes leave nests behind

Autumn has begun

*

Two miles left to walk

Unexpected nature path

Meets me halfway through

*

Ceiling in the dark

Sleep, that elusive mistress

Driven back by pain

*

 I'm not sure why I write Haiku's in sets of three, it just feels right to me. The first haiku is from an observation I made while looking out my back window at the pond and seeing the changes in the wildlife. The leaves here haven't really begun to change yet, but the animals have sensed the coming change. The second Haiku was inspired by a walk I took while lost in Seattle. I knew roughly where I needed to go and found a lovely walking path along the way. The third and final Haiku is fairly straight forward. As the seasons change, my joints give me grief and make sleep a little more difficult. I feel like I can relate to Frank Bryce in the fourth Harry Potter book (minus the bits about the whole town thinking him guilty of murder, his being murdered by Voldemort...).

SHORT STORY: PERF Part 1

It's a pity these clothes itch so badly, Perf thought to himself as he shambled along with the morning crowds, I might not mind being a beggar so much if it weren't for that.

Perf smiled to himself, a rarity for a beggar, and he quickly subdued the emotion. Such visible signs of happiness tended to get a beggar punched or kicked...or worse. A happy beggar was unnatural, and people hated things that were unnatural. Thankfully, no one noticed Perf's brief laps from his solemn misery.

The city wall of Serl seemed to grow taller as the crowed moved closer. The wall's white stones from the nearby Serl mountains were streaked with gray at the top from the centuries of rain. Red mingled with the gray every so often, marking an anchor for the watch lanterns. The road rose slightly just before the city gate where it crossed the river Serl. The river flowed into the city from the back and then exited via an underground aqueduct set in the center of the city.

The city of Serl, the Serl mountains, the river Serl, Perf cursed in his mind, I think the royal family's taken things a bit too far. He gripped a small patch of his ragged clothes where a pouch had been stitched. At the moment it was full of sundry items and sealed shut to prevent anything from slipping out. If the city guard, or anyone with some common sense, saw what he carried, he'd be killed.

Guards stood on either side of the city gate, stopping and checking the occasional passerby. For the most part the guards busied themselves with the merchants and performers and only paid any attention to beggars when they, the guards, were bored, or if a beggar drew the attention to him or herself. As it was, Perf made it through the gates without being stopped or abused and he found a nice spot in the Main Square to sit down and look miserable in.

The merchants and performers set up around the beggars, occasionally kicking one or two beggars out of the way to get a better spot for their booths. The beggars always complied for fear of the city guard getting involved. Disputes between beggars and merchants never ended well for the beggar, even when the guards sided with them. The beggar might get a prime spot for begging that day, but they'd be all the more likely to be killed that night, either by a jealous beggar or an enraged merchant.

Perf chose a quiet corner where he was bound to have absolutely no qualms with anyone, but still get enough castoffs to fill his stomach. He didn't like quarrels. He could handle himself in a fight, better than most would suspect in fact, but he didn't need the attention. The spot he'd chosen was beside a meat vendor, a little ways up some stone steps that lead into the domestic quarter. Within an hour Perf had his first piece of rotten meat and a copper coin. The meat he chewed on and the coin he quickly stuffed out of sight. Few beggars knew the benefits of staking out the domestic quarter. True, they weren't allowed into the city beyond the Main Square, but the paths that lead to the main city could still be squatted in. Most beggars looking for coins clogged themselves into the High Street, hoping to catch the occasional gold or silver piece from the passing gentry. The beggar lucky enough to survive the ensuing scuffle and still have the coin would have to scurry off and spend it before it could be stolen.

The Domestic quarter housed the gentries servants and many of them came from beggar ancestry and tended to be fairly generous in their own right. True, copper pieces were not the same as gold, but the price for such wealth to a beggar could be far too steep.

No, Perf thought to himself as just such a scuffle broke out, Far too much trouble.

Guards went over and carried off the beggars who were either dead or too badly wounded to move themselves out of the street.

Poor fools, Perf mused as he watched the guards carry the beggars out of the city gates toss them, dead and wounded alike, into the river.

Perf took advantage of the guards momentary distraction and he slipped up the remaining steps into the domestic quarter. Within moments he was out of sight of the guards down in the Main Square but that didn't mean he was out of danger. There were still patrols and the city watch he had to be wary of. Perf ducked down the first sheltered alley he came to and quickly ripped off his beggars robe. Ignoring he sudden nakedness, he turned the robe inside out and tore the seal off the hidden pouch. Careful not to spill any of the contents, he sorted through until he found what he wanted: a piece of white chalk.

Perf sealed the pouch once more and then set the garment off to the side while he drew a rudimentary door on the alley wall. He muttered while he worked and as he finished, he spat a wad of bloody meat he'd been saving in his mouth, onto his drawing.

The chalk glowed briefly and then the wall opened. A small horse and cart waited on the other side and Perf, careful not to step through the doorway himself, coaxed the beast through. The cart scraped against the wall as he lead the horse and the doorway shuddered. Perf held his breath, true fear striking him for the first time in weeks, but the portal held. He realigned the horse and guided it through the rest of the way without incident.

As soon as the horse and cart were through, Perf muttered a few more words and the door shut. Perf took the water skin off the cart and poured a little water onto the stones above his drawing. The water broke the chalk lines and the wall became solid once again looking like an ordinary wall that a child had scribbled on. All the same, Perf pulled out a change of clothes and dressed quickly. His magic should have been simple enough to go unnoticed by the cities Augers, but he still didn't want to risk being seen.

Perf led his horse and cart out of the alley looking like a merchant of the Mid Square, where only merchants of high birth were allowed to work. Perf allowed himself a smile. He'd been a beggar for so long that it felt good to be able to smile again without worrying about who was watching.

The Mid Square lay ahead of him, past the domestic quarter. He'd have to say that he got lost, came in through the wrong gate. The guards would believe him. It happened often enough.

And then he'd be one step closer to the High Palace and Perf smiled more broadly than ever.

*     *     *

 So I'm trying some more fantasy. I like the genre and I'd love to be better at it. So help me out, what's missing/lacking? I understand that this is only the first few pages of the short story, but how can I make this a more believable world?

IMMOLATION: CHAPTER 36

Matt rode the elevator up for the third time in just as many minutes. He couldn't believe what he'd seen the first two times. He hummed along with the faint music that played out of the speakers in the ceiling and tapped his foot. The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened. Matt frowned. His apartment door, not far from the elevator, was wide open with two police officers standing in the door frame. The officer closest to Matt was a broad shouldered giant of a man, and thankfully had his back turned to Matt and obscured the other officer's view. Matt reached for the button that would send him back down to the ground floor.

“Hey, wait a minute,” The smaller officer called out and Matt froze. “Are you Matthew Wellis?”

Both officers approached, the one who spoke, a frustrated looking woman, took the lead and the other followed a few steps behind, hand on his sidearm. Matt began to sweat.

“Are you Matthew Wellis?” The policewoman repeated as she and her partner blocked the elevator doors from closing.

“If I say yes,” Matt stammered, “Will I be in trouble?”

The policewoman grinned and Matt was reminded of all the nature programs he'd watched in the past where the cameraman had captured a closeup shot of a predator right before it pounced.

“You're wanted for questioning,” She said and pulled Matt out of the elevator and towards his apartment, “In regards to the disappearance of Judge Dervin.”

Matt knew any struggle against the policewoman's clamp-like grip would be useless and so he allowed himself to be steered into his apartment. A half dozen other officers were in his apartment, rifling through his belongings, making copies of various papers, and otherwise tearing his apartment apart.

“Do you guys have a warrant for this?” Matt asked.

Immediately, the giant that was the policewoman's partner handed Matt the document.

“You still could have asked,” Matt muttered as the policeman took back the search warrant, “Before just letting yourselves in.”

The policewoman didn't give any sign that she'd heard Matt's complaint and instead launched into her questions.

“When was the last time you saw Judge Dervin?” She asked.

Matt stared, unsure how to respond.

“Are you aware,” The policewoman stated, “That withholding information is a federal offense and that you could end up spending a whole lot of time thinking about how you should have answered my questions behind bars?”

Matt blinked. “Am I under arrest?” Was the first thing that came to his mind to ask.

“Not at this moment,” The policewoman answered.

“Am I a suspect?” Was the second question Matt could think of asking.

“Not so much, no,” The policewoman responded, pursing her lips and looking more annoyed than before.

“So how did you get a search warrant for my apartment?” Matt asked.

“You are a person in interest in this case,” The policewoman said, “With close personal ties to our two main leads. As such it was deemed prudent to investigate your apartment while you were escorting Joan Darcy to her holding cell.”

“And that's why the judge let me go with her?” Matt asked. “So you guys could come in here and poke around without me?”

“It was a convenient coincidence,” The officer said. “Now then, when was the last time you saw Judge Dervin?”

“Can I talk to a lawyer before answering?” Matt asked.

“Of course,” She said, “Though it only makes you look more guilty.”

“I thought I wasn't a suspect?” Matt said.

“Behaving guilty is never a good sign,” She said.

“Isn't it my right to talk to an attorney before answering your questions?”

She nodded. “But why would you need to an attorney if you haven't done anything wrong?”

Matt thought for a moment, trying to come up with a rebuttal but couldn't and at last conceded that it would be best to answer.

“I last saw Judge Dervin at the university,” He said, “I was working with Dr. Muto when Judge Dervin interrupted us. He said he wanted to speak with Dr. Muto about something and so I excused myself and got something to munch from the vending machines. When I returned, Judge Dervin was already gone.”

“See?” The policewoman said, “Was that so difficult?”

“No,” Matt admitted, “But what are you going to do to Dr. Muto?”

The policewoman shrugged. “That's not for you to worry about.”

Matt found a chair in an empty corner of his apartment and contented himself with reading a book while the officers finished their search for whatever it was that they hoped to find. At last, they began to gather up their things and to return Matt's apartment to some semblance of what it had been before their arrival.

Matt stood by the door and nodded them all out, if for no other reason than habit. The last to leave was the behemoth of a police officer, he extended his hand out to Matt and Matt, not wanting to anger the man, shook it. Something crumpled between their palms and the officer gave him a knowing look. When they ended their handshake, Matt accepted whatever it was that the officer had given him and shut the door.

Matt looked down. In his palm was a wrinkled piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it and the words, “Don't use your own phone, you're being watched”.

Matt decided he needed a coffee and he left his apartment in a hurry. Despite the fact that he'd kept it clean for the last little while, it felt suddenly filthy and violated.

*     *     *

Writing police characters has always been a struggle for me. There is, unfortunately, the stereotype for police, painting them as mean, power-tripping individuals who love any excuse to abuse their authority. My struggle come from the fact that my limited experience with police has been more with the stereotypical officers than with the nice/good ones (it should be noted that my record is clean, not so much as a traffic ticket).

What's your take on police in literature? Are they demonized too much? Is it fair to have 'bad' cops in stories without showing their counterparts?

POETRY: AN ELM

An Elm

The tree, it burst forth from the ground

No warning root or mound

Its lump-ed, creased, and folded form

Of wood so deviant from the norm

And yet so elegantly placed, each branch and leaf and knot

This malproportioned hour glass that ever I saw wrought

The twiggy bush 'neath canopy, and 'tween them naked bark

So strange a sight, this wild tree, here in the city park

The sunlight filters, changes hues, the leaves both near and back

From mottled greens to solid gold, such palates never lack

And whispering with passing breeze they flash and change attire

Ne'er the same, this Seussian tree, that I watch and I admire

SHORT STORY: AMERICAN REAPER Script

Here's a screenplay for a mockumentary I would love to see finished. An attempt was made a while back but technical difficulties made it unwatchable. Have you ever seen any mockumentaries? If so, which ones? If not, why not?

NOTE: V.O. means Voice Over, O.S. means Off Screen, (CONT.) means the character's line is continued following some action, words in all caps are props or sound FX or a character's first appearance. INT. means interior, EXT. means exterior. Pan, Tilt, Shift Focus, are all camera directions. Any other questions, feel free to ask.

American Reaper

By

Gabriel C. Taylor

1 INT. OFFICE - DAY 1

Credits Begin

Close on Office wall. Pan across CALENDER, PHOTO-BOOTH PICTURE STRIP of Death and young woman, PLAYING CARD, other assorted ITEMS.

INTERVIEWER V.O.

What do people say when you tell

them what you do?

Close on desk, littered with PAPERWORK. Pan across revealing messy stacks of SPREADSHEETS, SCHEDULES and OBITUARIES in either the IN-BOX or OUT-BOX.

DEATH V.O.

Everyone thinks I’m joking, so they

try to be funny. You know, it’s a

living...Someone’s got to do

it...You can make a killing in that

line of work...I’ve heard them

all...

Continue panning across the desk to reveal a computer with a black keyboard. The screen saver is on, "R.I.P."

INTERVIEWER V.O.

But you’re not joking, are you?

DEATH V.O.

(serious)

No...I’m not.

Finish pan on a COFFEE MUG displaying the words "Worlds Best Reaper", "#1 Reaper", something to that effect. Or a NAMEPLATE: DEATH BLACK

Credits End

2 EXT. BUSY SIDEWALK - DAY 2

DEATH stands still in a sea of people, all of whom are rushing about (time lapse, blur?). Even though the mans face looks young (30’s), he has streaks of gray in his hair around his temples. This man is Death. Close on Death as his head snaps to the side and (slow motion) watches a woman walk by. Death SNAPS his fingers and a counter appears above her head, counting down. The counter reads as Year:Month:Day. i.e. 45:11:8 means 45 years, 11 months and 8 days.

DEATH V.O.

It starts with a feeling...usually.

Then I start looking around, and

when I see who it is, it’s like

electricity.

Death follows the woman and taps her shoulder and the

counter turns white. She continues on, glancing back only

briefly.

INTERVIEWER V.O.

So you just show up when

it’s...time?

3 INT. SUPERMARKET - DAY 3

Death is walking down the isles, pushing an empty cart looking at people as he goes. Death comes up to a pregnant woman and SNAPS his fingers. A counter appears above both her head and her pregnant belly. Both have lots of time remaining.

DEATH V.O.

Well, I try to catch people before

then if I can, make things easier

for me. But It’s an individual

thing, you know, when they’re

ready.

Death pats the woman on the shoulder and she smiles. Death walks on, SNAPS his fingers again and the counters disappear.

4 EXT. CEMETERY - DAY 4

Death walks among rows of headstones with the Interviewer at his side. Death waits for no man and presses forward. The Interviewer is eager to do his work. This is the interview of all interviews. He looks like he’s walked out of a 1970’s news room in his blue/gray suit

INTERVIEWER

Now, you have to reap every soul?

DEATH

Every soul.

INTERVIEWER

And you’ve been doing this since

the dawn of time?

DEATH

More or less, yeah. It’s a full

time job.

INTERVIEWER

Do you ever get overwhelmed by it

all?

DEATH

How so?

They come to a WWII veteran’s marker.

INTERVIEWER

Take for instance major events,

like wars and natural disasters.

How do you handle those?

5 EXT. WAR - DAY 5

Stock footage of combat. Stock footage of mass graves Counters above each soldier change rapidly as they move, gaining or losing time with each step.

DEATH V.O.

It gets...complicated. My In-Box

explodes, names get lost or

mislabeled. It’s a filing

nightmare.

6 EXT. CEMETERY - DAY 6

DEATH walks among the headstones. The INTERVIEWER follows,

holding the microphone, trying to catch Death’s responses.

INTERVIEWER

What do you do?

Death pauses at one of the headstones, SNAPS his fingers and checks the counter over the grave. It reads in the negatives.

DEATH

This.

Death pats the headstone and the counter fades away.

DEATH (CONT.)

It’s an awful mess. I work myself

to death and it can still take,

weeks, months, years even to clean

things up.

INTERVIEWER

Have you ever tried just cutting

your losses and letting them go

un-Reaped?

Death stops and pats another headstone.

DEATH

Once, briefly.

Death shudders.

INTERVIEWER

And what happened?

Death resumes walking.

DEATH

(darkly)

Oh it was terrible. People...so

many people...thrashing and

screeching. It spread to the living

before I could stop it. It’s mostly

under control now. Though it still

crops up in movies.

INTERVIEWER

You mean...zombies?

DEATH

(startled/shocked)

Disco.

7 INT. CONCERT - NIGHT 7

Stock Footage of people singing and dancing during the height of the age of Disco. Lights flash and a man in a white suit does a solo dance number.

DEATH V.O.

So after that I knew I had to be

more responsible.

8 INT. SANTA’S CORNER IN THE MALL - DAY 8

CHILDREN are lined up, waiting to see Santa. A BOY is butting his way to the front. Death sits in a Santa suit, the Interviewer at his side in the Elf suit. Children are lined up to sit on Santa’s lap. The Interviewer is noticeably uncomfortable with the situation. The boy, now at the front of the line, gets up on Death's lap. Death SNAPS his fingers and checks his time.

DEATH (CONT.)

Have you been a good boy this year?

The boy nods and Death gives him a long look. The boy wilts slightly under Deaths gaze.

DEATH (CONT.)

Liar!

The boy runs for it.

INTERVIEWER

(hushed voice)

They let you do this every year?

DEATH

(playfully creepy)

Ho ho ho.

A sickly girl climbs up onto Death’s lap. Death holds his gaze on the Interviewer for a moment longer.

DEATH (CONT.)

Have you been a good girl this

year?

The girl nods and Death SNAPS his fingers and checks her counter. 00:04:16. Death hands her a candy cane and her counter changes to 82:08:24.

DEATH (CONT.)

Merry Christmas.

GIRL

Thank you Santa.

The girl leaves. The Interviewer smiles at Death and nudges him.

INTERVIEWER

That was-

DEATH

Shut it.

INTERVIEWER

What?

DEATH

Not a word.

The Interviewer hesitates, then opts to return to his interviewing.

INTERVIEWER

Does anyone hold on after they’re

dead?

9 INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT 9

A PERSON lies dead in bed. MOURNERS have gathered around the deceased. DEATH is there, in normal attire. Death approaches the bedside, touches the deceased hand.

DEATH V.O.

A few try.

The deceased slaps Death’s hand and goes back to being ’dead’. The mourners don’t seem to notice the interaction.

INTERVIEWER V.O.

What do you do?

Death’s form fades out and back in, now wearing the cloak and scythe.

DEATH V.O.

That’s when the cloak and scythe

come out.

Death gestures with the scythe and the deceased gets up and follows sheepishly.

10 INT. OFFICE - DAY 10

Death is picking his nails. His back to his desk.

INTERVIEWER O.S.

People are wondering, I’m sure, how

much does fate play into when it’s

time for us to die?

DEATH

You think Fate bothers with

individual lives?

INTERVIEWER O.S.

Some people do, yes.

DEATH

(chuckle)

She’s far too busy with wars,

lightning strikes, and lotto

numbers to start micromanaging.

INTERVIEWER O.S.

She?

DEATH

...Yeah...

Death shifts uncomfortably.

INTERVIEWER O.S.

There’s a story there, I think.

DEATH

(uncomfortable)

We dated for a while.

Shift focus to the photo strip on the office wall of Death and the woman.

INTERVIEWER O.S.

And?

Pan over to an ACE playing card tacked next to the photo. Written in bold letters "CHEATER"

DEATH

You remember Santa's Workshop?

Yeah, stay on her good side.

Death shifts in his seat multiple times, straightening his clothes, etc. and avoiding eye contact.

11 EXT. SIDEWALK - DAY 11

A WOMAN is walking along the sidewalk toward Death and the Interviewer. Her counter has plenty of time. The Interviewer follows, microphone at the ready. A car is driving along the street in the background coming closer.

INTERVIEWER

So, can people influence when they

die?

DEATH

Of course. Some choices lead

directly to their death.

INTERVIEWER

Suicide.

DEATH

Yes, but there’s also the choice to

zig when you should’ve zagged.

The woman steps out to cross the street just as Death and the Interviewer reach her and her counter drops to a couple seconds.

A cry of surprise catches in the Interviewer’s throat.

12 INT. CAR - SAME 12

DRIVER screams and slams on the breaks. THUD.

13 EXT. SIDEWALK - DAY 13

Death takes the Interviewer by the shoulder and guides him away from the accident. The Interviewer keeps glancing back to the frantic driver who can’t see them. Death pulls out a mint box and offers it to the Interviewer.

DEATH (CONT.)

Mint?

14 INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT 14

An overweight MAN sits in a dark room in front of his TV, stuffing his face with junk food. The TV, though the screen is not seen, plays a sports game. CROWD CHEERS/BOOS periodically. As the man eats, Death SNAPS his fingers and a counter appears above the mans head. Each mouthful knocks off a couple minutes/hours of his time.

DEATH V.O.

More often, though, it’s the daily

choices you make that get you.

The man continues to gorge himself. A loud CHEER erupts and the man leaps to his feet. His counter drops the remaining time, he clutches his chest and falls back to the couch.

BEAT.

15 INT. OFFICE - DAY 15

The Interviewer and Death are seated across from one another in Death’s office. The Interviewer checks his wrist watch.

INTERVIEWER

(somewhat relieved)

Well, it’s been quite the

experience.

The Interviewer stands, Death follows suit. The Interviewer extends his hand to shake Deaths.

INTERVIEWER

But sadly our time is up.

Death hesitates, eying the Interviewer, then SNAPS his

fingers.

BLACK

DEATH

Speak for yourself.

IMMOLATION: CHAPTER 35

“So I'm thinking drapes along the south wall,” Matt said in reference to the one way glass that lined one side of the hallway.

Joan chuckled uneasily and gripped his hand more tightly in her own. The judge had ordered her back into isolation not half an hour ago, but somehow he had agreed to let Matt escort her back to her cell so she wouldn't have to be alone. Of course there were the guards behind the glass, watching, but they didn't count.

The hallway itself was nothing special. No doors besides the ones on either end, the one that lead to freedom, and the one she and Matt were walking towards.

“Would it be alright if I still came by every once in a while to get some measurements?” Matt asked.

“It's fine with me if they'll let you in,” Joan said.

“I could even try to smuggle you in some stuff from the outside.” Matt said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“They'd catch you,” Joan replied in her usual voice, “And whispering won't help you. They've got first class security around here.”

“Well then,” Matt whispered, “What would you like?”

“I just told you it's pointless.”

“Then pretend with me,” Matt said, “Seriously, if you could have had anything from the outside last time, what would it have been?”

Joan didn't even hesitate with her response. “Sunlight and a clear sky above me. Trees and open field. Ice cream on my birthday, and a new book every week.”

“Is that it?” Matt asked and earned a shove from Joan in the ribs.

They continued walking in silence for a few moments.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Joan said as a small patch on her back caught fire.

“Of course,” Matt said and ignored the fire.

“I mean, you didn't even have to come with me to the hearing.”

“Well I wasn't going to let you go through that all by yourself.”

The fire spread until Joan's back was completely engulfed. “Sorry if it's getting a bit hot for you,” She apologized.

“No worries,” Matt said, though he began turning his head back and forth as he looked from one end of the hallway to the other. “This is a ridiculously long hallway, you know that?”

Joan laughed. “Yeah, it's part of the ventilation and cooling system they built to keep me...to keep my fire contained.”

“Hmmm,” Matt looked around at the ceiling with its vents and fire sprinklers. “Security isn't the only thing that's first class around here. How's the food?”

“Ever tried to eat cardboard?” Joan asked.

“No, I can honestly say that I haven't.”

“Well, a couple weeks of the food here,” Joan teased, “And you might be willing to try it.”

“That bad, huh?” Matt grimaced.

“I think the cook here must have had his taste buds seared off at birth.”

“I'll have to see if I can smuggle in some food, then,” Matt said, reverting back to his secretive whisper.

“I told you,” Joan said, “There's no point in trying to sneak anything in. If anything it'll make them less likely to let you in to do any research.”

Matt just shrugged. “This is a seriously long hallway.”

“Don't complain,” Joan said, “You're not the one who doesn't get to enjoy it twice.”

“Enjoy it twice?” Matt said in disbelief, “How could anyone enjoy this?”

“I'd give anything to enjoy this hallway twice today,” Joan said, her voice serious.

“Right,” Matt said with embarrassment, “Sorry.”

At last they were drawing near to Joan's door and her flame spread over to her arm opposite of Matt.

“I wonder where Judge Dervin was,” Joan mused as her last few moments of relative freedom came to an end.

Matt stiffened. “I'm not sure,” He said abruptly. “I thought he was on vacation or something.”

“Yeah,” Joan said but before she could go on they had reached her cell. How the hallway seemed to stretch on for an eternity and then come to an end so suddenly was beyond her.

The thick, heavy door slid open with its usual sounds of finality as it ground down on the inner gears and locking mechanisms. Joan gripped Matt's hand even tighter, to the point he began to grunt in pain but still she couldn't let go. Her fire spread, feeding off her fear and covering her head and legs.

“Joan,” Matt said in such a calm voice that it somehow bypassed everything else going on in her mind.

“What?” She asked, tearing her eyes away from the room to look at Matt.

“Be careful not to burn me,” He said and Joan realized how close her flame was to reaching his hand.

“You're a great friend,” Joan said and she let him go.

Matt folded Joan's hand into a fist and then stepped back as Joan's fire wrapped the rest of the way around her. Joan shut her eyes and took in a deep breath of heated air and stepped over the threshold.

The gears in the door whined as they worked to shut the door behind her and when it at last settled into its shut position the locks clanged and sent an echo reverberating through the room.

Silence pressed in on Joan's ears as though she were beneath several feet of water. No hum of electricity or vents, no rumble of distant traffic. Her own heartbeat became a deafening drum in her head.

She opened her eyes.

The walls around her were bright but with the exorbitant number of lights they might as well have been painted black. The lack of doors, the bright lights inset behind protective glass, all of it was terribly familiar. It seemed as though she had never been let out, that the last few months had only been a dream that she was now waking up from. Her fire burned with her depressed and fearful emotions feeding it.

Something buzzed in her hand. The hand that had been holding Matt's, the hand Matt had been so careful to close before leaving her.

Joan opened her hand, careful not to let her fire touch whatever was in it. A small cell phone sat in her palm with its screen lit up and showing a new text message.

“Sorry it's not heat shielded,” The text read, “Spur of the moment thing. They shouldn't be able to see it when you're burning so if you ever feel the need to chat while you're on fire, send me a text.”

Joan stared in disbelief, thinking that she should say something back, a thank you at least, when she got another text.

“Treat it nice, it's my personal cell so now all I have is my work phone. No internet...Told you I could smuggle things in for you. And don't run up too big a bill for me.”

Joan's fire turned more relaxed and she spent the rest of her time burning reading web comics.

*       *       *

 What are your thoughts on how I've written Joan, returning to her isolation? Any thoughts on Matt, was it too far fetched to have him escort Joan to her cell?