1) A Very Small Case of Thievery

Look, I didn’t steal the book. Okay, so all signs point in that direction. But I promise you, the thievery of Universe had nothing to do with Ren Northwood.

I was slinking along the metal shelves of the Wray Public Library when it happened. I breathed in the scent of old paperbacks, running a finger along the side of the wall. I snagged a book off one of the shelves, frowned at the tattered cover, and started to put it back.

″Ren,” a voice said from behind me. I whipped around to see a little girl staring at me with wide gray eyes, holding a book under one arm.

“Um, yeah?” I said, slipping my own book back on the shelf. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” she replied.

What kind of answer was that?

“Does one of your parents work here?” I said. “Do you need help finding them?”

She rolled her eyes and stalked past me. “Alright, listen up, because I’m only telling you this once.”

I shook my head, looking at her closer. She seemed to be only six or seven years old, with pale skin and dark, choppy hair. I guessed that she had cut it herself.

“Okay, kid, can you at least tell me how you know my name?”

“I’m not a—nevermind. Do you see this?” She waved the book in my face, and I sneezed.

The girl leaned over to place it in my hands, her breath smelling of oranges.

“This . . . is something very special, and very dangerous.” She glanced behind her, looking apprehensive. “I have to go soon. Please be careful with it, okay?”

I looked down at the book in my hands. The plain green cover was fraying at the seams, and its riveted pages dug into my palms. The title was written in peeling gold, so covered in dust that I could barely see it. I could just make out the letters. Universe. I hooked a thumb under the cover, but the girl took in a sharp breath, and I quickly pulled away my hand.

“Not yet!” she repeated. “You’ll know. When the time is right.”

I glanced back up at her. “You’re letting me keep this?”

“Yes, yes.” She waved my question away.

“But . . . why me?” I said. I shouldn’t have let hope rise in my chest, the thought that maybe I had been chosen for some sort of great adventure.

The girl squashed that hope with one withering look. “In fact, no one else wanted it. I’ve been walking around this library for the past half an hour trying to get someone to take it.

“I can’t stay any longer. If you spill anything on the book, it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Leave it on your windowsill at full moon. That should . . . recharge it.”

“Um,” I said. “What exactly do you mean, recharge it?”

“Recharge its powers,” the girl said in a soft voice. She must have caught my doubtful expression, because she added, “You can believe me or not, I don’t really care which. At least the book will be gone.”

The little girl turned to leave, but I grabbed her arm before she could disappear.

“Wait—can you tell me why no one wanted it? And where are you going?”

She just shrugged me off with a smile. “Fate has many places to be at this hour. It’s such a big, big universe and souls are such small, small things.”

“Ask for Fate— for me—in an emergency,” said the girl. “Emergency only, you hear me?”

She turned the corner of the bookshelf and disappeared. When I poked my head around the corner, I saw nothing but dust and books.

. . .

I stood there for a while with Universe in my hand. I stared at it, and got a faint sensation something in there was staring right back at me. I decided the logical thing to do would be to leave the book, forget about talking to the strange little girl, and go back home with a different novel.

Before I could put the book back, I heard a familiar voice from the other side of the library. I looked over to see my older brother, Chance, talking to a librarian.

“I’m looking for my brother. His name is Ren . . . he’s thirteen, curly red-brown hair, kinda short—”

“Chance?” I said, and he turned around with a sigh of relief. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you for the past half an hour.”

I frowned. I was sure I had only been talking to Fate for a couple of minutes.

“What were you doing?” Chance asked. He ran his hand through his hair—dyed black for as long as I could remember.

“Picking cherries. What do you think I was doing?”

I suppose I got my sarcasm from him.

Chance rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you found a book. Though it looks rather . . . well loved.”

“I got it from this little girl,” I said. “I think her name was Fate. She wasn’t very nice.”

“Lovely.” He wasn’t listening. Chance traced the scar that ran from the bottom of his left eye to his cheek. He was seven years older than me, but he never seemed a whole lot smarter. He always invented different stories when I would ask how he got the scar, so I always assumed he had done something stupid and cut himself.

“Are we leaving now?” I tried to put the book back on a shelf but couldn’t find a way to wedge it in.

“You’re not taking it? Don’t you need more books?” Chance said.

I didn’t respond as I tried to find a place to put the book.

 “What’s it about?” he said. 

“I don’t know. I wasn’t supposed to open it.” 

At this, Chance gave a little frown and leaned in to look at the book. A look of dread flitted across his face and he pulled away, glancing at me. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

He was a terrible liar, but I didn’t say anything. Mostly to spite him, and a little bit because I felt strangely drawn to the book, I grabbed it from the top of the shelf and brought it with me. When we reached the library’s desk, Chance turned around to look at me.

“You’re checking it out after all?” he said, glancing down at Universe.

“Yes.” I stared at him, waiting for Chance to object. But all he did was take the book from my hands and bring it to the desk.

Strangely enough, the book did not seem to belong to the library. After quite a bit of confusion, a librarian finally concluded that it must have been left by someone—which was the truth—and therefore could not be checked out. I suppose I should have been expecting such a thing. Fate had not been so kind as to fix all of the little details of taking her book out of the library after getting it in, so now I would have to solve the issue on my own. Hopefully without becoming a book fugitive.

I tuned back into what the librarian was saying. “So we’ll have to take the book for now. It must be somewhat rare—I looked up the title and couldn’t find anything. Otherwise I would let you keep it. When it’s all fixed up, it will go through the process of being catalogued and marked before it’s available to loan. If you’d like, we can mark you down on a waiting list.”

“Are you sure I can’t have it now?” I said. “I’d be really careful.”

“Not yet, sorry.”

Chance cleared his throat and gave a nervous little smile, sliding the book across the table toward him. “Thank you for your help, though. Where should we put it?”

The librarian waved her hand in the direction of a heavy metal cart. “Just on that shelf, please.”

She hurried off and Chance stared after her with narrowed eyes. When he was satisfied that she was gone, he took my hand and began to walk in the direction the librarian had pointed. After we passed the cart in question, however, I tugged on the yellow and red sleeve of his sweatshirt and looked him in the eye. 

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think, Ren? Home.”

“What about the book?” I asked.

He smiled again, tugging me along as we walked out the door. “It doesn’t belong to the library. It’s yours, now. Merry Christmas.”

“It’s probably worth a lot of money,” I said. I wanted the book, but stealing it seemed . . . wrong, I guess.  

“I’d hate to see our faces in the paper,” I said instead.

“You’re too modest.” Chance was walking faster now. He held the book as if it was a small child about to throw a fit, and he had to get it out before a tantrum would erupt and screaming ensued. 

We reached the car, and I slipped into the passenger seat. Chance began to drive home, past sloping hills and withered yucca, with the mountains looming in the distance.

“Can I have Universe?” I said, turning away from the familiar scenery.

“Not yet.” Chance tightened his grip on the steering wheel. I forced myself not to point out those two words had been used far too much in the past few minutes. I made a face at him before grabbing a school notebook and a pencil from the dashboard.

I, Renwyn Northwood, am officially dying of boredom. Two years of living in the Nowhere Town of Wray, Colorado, can do that to you. Especially if you live in a falling-apart house, next to a mountain that spontaneously blocks your wifi, and can go to only one library in the whole town. And the only interesting thing that ever happens, your brother has to go and take away.

My pencil snapped, and I looked up. 

Chance had turned to read over my shoulder. At my glance, he said, “What are you writing?” 

“My death note,” I told him. “I’ve discovered my diagnosis. The people that own our house next will discover it beside my dead body.”

“Well, I’d give you the book, but I’m driving.”

“What kind of excuse is that? You’re not even driving right now.”

He glanced back at the road and swerved to avoid a truck spitting up an unreasonable amount of smoke. The driver yelled something over the wind at him.

“They say it will snow soon. A big storm,” Chance said to distract my glare.

I squinted out at the horizon. It did seem like a storm was approaching. It snowed too much in Colorado.

“Who says?” I asked.

“You know.” Chance shrugged. “The weather people.”

“It’s only December.”

“Maybe we’ll get snow for Christmas.”

“Maybe.”

We pulled into our driveway. In the middle of nowhere, as usual. I closed my eyes and wished I was anywhere else, then opened them. My wish had not been granted. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” I said

“Should I have kept driving?” He stepped out of the car and walked toward the house. I had to run to catch up with him, grabbing his arm. 

“I mean stolen the book,” I said. Chance kept walking, face emotionless, the book under his arm. He opened the door, then slammed it shut behind him. I stared at the flaking wood for a minute, before finally easing open the door. It creaked, and chips of peeling paint fluttered off of it. Chance stood at the counter, unleashing his irritation upon a loaf of bread. A wedge of cheese sat beside him, heralding the telltale arrival of the only meal he could cook without utter failure.

“Grilled cheese. Something new and different,” I said.

Chance looked up, cutting his finger with a knife. He cursed. “Why did you do that?”

I watched a trickle of blood seep into the bread, which I could now see was whole grain. This day was just getting worse and worse.

“You’re getting blood all over my sandwich,” I said. “Besides, how am I supposed to eat it if we don’t have any ketchup?”

“That’s disgusting. Nobody puts ketchup on grilled cheese,” Chance said, wiping the blood off his finger with an old towel.

“I do.” I grabbed the bread from his hands. “I’m going to bike to the gas station to get some.” 

“I wouldn’t. I already told you, there’s a storm brewing.”

I walked into the living room and opened the window. Sure enough, a freezing wind blew my hair into my face as I poked my head out, frowning up at enormous, ice-heavy clouds. It was unnatural. Storms didn’t come that fast.

“Close that window!” Chance shouted from the other room. I closed the window and stomped past him.

“I’m going out anyway,” I said. “You can have my sandwich if I die.”

“Fine! Get struck by lightning for all I care.” In a smaller voice, he said, “at least wear your helmet.”

 Opening the door, I stepped out into the snowstorm. I tried to take a breath and got only a mouthful of frigid snow. Coughing the snow out, I turned myself right back around. The door slammed shut behind me, the house a welcome relief from the cold, and I collapsed on a chair to thaw.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in, Ren. That ketchup sure came fast.” Chance set the burnt grilled cheese in front of me.

“I’m not going out in that,” I told him. The grilled cheese was still smoking, but I ate it anyway. 

“What did I tell you? Want some apple cider?”

“Yes, but I’ll make it.”

. . .

We sat at the table, watching the snowstorm and sipping cider. I stared down into my mug pensively.

“Hey, Ren?” Chance said. I looked up as he tugged something crumpled and white out of his pocket.

“I was digging around the filing cabinet while you were at school today and I found—” he unfolded the object and smoothed it out— “this.”

It was a photograph, a black and white picture dusted with age. The picture was a shot of Chance holding a toddler up on his shoulders, laughter frozen on both of their faces. 

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the little boy.

Chance smiled. “That’s you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I think our dad took it.” Chance held the photograph out to me. “Here. You should keep it.”

I hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t want to lose it.”

“Please, Ren? Just in case,” he said.

Just in case . . . what? I wondered. Something happened to Chance? Something happened to the house? What did he mean? I started to open my mouth, but Chance was already putting the photograph into my hands. I took it and rubbed a smear off with my sleeve, noticing a signature on the back that must have been my dad’s.

“I wish they were here,” I said, touching the signature.

“Me too, Ren. Me too.” Chance glanced at the clock. “You have school tomorrow. You should get to bed.” Then, with a little smile, my brother handed me Universe. “For good dreams.”

Title: Universe

Genre/Age range: Middle Grade Fantasy (11-14 age range)

Author: L. B. Houston

Word count: 60,000

Why project is a good fit: My project is a good fit for Trident because I see your agency represents sci fi and fantasy.

Summary/hook:

Ren Northwood hasn’t stolen the book. Well...he may have helped steal it, just a little, but it’s mostly his older brother Chance’s fault. And to be fair, this isn’t a regular book. It has a whole world within--literally.

But before the two can find out what the book really is, Chance is sucked INSIDE, and it’s up to Ren to rescue him. Even worse, the world within the book, called the Haven, needs saving from an ancient evil. Ren will need the help of two almost human friends and a whole lot of courage to save Chance and the rest of the Haven, before whatever created the evil spreading across the planet catches up to them.

But like, no pressure or anything.

Your bio: I’m a writer and illustrator of middle grade fantasy. I’ve been writing and painting most of my life. My artwork has been featured in galleries and shows across the state, including Artstreet, Appleton’s Art in The Park, UWGB’s Lawton Gallery, and the Art Garage. I am also part of the Visual Arts strand at East High School. In 2018, I won second place in the Delta Kappa Gamma writing contest. 

Platform(website): https://lbhoustonauthor.wixsite.com/books

<a href="https://twitter.com/Lbhoustonwriter?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @Lbhoustonwriter</a><script async src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js" charset="utf-8"></script>

Education: East High School

Personality / writing style: I write funny, dark, MG books, with a strong character voice and high stakes. I like to sneak in the occasional pop culture reference, though most of my themes have an environmental aspect.

Likes/hobbies: writing (of course), painting and illustrating my novels, being in nature

Hometown: Green Bay

Age: 14

Please email me at lbhoustonauthor@gmail.com if you are interested!

A green beer bottle sizzling on the road,

as if just broken.

Or maybe it was the porch lights of the houses

that were sizzling.

Or maybe it was the newly-parked cars—warm

under the porch lights.

We all know it was the power lines sizzling

above my head.

So what’s the harm in saying it was the stars

dotted through the sky.

Newly picked bouquets

line a fence, post to post,

by the beach—this must have been

the place she loved the most.

I stop to read inscriptions,

letters to a muted mind;

a last breath, a final footprint

on the Earth to which we bind.

A park bench and a silver plate

the centre of its back.

A loved one's sweet initiative

or a dying wish perhaps.

I read the rusted silver,

message ground in ivory letter:

"Our brightest flower, Jasmine.

Loved by anyone that met her."

'Two thousand six to twenty-ten',

said the weeping park bench tile.

I wonder all the folk who've read

this ode to taken child.

When the beach bouquets are wilted,

will someone take them from the posts?

Those dying flowers, the sobbing ink;

ghostly tributes to a ghost.

When the park bench cracks and faulters

and the reaper plays his role,

will someone save the dedicate

to a disembodied soul?

Me: Siri, please make me a sandwich.

Siri: I’m sorry, I do not have the condiments.

Me (getting angry): Siri, I command you to make me a sandwich!

Siri: I’m sorry, Elie. I do not have the condiments to make a sandwich.

Me (slams down the phone): Siri, I’m done with you! Make me a sandwich or else!

Siri: Elie, why don’t you make me a sandwich?

*awkward silence*

“Champagne or wine?” he asks, that malicious grin playing on his lips.

A similar grin quirks at the corners of my mouth, realizing quickly where I am. I look around the plane, taking in my lavish surroundings. What makes the growing grin fade as quickly as it came on is the sight of three haggardly girls in the back of the plane, staring blankly at the floor as a hostess brings them juice and water. I look back to his expectant expression. He looks older than in the documentary I watched about him just a few minutes ago. His wrinkles cut deep into his tan and uneven skin, and his hair was even whiter than that salt-and-pepper color that women loved.

“I can’t drink yet,” I reply with a shrug, leaning my cheek against my fist, my knuckles blotched yellow with how tight my grip is. “Apologies.”

He chuckles, a low and rumbling chuckle that sat deep in his chest. It made the corners of my mouth deepen even more. “Ah,” he says simply, waving over a hostess and whispering something in her ear. His eyes graze her ass before he turns his gaze back to me. “You see, that isn’t a problem here,” he says, pushing forward a napkin onto the tray attached to the arm of my seat. The hostess comes by a few seconds later, two flutes of champagne in hand, setting them down on the trays. He thanks her and takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine, even as he tips his head back to drink the sweet alcohol.

“Do you see the police around?” he asks and gives me a nauseating once-over. “I thought you looked young.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from saying anything brash that might cause him to ground the plane and prolong what was waiting for him on that godforsaken island.

“Hm,” I reply, pressing my lips into a thin line. My gaze falls to the flute with the bubbling liquid inside. Has he drugged it? I look at the clock on the wall. There is only an hour until the plane lands. Plenty of time for him to do something. But as I look back up at him, his welcoming expression sours as I take longer and longer to decide. The last thing I want him to be is suspicious. I take the flute into my hand, spinning it around before taking a sip. It tastes normal enough for alcohol. There was nothing especially sweet or bitter about it that would denote a drug, so I take another tentative sip. I place the flute back down, and his expression visibly brightens.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he asks, his eyes fluttering closed as he took another sip. “Moet & Chandon Imperial Brut. Fruity with a smoky aftertaste.”

I nod along with everything he’s saying, but I’m far away from listening. I’m thinking of things to pick his brain about, and my eyes fall on the girls in the back again. I point to them, causing his eyes to widen slightly. “Who are they?” I ask, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Is he...nervous? Have I made the great Jeffrey Epstein nervous?

“They’re...family friends,” he replies after a moment, and I can see the gears turning in his head.

“Wow, you must be a great friend to be flying them out to your private island,” I reply nonchalantly, looking at my nails. He shifts in his seat, the armrest groaning as he grips it tightly.

“Yes,” he says, his ‘s’ hyper-sibilant, coming out almost like a hiss. “Aren’t you here for the same reason, my dear? To...have fun on the island?”

I only then remembered: I am a girl. Of age, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Epstein since I still look young. As long as I don’t tell him I’m eighteen, maybe this could go smoothly. I bite my lip and take a look at the other people on the plane. It seems to be just people working for him and hostesses, all of whom were looking away at their electronics or at nothing. It seems as if staring into thin air was better than looking Jeffrey Epstein in the eye.

“You’re right,” I say hesitantly, bile rising in my throat. “I was just confirming who they were, Mr. Epstein.”

He seems to accept that response, leaning back into his chair comfortably, polishing off his champagne.

“But, I do wonder what makes you like underage girls,” I say outright, and he nearly chokes as he swallows the alcohol. I look at the time: forty-five minutes until landing. I needed to bide my time better. But I need to pick his brain. I need to know why. I stare at him, but he isn’t able to do the same, his eyes anywhere except on me. “Were you molested? Do you want to do onto others what happened to you?”

He calls the hostess over and gives her the flute, shaking his head emphatically. “W-who are you to ask these questions? Are you a reporter?”

“No, Mr. Epstein,” I reply calmly, trying to regulate the fear in my voice. He can just walk to the cockpit and tell the pilot to ground the plane at any time with the police waiting for him on the island. I lean forward and put my hand on his knee, quite nearly vomiting all over his lap, but it seemed to calm his nerves. “I work for you, sir. I want to get to know you, is all.”

He grunts a response, his knuckles as yellow as mine as he grips the armrest. “Well, I’m not going to answer that. Ask something else.”

I think for a moment. Now he has me nervous. After almost a minute of silence, with him sitting patiently and me tracing circles on the tray, I look up, prepared with a question. “Do you know that what you’re doing is wrong, or do you justify it in any way you can?” Before he can reply, and I can already see him getting defensive, his mouth open to argue, I clarify, “I have no judgment. After all, I’m here for you, sir.” I curl a lock of my hair around my finger and flutter my eyelashes, and he seems to relax slightly. It feels as if I’m trying to disarm a bomb but every few seconds, the bomb beeps loudly until I snip another cord.

He coughs into his hand, looking around the cabin. It seems as if there’s an invisible border between me and him and the rest of the cabin because nobody has looked once toward our way. Not once.

They’re used to it, I guess, I think. They’ve learned to stop paying attention to keep their consciences clear.

He looks back to me and raises his eyebrows. “No judgment, huh? Alright, then.” He drums his fingers on the leather armrest, his eyes keen on me. “Of course I know this is wrong. But what does wrong even mean? By society’s rules?” He scoffs. “Society is ruled by people like me, little miss. Or people involved with people like me. Society is hypocritical if they say what I do is wrong. They have no place to judge. Society has been like me and even worse since the beginning of time. One’s love for individuals younger than them was extremely prevalent in Ancient Greece, Rome, you name it. Hell, the age of consent in Italy is fourteen.” He points to one of the girls, a greasy brown-haired girl whose eye bags were the worst out of all of them. “She’s fifteen. So, by one country’s laws, I’m moral. But by California’s, I’m immoral. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

He shrugs, cleaning his glasses on his shirt. “You tell me what wrong is. What being immoral means. It seems as if more people are like me than aren’t. Yet we’re frowned upon?”

I can’t find the courage to come up with words to combat him. Maybe this is how he got so many girls to work for him and deal with him for so long. Maybe this is how he got so far in business. Maybe this is how he escaped the authorities for so long. Because I’m starting to believe him. I shake my head, both to shake those thoughts worming into my brain and to disagree with what he said.

“I-I...” But I can’t. I stutter out something unintelligible before I forfeit and stare down at my hands in my lap. I was about to say how it was wrong, but he just disproved what the definition of wrong really was. I gather my thoughts and look up at him, a pleased smile on his face. “You’re hurting people, Jeffrey.”

He seemed taken aback, either at what I said or that I used his first name. He ran a hand through his hair, bringing it down to stroke his chin. “I’m helping people,” he said after a pause. “I’m paying for their education. I’m giving them food. I’m giving them a place to live outside of their abusive households.”

“You are an abusive household, Jeffrey,” I interject before he can spew anymore garbage. “This is abuse.”

“They sit there happily, my dear,” he retorted just as quickly as I interrupted him. “It is simply an exchange for goods and services.”

I look at the clock. Twenty more minutes. I have to wait until one minute before landing, right when the island comes into view. I stand up, looking around the cabin. I can feel his eyes scorching me, my body. I am used to these glances, to these stares. Is that what Jeffrey means by saying that more people are like him than not? I have been getting stared at and cat-called since I was ten and still wearing Hello Kitty merchandise. I look down at him, and he is staring at me in confusion.

“Where are you going, my dear?” he asks, and I frown.

“Where is the bathroom?” I ask in return, and he stiffens. I jump to clarify, saying, “The champagne really got to me. It went right through me.”

His stare stays stern, but he obliges, motioning to the back. I brush past him and the girls sipping idly at their drinks. I spare them a glance, but their stare stays put on the seats in front of them. I open the door to the bathroom and take out my phone. It doesn’t have reception, of course, but at least it still tells time. Ten more minutes. It still says August fourth, but the time is the same as in this world. I tuck it back in my pocket, pacing around the bathroom, trying to figure out what to do. What to ask. Eventually, after stalling for five minutes, I unlock the door and walk back to my seat, crossing my legs. Jeffrey was looking at his phone before he put it down to flicker his eyes up to meet mine.

“That took a while,” he remarks.

“I had trouble with the lock, and then I spoke for a while with the hostess,” I reply, thinking that was better than using shitting as an excuse. “I’m excited about the island, Mr. Epstein.”

“I am, too,” he replies, visibly giddier than before at the mention of his island.

“What will we do there?” I ask, feigning innocence. It is worthless at this point since we had already established that I am here as an escort.

He chuckles, as if he pities me. It seems as if he likes innocence. “Oh, massages, play golf, eat delicious food,” he replies, numbering the activities on his fingers. “Feel good.”

“For how long?” I ask, and he cocks his head in confusion.

“Did nobody brief you on this, my dear?” he asks in reply, and now I’m in hot water. What is my cover story? I should’ve thought about this in the bathroom. The pounding of my heart in my ears makes it hard to focus and come up with an excuse.

“Y-yes,” I stutter out. “I just forgot. It’s been an awfully long day.” I tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear, and he seems to buy my story. It must be common for girls to be a little loopy and not know information because he easily accepts that half-assed excuse. We fall into silence for a bit, and when I look at my phone, I see we only have five minutes before we land. My heart begins to beat harder and faster again, and my hands grow cold with both fear and anticipation.

“Are you afraid to die, Mr. Epstein?” I ask out of the blue, surprising both him and myself.

“Am I afraid to die?” he repeats, and I nod. He thinks for a moment, looking out the window to see the island approaching quickly underneath us. It truly is beautiful--too bad it is and will always be tainted by the ghosts of the girls ruined there. He turns back to me, his knee bobbing anxiously. “No. If I die, I die. Don’t I?”

“Are you happy with what you’ve done?” I follow up, tears suddenly appearing in my eyes. “Would you die happy?”

His eyes widen at the sight of my reddening eyes glistening with tears, but he says nothing of it. Instead, he replies simply, “Yes.”

The pilot announces over the intercom that we are landing, and I stand up abruptly, causing nearly everybody in the cabin to flinch. He looks up at me in bewilderment and stands up as well, crossing his arms.

“You’ve been way too suspicious this entire trip,” he says in a low tone, either to not have others hear it or to intimidate me. But the fear in my chest has been completely replaced with excitement and pure joy. “Who are you?”

I point outside the window, stumbling a bit as the plane shakes from decreasing its elevation rapidly. A devilish smile appears on my face as I walk to the door, pushing past the hostesses.

“I’m from August fourth, 2020. The police are waiting for you on that island, and you’re going to be arrested.” I walk up to him slowly, thoroughly enjoying watching pure fear replace the cockiness in his expression with each word that I spit out. “You’re going to be put in prison, and they’re going to say you committed suicide.” I lean into him, our noses mere inches apart. “But we know that’s not true. You were killed by who knows who, alone in your cell, cold and afraid. But you just said you weren’t afraid of dying, right?”

I pause, letting all of it sink in for him. “You will die. You will try to avoid this fate, but they won’t listen. They will get you eventually. Have fun, Jeffrey Epstein. It was nice chatting with you.”

I blink, and when I open my eyes, I’m back in my bedroom, the Jeffrey Epstein documentary logo staring back at me. I didn’t even get to see him get arrested. I didn’t get to see the panic and despair in his eyes as his hands were cuffed behind his back, never to touch another girl again. I didn’t get to laugh in his face and see the other girls be freed from his clutches. I sigh, close the laptop, and stand up on my shaky legs like a newborn deer.

It’s done. It’s over. He’s gone. But what he said sticks in my mind. It isn’t just him. Who will be next?

My name is Abby Sire. When I was a child, I was obsessed with the idea that I could write something down and through time and space, someone would read it and know what I was trying to say.

I’ve been writing ever since then. Terrible novels at first that helped me understand my voice and what exactly I am capable of. When I was in junior high I tried my hardest to impress every English teacher I could get my hands on. One created a prompt that was the basis for my novel To Flip a Three-Sided Coin; that there are voices inside every writer’s head. We were supposed to personify these voices and see how the interact with each other.

In high school I was raped. There’s really no easy way to descrbie how I survived but it started with the idea that if I was going to live past this, I needed my fears of how my past defined me to die. I wrote the three main characters to be personifications of my fears for the past, where I was in the present and fears for the future; Edie is my present, Florence is the future and Alice is the bitter resentment I felt for the past. Then I put them all together to see how they would react with the need for the past to die weaving through out.

I want to reach anyone who has ever thought they were alone. Really alone. Being in school after I accused another student of the assault, and eventually it ended in a restraining order, I had to find people who believed in me. Without a doubt. but still there was so much of me that didn’t believe I wasn’t to blame. And if I could help anyone else whoever doubted themselves while the world made it out to blame them.

I’d like to think that I’ve woven a moral as well as an intriguing about facing time three-fold. There are three parts and a prologue highlighting the Greek Fates at a total of 131,523 words.

In a perfect world I would like to inspire people to read again, to create again. I would love to be active on social media with ads to remind people of how enlightening the written word can be. Besides analyzing this for talent of marketing potential I would really appreciate any insight you have into my work. Please contact me at ladybugsy315@gmail.com

To Flip a Three-Sided Coin

It was the first time the two had wandered outside together. The wind embraced them then danced with red leaves over forgotten graves. The sun peeked through dying trees and Edie squinted. It was a good minute until Edie realized Alice had raced ahead, leaving Edie spinning her wheels in attempt to follow.

The shrieking of brakes sliced through the cool afternoon. Alice froze. She glared at the garish school bus that dared to trespass. With a roll of her eyes she scoffed and covered her mouth with her scarf while leaping towards the grave marker.

Edie watched the tykes scrambled out into the cemetery, their cries of life mocking the dead. “They are here for the historical reenactments,” Alice declared with disdain. Edie frowned as a chubby kid kicked the corner of a gravestone and proceeded to guide it with his foot as men and women dressed in costumes attempted to entertain the class.

Alice paused, kneeling in the rain drenched grass. Her hands slowly slid over the grooves chiseled in concrete. Between her fingers Edie struggled to make out, ‘Marjorie Whitaker’. Edie squeaked, “Who was she?” Silence. Her mysterious partner stood and demanded in a harsh whisper, “Who is she? you pitiable fool.” The guttural inflection spewed out of her plump lips and dallied on the wind.

Edie’s cheeks grew red, she had insulted Alice and whomever laid below. Mumbling curses Alice stormed away, weary of disturbances.

A sigh escaped Edie’s cold lips and part of her regretted inviting herself along. Without another thought, Edie spun her wheelchair, readying herself for the bumpy trail ahead when a chill like witches’ fingers fell down her spine. Edie sat, baking in the sun with her hand raised and finger-sized shadows striped her cheeks, her companion was a cold, blurred silhouette. The kind that frightened Edie as the lines between Alice and the pale light clashed, retreated into themselves and clashed again.

Before Edie could shout at the shifting shadow before her the boy terrorizing the gravestone dashed up the hill in jagged, agitated steps to corner his prey. His sneakers hit the cobblestone with shoelaces flopping when he yanked the tail of her coat. Edie could see tension rising in Alice’s frame.

“Miss? Miss Alice Whitaker? Is it really you? Weren’t you just visiting your. . .” The words were caught in his throat. With bright eyes the child looked up at her in a mixture of fear and awe. “What do you want?” She growled tucking herself tighter in the pea coat that seemed to consume her whole. “Is it true?” He inquired fidgeting with his hands and refused to meet her glare. His teacher soon rescued him by putting a hand on his shoulder, a preface to the chiding he would no doubt receive.

The teacher murmured apologies and the pair joined the group in the distance. Alice lit a cigarette, her hands shaking and her eyes wild. Wordless animosity composed Alice’s every move and dodging the impending hellfire Edie wheeled behind her as the breeze ushered them to the Happy Home.

Thanks again for your time! I look forward to your reply.

   “Are you relaxed?” I ask.

     Jeffrey Epstein looks up at me. His eyes are hungry.

     I’m going to let them starve.

     “Hell yeah,” he says. He spreads his legs and loosens his tie. I feel a pang of panic. What if it doesn’t work? What will he do?

     “I’m ready for you, sweet cheeks,” he says, and I put on my fakest smile. I reach into the pocket of my dress, searching for the one object that will save me from him.

     I find it, and it rolls into my fingers on its own.

     “Close your eyes,” I say. He does.

     “Now imagine me naked,” I say. He shudders with pleasure. “Easier done than said,” he says. I want to slap him, hurt him, but I need him to be relaxed. Otherwise, the hypnotism won’t work.

     “Can you see me?” I ask. Epstein nods his head, his eyes still closed. “Ohh yeah.”

     “Three. Two.”

     “What?”

     “One.” I snap my fingers. Epstein’s face becomes as blank as paper. He has an erection; I shudder, disgusted.

     “You will stop. And think,” I say. I hold up the object from my pocket: a little ball of amethyst crystals. With most hypnotisms, you cannot make a person do anything they don’t want to do. With these enchanted crystals, however, I can make them do anything I want.

     “You will think about all of the girls you violated. Every. Single. One.” 

     For a second, Epstein has that hungry look again. But that’s about to change.

     I squeeze the ball of amethyst, and I see his expression darken. He flails in his seat, but he doesn’t leave it. I won’t let him leave it. He’s caught like a fly.

     “Do you see them?” I growl. “Do you see what you’ve done to them?”

      “M-make it stop,” says Epstein. “I don’t want to be—no, stop—”

     “Do you understand what you did?”

       “Please, make it stop!” he cries. He flails again, jolting left and right from a phantom abuser.

     I drop the ball back into my pocket. Epstein slumps as if nothing had happened.

     I say one more thing before I loosen my hold on him.

     “Die,” I say, tracing the shape of a noose on his arm with my fingernail. He nods, as if in agreement.

     The private jet comes to a stop.

     I let go of my grip on him. He snaps out of it, his legs again splayed, and he looks at me like a cheetah would look at a helpless gazelle.

     “So are we doing this or not?” he says impatiently. I smile that phony smile again. “We’ve landed,” I say. Epstein peeks out of the window, then sighs in disappointment. “Maybe we’ll do this later, then,” he purrs.

     But I know about the police outside. I know where he’s going next. And I know that Epstein’s going to hell, regardless of who he pays off.