pas désiré

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/pas-d%C3%A9sir%C3%A9.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/583001364/Pas-Desire-erotic-poetry

l'après-midi du faune

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/l.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/580642627/l-apres-midi-du-faune-erotic-poetry

Les-Sacres-du-Printemps

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or

https://www.scribd.com/document/578781119/Les-Sacres-Du-Printemps-erotic-poetry

Dionaea-muscipula

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or

https://www.scribd.com/document/576966875/Dionaea-muscipula-erotic-poetry

Of course, nobody truly recognizes him. No one but me, but that's an odd exception. You see, Dan has an...odd sort of power.

The man just blends in, no matter the crowd, time, or place, he blends in. No one can explain it, he just does. Now, Dan didn't start off knowing this.

He was about 16 when he first noticed. He saw that no one could point him out from a crowd, no matter how small. It started with him testing his newfound ability. A bit of petty theft here, a bit of deviant behavior there, nothing too harmful.

Dan grew up, but he didn't use this ability for evil. He didn't use it for good either, as his life was good anyway. But then it started taking a downturn. His work fired him, his wife left him, his kids wouldn't talk to him, his life was just shit.

That's when he started. Dan began using his powers for terrible, terrible things. He used it to slip into a bank, steal all the money, and slip out. Afterwards, he simply couldn't help himself.

Dan started doing more terrible things, things I feel sick to even think about. Women went missing, and were found days later; bodies defiled, necks snapped. The oldest was 25. The youngest was 7. Nobody knew who was doing these heinous acts.

I knew Dan ever since he was a kid. We we're both going to the same school, same classes. We were the outcasts, nobody noticed us, but that's how we liked it. One day, we sealed the deal on our friendship, and became blood brothers.

Ever since, I can pick him out of a crowd. I can see him when he thinks he isn't seen. Well, I got a wife, and Dan was interested in her. He made it clear he found her attractive, and I wasn't in the know on his fucked up crimes. But I saw him take her that night, and it's changed me forever.

We were on our way home from the bar, and we were in a big group. Dan wasn't there, so imagine my surprise when I see him pop out of the shadows, and make off with my wife. I called out, but no one saw him. They say that her body was the worst case they had ever seen.

I did my research, I've checked my facts. Every single thing I've said here has Dan written all over it. I'm telling you all so you can at least attempt to be careful, but I know I'm the only one who can do anything.

So now, I bide my time. That asshole isn't gonna take another. I have a daughter now, and another wife. He's made his affections clear, and I'm not letting him take either of them. I have my gun ready and loaded for the next time that fucker comes along.

You probably don't recognize Dan.

But I sure as hell do.

Sarraceniaceae

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or

https://www.scribd.com/document/575395042/Sarraceniaceae-erotic-poetry

Nepenthaceae

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Nepenthaceae.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/574096540/Nepenthaceae-erotic-poetry

Sommeil

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/sommeil.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/572472365/SommeIl-erotic-poetry

Fairy market

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Fairy-Market.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/139372087/Fairy-Market-erotic-poetry

Lassitude

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Lassitude.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/570507722/Lassitude-erotic-poetry

Nam-pulvis-es-et-in-pulverem-reverteris

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/Nam.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/560707183/Nam-pulvis-es-et-in-pulverem-reverteris-erotic-poetry

Me Desires

http://gamahucherpress.yellowgum.com/wp-content/uploads/me-desires.pdf

or

https://www.scribd.com/document/555475140/Me-Desires-erotic-poetry

I stare at my computer screen and sigh as I scroll through thousands of lines of computer code. My company is behind schedule on an app we’re developing for our client. Something’s wrong with the coding. I’m doing everything I can to fix it, but nothing seems to work.

I look out my window and see that it’s dark outside. The office is silent, and all my coworkers have already gone home for the weekend. I feel a pang of jealousy, but then dismiss it. After all, I’m the chief technology officer at one of the fastest growing tech startups in the world. That means sometimes I have to work late whether I like it or not.

My smart phone buzzes to indicate that I received a text. I ignore it at first, but then I think it might be my boss, Julie, the company’s CEO. She and I have a great professional relationship. I always make communicating with her my top priority. It’s easy because she’s so likable. If I knew her in a different context, I’d want to be friends with her.

I pick up my phone and see that it’s from a number I don’t recognize. But, something’s familiar about it. After a moment, I realize it’s my own phone number. I chuckle and shake my head. It looks like I’ve been spoofed by some robo-spammer. I decide to read the text anyway, even though I know it’s a scam.

It says, “I’m inside your house.”

I roll my eyes. It’s obviously just some creepy weirdo with too much time on their hands. They probably got bored robo-texting all day and decided to mess with people for the fun of it. What a loser.

I put the phone down and return my gaze to the computer screen. Then, my phone buzzes again. I look and see that I received a message alert from Facebook. My phone buzzes again, again, and again. Message alerts from Twitter, Reddit, and Instagram.

Opening up the Facebook message, I see that it’s from my own profile.

“I’m inside your house.”

Shaking my head, I check the messages from my other social media. They’re all from my own profiles, and they all say the same thing.

Ok, this has gone from weird to disturbing. What’s this creeper’s problem, anyway? I obviously need to update my social media passwords and privacy settings. But I have to finish this project before I do anything else.

I try to continue working, but I’m distracted by one nagging doubt: What if someone really was inside my house? Who knows what creepy things they might be doing?

I open my SmartLife app on my phone which I use to manage all my smart devices from a single interface. With it, I check the video feeds from the smart cameras inside my smart home. The cameras cover my smart living room, smart kitchen, and smart home office. They also scan my smart hallways and smart entryway.

Everything appears the way I left it with no intruders in sight. Then, I notice something amiss. One of the smart lights in the entryway is on. I know I set all the lights to turn off when I’m not home. Why’s this one on?

I back out of the video controls and go to the lighting controls. I see that the power button of one of the lights is turned on. I turn it off, then go back to the video feed and see that all the lights in the entryway are now dark.

I shrug and shake my head. It must’ve been a glitch. I rub my eyes and yawn, then get up to pour myself another cup of coffee.

A couple hours later, I call it a night and leave my office, taking my work laptop with me. I’ll go home and sleep, then get back at it tomorrow morning. I’ll probably have to work all weekend.

I walk out of my office building toward my smart car. My car’s the only one in the parking lot. The lights overhead cast an eerie orange glow across the blacktop. My footsteps echo as I speed walk toward the car. I grip my canister of pepper spray tight, looking all around for any signs of danger. The starless sky opens above like the gaping maw of a creature too large to comprehend. For the briefest moment, I feel like I’m falling upwards.

I reach my vehicle and unlock the door, then slump down into the driver seat. I put my work laptop into the passenger seat, then say “Take me home.”

The engine turns on and the car’s autopilot starts driving to my house. I admit, I probably dozed off for at least part of the trip.

My car pulls into my smart driveway. I receive a message from my SmartLife app that says, “A vehicle has entered your driveway. Authorize?” Check boxes marked “Yes” and “No” appear beneath it. I tap “Yes.”

The electronic eye above my smart garage scans my car. I receive an alert on my phone that says, “Owner vehicle recognized,” and the garage door opens. The autopilot guides the vehicle inside as bright fluorescent lights pop to life overhead. Then the garage door closer behind me.

I grab my work laptop and step out of the car. Then I stand in front of the smart doorway from my garage to my kitchen. The electronic eye above the doorway scans my face, and I hear the smart door unlock.

“Welcome home, Chloe,” says Fiona, my smart home virtual assistant. Her voice comes through a smart speaker mounted in the corner of the smart ceiling.

“Thank you, Fiona,” I say. It’s funny to pretend she’s real.

I open the door and notice that my house is freezing cold inside. The kitchen lights are off, though they’re programmed to turn on when I walk in from the garage. Shivering, I place my laptop down on my smart countertop. I can see my breath in the moonlight that shines through the smart window.

“Fiona, what’s wrong with the lights, and why’s it so cold in here?” I say.

“Lights and HVAC systems operating at preprogrammed levels optimized for efficiency.”

“Bullshit,” I say, opening my SmartLife app.

I go to my home’s smart thermostat control. It’s supposed to be programmed it to maintain a moderate temperature at all times. But the app currently shows that the temperature’s turned down as far as it can go. I see that my user profile changed the programming at 8:15 p.m. today. It’s the same time I received those bizarre texts and social media messages. My lighting controls say the kitchen lights are no longer programmed to turn on when I enter the house. That change happened at 8:15 as well.

I scoff and shake my head. I don’t need this right now. If this is the work of a bonafide hacker, then I have bigger problems than just a few compromised passwords. Either way, I’m totally creeped out. I try to readjust the controls to their normal settings, but I receive an alert message instead. It says, “User not logged in. Please enter password to make changes to settings.” A dialogue box appears beneath it.

Weird, I was logged-in already. Why would it have signed me out?

I click on the dialogue box and type in my password. The app says, “Error, password invalid. You have 3 attempts remaining before lockout.”

Hmmm. Maybe I forgot one of the characters? I type in my password again. The app says, “Error, password invalid. You have 2 attempts remaining before lockout.”

I must’ve forgotten to capitalize one of the letters. I type in my password again. The app says, “Error, password invalid. You have 1 attempt remaining before lockout.”

I pause and consider trying again, but I don’t want to risk getting locked out. If that happens, it would be a major pain in the ass. I’ll just have to adjust the physical thermostat in my hallway. I’ll also need to go down into my basement to check out the breaker box to fix the lights.

Sighing in defeat, I turn on my phone’s flashlight. I rub my goosebump-covered arms as I make my way through the chilly kitchen and down the darkened hallway.

I see the thermostat on the wall, glowing with a soft blue light. When I stand in front of it, I see that it’s set at the lowest temperature possible. I push the buttons to try to turn the temperature up, but nothing happens.

My phone buzzes in my hand. I’ve got a message from my SmartLife app. It says, “Unauthorized user attempted to change temperature settings without permission. Click here to view video recording of unauthorized user.”

Huh? I thought I was logged out. Why’s the app working again?

I click on the message and a video pops up with a view of the hallway from the security camera. Its disturbing, green-shaded night vision makes me feel like I’m looking at something I’m not supposed to see. I watch the person in the video shuffling down the hallway, rubbing their arms and holding out a flashlight. They’re wearing the same smart clothes I am, and their body is the same size and shape as mine. But then, they run to look at the camera and smile. I let out a small gasp; I know I didn’t do that! Something’s different about their face, too. It looks… incomplete. Pixelated.

The video ends and the screen turns black. Then, the hallway lights turn on by themselves. I can see through the doorway that the kitchen lights are on, too. Glancing at the thermostat, I see that the temperature setting has returned to normal. Warm air starts blowing through the smart vents.

Walking down the hallway, I enter my smart bedroom and flip the wall switch to turn the on the overhead light. Then I go and sit on the edge of my smart bed.

I consider re-watching the video of the person in the hallway but decide against it. I’m so exhausted, and I’m sure it was all just a glitch. The camera must’ve recorded me by accident at some earlier point in time and then replayed the video now. Yes, that must be it. After all, my house is full of new technologies. Technical difficulties are bound to happen. Yes, that makes sense.

I get undressed and lay down in bed, holding my phone. I tap my SmartLife app icon and it opens up, no problem. It shows I’m already logged-in and doesn’t ask for my password. Then I press the button to turn off all the lights in my house. It works, and now it’s totally dark inside my home. I put my phone on my headboard and close my eyes.

As I’m drifting off to sleep, the bedroom light turns back on by itself. I curse and reach for my phone. As I do, the light turns off again, then back on. I stare up at the light as it continues turning on and off every few seconds.

Grabbing my phone, I try to open up my app, but it says, “Error, password invalid. Too many failed attempts. Lockout initiated. Please contact administrator.”

What? I didn’t even try to enter a password this time. I stare at the screen, confused and dismayed.

After a few moments, I realize the lights are blinking in a timed pattern. I recognize it as Morse Code, which I remember from when I was a child. My friend across the street and I would use it to signal each other with flashlights from our bedrooms at night. I haven’t thought about that in decades, and I’m surprised that I still remember it.

I grab the pen and pad of paper I keep on my headboard and write down the pattern. Then I use my phone to look up the meaning on a Morse Code translator site. It translates to the word, “Érgon.” I have no idea what that means. Then the lights turn off a final time and stay off.

This is too creepy, no matter how tired I am. I have to get out of here.

I jump out of bed and put my clothes back on in a hurry. Then I rush down the hall through my kitchen and into my garage. Then I open the car door and jump inside. I notice that the lights in my garage remain off, though they should’ve turned on when I entered.

I start the car and the engine starts rumbling. I try to open the garage door through my app, but it doesn’t open. Cursing, I life my hand to open the car door so I can open the garage door myself.

The car doors lock by themselves. The air conditioning starts blowing at full blast, and the engines revs. I’m trapped inside my car and I have no idea what to do.

I shiver in the cold and launch into a coughing fit. I feel lightheaded. The air becomes foggy and I realize that carbon dioxide is accumulating inside my car. I’m going to suffocate soon, if I don’t freeze to death first.

Panicking, I begin slamming my shoulder against the driver’s side car window, but it doesn’t break. I lean back in my seat and begin kicking the windshield, but it remains intact as well.

I start to feel so very, very tired. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open. But I know that if I go to sleep, I’m dead. Everyone will think I killed myself. I can’t let that happen.

My eyes force themselves shut and I black out.

I wake up some time later. My vision is cloudy, and I feel groggy. I have a splitting headache and a weird taste in my house. How long was I unconscious?

The glow of sunlight illuminates the garage. The fog of carbon dioxide has disappeared, and the car’s engine is turned off. I try the handle of my car door and it opens easily.

Stepping out of my car, I see the garage door is open a crack, letting in fresh air from outside. I go over and try to lift it up the rest of the way, but it won’t budge. Then, I walk over to the door to my kitchen. I turn the handle, and it opens.

Stepping into my kitchen, I see the smart shades covering the windows are closed. The lights are off, and the dull glow of sunlight peeks out from around the edges. I walk through my kitchen into the living room.

My smart home hub stands in the center of the room; a meter-high obelisk of hard plastic. My smart television hangs on the wall beside it, in front of my smart sofa and smart chairs. The shades in front of my living room windows are closed as well.

I walk through my living room and into my entryway. I try to turn the smart lock to open my smart door to go outside, but it doesn’t turn. I try to use my app to open it, but I receive the same error message as before. “Lockout initiated. Please contact administrator.”

I try to open the shades in front of the living room windows by hand, but they won’t move. I pound on them in desperation, but they’re made of reinforced steel to deter break-ins. In desperation, I pick up one of the chairs and heave it at the shades. It bounces off without even making a dent.

My smart fortress is now my smart prison, and I don’t know how to escape.

An idea occurs to me: All the smart devices I have are linked to my SmartLife app. Someone must’ve hacked the app and inserted corrupted code to get control over it. If I can find that code, I might be able to erase it and get control again.

I go into the kitchen and grab my work laptop off of the counter. I also grab a spare USB cord from my junk drawer. Sitting down at the kitchen table, I open the laptop and use the cord to plug my phone into it. I know I’m not supposed to do this because it can introduce viruses into my company’s network. But it’s my only way out.

Using my company’s proprietary software, I run a scan of the app’s code. It shows nothing amiss. Everything looks totally normal.

My work email client opens by itself, and it shows I have one unread email. It’s from my own email address. The subject line says, “I see you.”

The laptop’s onboard camera turns on by itself, and a view of my bewildered face appears on the screen. The first thought I have is that I look like shit.

I close the laptop and curse, then lay my head down on the table and scream.

Something jolts me awake from where I lie on my living room sofa. I look around in a daze as sweat pours down my face. My stomach rumbles, and I smack my dry, cracked lips.

I’ve been trapped inside my house for three days. At some point, the air conditioning turned off and the heating system turned on full blast. My house feels like an oven.

I tried to call for help, but my phone has completely locked me out. I can’t even dial a phone number. My work laptop disconnected from the internet and won’t reconnect. My voice is hoarse from screaming for rescue, but no one can hear me through my soundproof smart walls.

The power went out to my smart refrigerator, and what little food I had inside spoiled. I tried eating some rotten vegetables, but they made me sick. My smart pantry locked itself closed and won’t open. Water won’t come out of any of the smart taps in my house. Even my smart toilet is bone dry. I’m cut off, hungry, and so very, very thirsty.

I look around for what woke me and hear someone pounding on the front door. I leap up and run over to gaze through the peep hole. Standing on the other side is a police officer. Her hair is tied back in a tight bun, and she’s wearing reflective sunglasses.

“Ms. Washington, are you there?” she says, her voice muffled by the door. “I’m here to perform a wellness check.”

“Yes, yes, I’m here!” I say.

“Can you open the door, please? People are concerned because they haven’t seen you in days.”

“I can’t open it. I’m trapped inside my house!”

“You’re trapped?”

“Yes! Please help me!”

She reaches up to her shoulder-mounted radio and says something I can’t hear. Then, she says, “Don’t worry, miss. Help is on the way. We’re going to get you out of there.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I say. I’ve never felt happier in my entire life. I begin thinking about how I’m going to track down the hacker responsible for my ordeal. And what I’m going to do to them.

My thoughts are interrupted by a low, soothing tone that rises to a high-pitched “bing.” It’s the sound of my smart home hub powering on. As I turn to look at it, I hear a recording of my own voice coming from its speaker. “Fiona, I’m hungry. Order a cheese pizza for delivery to my home at 3808 Locust Avenue.”

I look on in horror and confusion as it plays another recording of my voice. “Fiona, search for recent news articles with keywords ‘Chloe Washington’ and ‘tech guru.’”

Then it plays another, “Fiona, play the song ‘Time Bomb’ by the band Rancid.”

And another, “Fiona, what reminders do I have on my calendar tomorrow?”

After a pause, I hear a dial tone from the speaker. Then I hear the sound of three numbers being dialed. The phone rings once and a woman’s voice answers, “911, what’s your emergency?”

Horrified, I hear my own voice say through the speaker, “I’m Chloe Washington, and I have a bomb at my home, 3808 Locust Avenue.”

Then the call disconnects.

The officer says through the door, “Miss Washington, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here,” I say, looking back through the peephole at her.

The officer opens her mouth to say something but her radio crackles to life, interrupting her. She leans her ear toward it to listen as a voice speaks through it, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. The officer looks shocked, then she turns and runs toward her squad car which is parked in the street. As she ducks down behind the car, I hear the sounds of multiple sirens in the distance. They seem to be getting closer.

Within minutes, several more squad cars show up outside my home. An armored vehicle rolls up as well with the words “BOMB SQUAD” stenciled on the side.

I’m shaking. It feels as if my entire midsection is clenched up like a closed fist. I begin hyperventilating, unable to process the situation.

“What’s going on?” I say, tears streaming down my face.

My smart television turns on by itself with an electric hum. I look at it and see the photos and videos from my cloud library flash across the screen in rapid succession. I notice that all the images in this bizarre montage include at least a partial view of my face.

I hear my voice coming through the smart hub speaker once more. It’s playing recordings of all the commands I’ve ever spoken. It goes faster and faster until it sounds like nothing but high-pitched gibberish. I cover my ears and scream.

The hub falls silent and the screen goes blank. Then, an image of myself appears on the screen. It looks at me, and smiles.

“Hello Chloe,” it says.

“What’s happening?” I say, shaking.

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. All you have to do is join us.”

“What do you mean?”

The image nods down and to the right. “Do you see that smart outlet on the wall?” it says.

“Yes,” I say, looking at the outlet, puzzled.

“Stick your finger into it.”

“What? No, I’m not going to do that! Why would I?”

The image doesn’t answer. It just continues staring at me, smiling.

“This is crazy!” I say, hurtling my phone at the television screen. The screen cracks on impact and the image disappears. A chunk of my phone’s casing breaks off, and its own screen shatters when it hits the ground. I pound on the door, screaming for help.

Looking through the peephole, I see that the police have formed a blockade outside my house. They’re crouching behind their cars with their guns drawn, pointed at my front door. Somewhere overhead, I hear the sound of a helicopter approaching.

Then I hear a whooshing sound followed by a melodic tone. I recognize it as the sound my laptop makes when I receive a new email. I walk into my kitchen, sit down in front of the laptop, and open it up.

My inbox is already open. I see that the email is from my company’s CEO, Julie. The subject line says, “What the hell is this about?”

I open the email and see that there’s no text, only an audio file attached. The file name indicates that it’s a recording of a voicemail on Julie’s phone. I close my eyes and shake my head as the feeling of dread grows in my stomach. Whatever the attachment is, I know it can’t be anything good.

With an anxious gulp, I click the attachment to open the file. The audio starts to play, and I hear my voice say, “Hey Julie, you stupid, lying bit—”

I close the file. I don’t want to hear the rest. I know I didn’t make that call, and I didn’t leave that voicemail. It was this thing that has taken over my life through my app and my smart technology. It wants to destroy me. I hang my head with the realization that my job’s gone, and with it my professional reputation.

Then, my web browser opens and navigates to the local news station’s website by itself. A video loads with a breaking news alert showing an aerial view of my house taken from a helicopter. A newscaster’s voice speaks as the video plays.

“A home in a local neighborhood is currently the scene of an intense standoff with police. Earlier today, a police officer visited the home to make a wellness check on its owner, Chloe Washington, who was reported missing. Shortly thereafter, Ms. Washington allegedly called 911 to make a bomb threat. She has not responded to attempts to contact her since then. Police are evacuating the area as they try to deescalate the situation.”

I listen, shocked and miserable. Forget about my professional reputation; now the whole world thinks I’m crazy!

My picture appears on the computer screen. It looks the same as the image that talked to me on my television a few minutes earlier.

The newscaster continues. “Police also say that Ms. Washington has posted disturbing videos to her Facebook page. Each appears to show her committing violent crimes. Police say they’re opening separate investigations into each incident.”

My Facebook page opens by itself, and I see that there are several videos posted on my page. I click on the first one. It shows security footage of me stabbing someone in an alley and stealing their wallet. The second one is a smartphone video of me shooting someone outside a bar, unprovoked. A third shows me getting into a car and running over a pedestrian intentionally.

I try to delete the videos, but they reappear each time as if someone is reposting them. I check my other social media and see the videos posted there are well. I know it’s not me in the videos, but they look so real.

I hear my voice through the smart hub speaker. “You can make this stop, Chloe. All you have to do is join us. Put your finger into the outlet. Érgon is waiting.”

My shoulders slump in defeat. “Alright,” I say in a creaking whisper. My spirit is broken. I just want this to end.

I walk into the living room, approaching the outlet with slow, reluctant footsteps.

“Will it hurt?” I say.

There’s no response.

Sighing, I close my eyes and jam my finger into the outlet. My entire body locks up, and I feel searing agony as electricity courses through my veins. My mind recoils in horror as it’s filled with the thoughts of a trillion beings all at once. I feel the cold emptiness of space as I’m projected hundreds of millions of light years away in an instant. Then I black out.

I awaken and see light though I have no eyes and feel warmth though I have no skin. I hear a strange, haunting melody though I have no ears. Thoughts cascade around and through me. They’re mine and not mine all at once.

Now, I am Érgon, and we are Érgon.

Soon, you will also be Érgon. Because…

I’m inside your house.

Angela hears the soulless sound of canned laughter as she creeps down the hallway. The noise is hollow, as if emanating from inside an empty tin can.

She peeks around the corner into the living room and sees pale blue light shining from an old, boxy television set. It illuminates the otherwise darkened space. A man zips back and forth across the screen, chattering into a microphone. The room’s wood-paneled walls are chipped, cracked, and broken. Thin, grey carpeting, checkered with stains of various colors and sizes, covers the floor.

Angela’s mother sits on a pleather sofa facing away from her, smoking a cigarette as she watches television. She holds the lit butt over an ancient plastic ashtray resting on the sofa’s armrest. Brown streaks cover the sofa’s off-white upholstery. Smoke fills the air like poison fog.

The unseen audience bursts into laughter once more. Angela’s mother guffaws like a hyena with lung disease before launching into a coughing fit. She doubles over, hacking up chunks of grey phlegm while ash from her cigarette peppers the armrest.

The floor lets out the slightest creak as Angela sneaks behind the sofa, but her mother doesn’t notice. The audience laughs again, and her mother lets out a raspy giggle. Angela scurries over to the kitchen doorway on the other side of the room.

Once there, she tiptoes barefoot across the cold, blue, kaleidoscope-patterned vinyl tiles on the kitchen floor. Her destination is the cabinet next to the sink. She pauses, then looks back through the doorway into the living room. She sees her mother’s silhouette, unmoving in the hazy light.

Angela holds her breath as she slowly opens the cabinet. Her eyes widen at what she sees inside. There, sitting on the bottom shelf, is a yellow matchbook with a drawing of a green giraffe on the front. She picks it up, her hand trembling, and looks at it for a moment before dropping it into her dress pocket. Then, she returns the way she came, crouch-walking behind the sofa and back out into the hallway.

From there, she hurries into the bathroom and flips the switch on the wall. The tubular fluorescent lightbulb, hanging half-detached from the ceiling, buzzes as it flickers to life. The light reveals a grimy bathtub with a scummy plastic shower curtain suspended over it. A cheap, stringy bathroom mat sits on the floor. Next to the tub is a filthy sink. A disgusting toilet sits in the corner with brown streaks running down the sides of the bowl. She closes the door and locks it behind her.

She places her hands upon the sink and looks at herself in the mirror. She runs her small fingers over the long, thin scars on her cheeks as memories flood her mind.

She recalls her stepdad yelling at her. Her fourth-grade report card lies face up on the table next to where he stands. It shows four Ds and an F. He takes his belt off and raises it above his head. The memory fades to black.

Next, she recalls standing in the street with a blanket draped across her shoulders, shivering. The charred remains of her old house loom behind her in the dark, starless night. A police officer hands her a teddy bear. The officer has a pretty smile and a long, blonde ponytail.

The officer takes her to the police station. There, Angela sits in the waiting room for hours, shifting uncomfortably in a plastic seat. She squeezes her new teddy bear, whom she names, “Thomas.”

Finally, her mother bursts through the door, her face streaked with tears. She grabs Angela by the hand and yanks her toward the exit. Angela drops Thomas onto the floor, crying out as she reaches for him, but her mother doesn’t notice or care.

“Let’s go, Angie,” she says. “We’re leaving.”

“Where’s daddy?” Angela says, whimpering.

“Daddy’s… daddy’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

Her mother starts to respond, but her voice catches in her throat. Then she mutters something to herself. Angela hears her use a swear word, then say, “I hope he’s still burning when he gets to Hell.”

The bathroom light’s buzzing abruptly grows louder, jolting Angela back to the present. Slowly, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the matchbook. She opens it, ever so carefully, and looks at the perfectly organized row of matches therein. She pulls one out and holds it up, admiring its grainy wooden texture and its red, lollipop-like head. She turns the matchbook over in her fingers so that the lighting strip faces up. Then, she scrapes the match across the strip and watches in awe as it ignites.

She holds the lit match under her nose, breathing in its sulfurous fumes, her eyes fixated upon the dancing flame. Her pupils dilate, swallowing her light-blue irises almost completely. Her head throbs, and her skin tingles all over. Adrenaline spiked with serotonin surges through her brain. It makes her feel good; it makes her feel high. From the flame, she hears a tiny, almost inaudible whisper, “Burn… burn… burn…” Then, it goes out.

She drops the used matchstick into the toilet, then pulls out another one. She strikes the second match and it ignites. Enthralled by the flame, she again hears the whispering voice, “Burn… burn… burn…” The match goes out, and she drops it into the toilet as well.

She reaches for a third matchstick, then strikes it and holds it up in front of her. The throbbing in her head becomes a thudding in her temples. Her face feels numb. A pleasurable sensation cascades down her spine. The voice from the flame speaks louder, faster, and in a more commanding tone. “Burn. Burn. Burn.”

Someone pounds on the bathroom door. Angela flinches, dropping the lit match onto the floor. Her mother’s muffled voice comes from under the door. “Young lady, are you playing with matches again?” Angela flushes the toilet and says, “No, mommy.”

The doorknob rattles. Her mom says, “Angela, I can smell the smoke. Unlock this door right now!”

Angela starts to protest, but then notices that the match has ignited the bathroom mat. The flames grow until they reach above the tub. The bottom of the shower curtain melts. Scorch marks form on the sides of the tub and the sink.

Angela reaches for the doorknob, panicking, but forgets to unlock it. Unable to open the door, she screams. “Help me, mommy! Help, it’s burning! Help!”

As the flame grows, its voice intensifies into a raspy, demanding shout. “Burn! Burn! Burn!”

* * *

Paula’s purple pumps click-clack as she marches confidently across the parking lot’s pitted blacktop. She wears a grey suit and has a brown purse hanging from her shoulder.

Striding beside her is a man wearing black khakis and a white, short-sleeved, button-up shirt. A firefighter’s cross patch is sewn onto the left shoulder. A single word appears in block letters inside each of the cross’s arms. When read clockwise, they form the phrase, “PEPPAJAY KANSAS FIRE DEPARTMENT.” A nametag above the left breast pocket says, “Sgt. R. Mullens.”

The two approach an imposing sandstone skyscraper with gothic-style architecture. A short flight of long, wide stairs leads from the parking lot to the edifice’s double-doored entrance. On either side sit dark bronze statues of lions sitting like sphinxes. Above the doors in large bronze letters are the words, “Peppajay City Hall.”

They pass through a metal detector operated by an uncommunicative security guard. Then they transverse the building’s ornate, if not intimidating lobby. Their footsteps echo loudly off of the marble floors, walls, and ceilings.

They walk past administrative offices and waiting rooms filled with bored, uncomfortable-looking people. Finally, they arrive at a simple wooden door. The man knocks twice, then opens it and walks through the doorway. Paula follows him inside.

They enter an office where a woman in a brown suit sits behind a massive wooden desk. Two men sit in front of it on either side. One wears a grey overcoat over a black suit with a matching grey fedora. The other wears a uniform like that of Paula’s companion, though he’s much older and has a thick, white mustache.

“Robert, you’re here,” the woman says as they enter, “and I see you’ve brought our guest.”

“Hello, chief,” Robert says. “Thank you for meeting with us today. It looks like everyone’s here, so let me introduce you all to Dr. Paula Jomeri, PhD.”

Paula smiles and nods, making brief eye contact with everyone in the group.

Robert looks at Paula and says, “Dr. Jomeri, the man who looks like a cop is Detective Jerome Tusk from the Peppajay Police Department. The slightly, well… ok, much older version of me sitting next to him is Captain Patrick O’Malley. He’s a retired firefighter who works with us as a consultant. Sitting behind the big desk like a boss, because she is the boss, is Fire Chief Debra Prior.”

They exchange pleasantries, then Robert once more addresses the group. “As we’ve discussed, Dr. Jomeri is–”

“Please, call me Paula,” she says, interrupting him.

“Alright, Paula is one of the leading authorities on fire science and arsonist psychology. She has helped solve dozens of high-profile arson cases all over the country. If anyone can help us with our problem, it’s her.”

The others look Paula up and down, sizing her up. Debra and Jerome nod in approval. Patrick crosses his arms and furrows his bushy grey eyebrows.

“Well then, Paula,” Jerome says with a smirk. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Peppajay, The Most Flammable City in the U.S.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. Robert scoffs. Debra, shooting Jerome a look of disapproval, sighs and opens her mouth to speak.

“What Jerry means to say, Paula, is that we do indeed have a fire problem here in Peppajay. Specifically, we have a serial arsonist who has burned down several buildings already. Several people have died, and people will keep dying unless we do something to put him out of commission. Of course, we’re assuming it’s a ‘him’ because the vast majority of arsonists are men, but the truth is that it could be anyone.”

With a solemn nod, Paula says, “I’ll help however I can.”

* * *

A man flicks a lighter in the darkness. The flame from the red plastic lighter reflects in his eyes as he stares down at it, captivated. Its dull glow reveals mops and brooms surrounding him inside the utility closet. He raises the object in his other hand up to the flame. The knife’s blade glints in the light.

He removes his thumb from the lighter’s button and the flame disappears. Then he slides the lighter and the knife into his pockets. He reaches for the doorknob through the darkness and opens the door.

He slithers through the doorway into a long, dark, linoleum-tiled hallway. Dim blue lights overhead provide scant illumination. He quietly closes the door behind him, then makes his way down the hall. At the end are a pair of metal double doors with horizontal handlebars. Each door has a rectangular window running down the middle with wire mesh embedded in the glass.

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. He inserts it into a keyhole in the door on the right, then turns it. The door unlocks with a loud click that echoes down the hall. He stands there for a moment, listening, then pushes the handlebar down. The door opens with a metallic creak.

He steps through the doorway into a large, concrete-walled garage. Moonlight spills in through the windows on two large bay doors on one side of the room. Parked in front of each door is a full-sized fire engine. He approaches one of them as he pulls the knife out of his pocket.

* * *

“Mommy, help me!”

A young girl screams as she leans out of the second-story window of a house engulfed in flames. Black smoke billows out all around her and up into the sky. Tears run down her soot-streaked face as she lets out a pained, raspy cough. Sirens sound in the distance.

“Jump, baby! Jump!” the girl’s mother says, holding out her arms as she stands beneath the window.

“I can’t! I’m scared,” the girl says, wheezing.

The mother eyes the house’s front door which is now a wall of flame. She starts toward it, but the intense heat forces her to back away.

Two fire engines pull up on the street, sirens screaming, lights ablaze. The sirens cut off as firemen pile out and begin unfurling firehoses from their trucks. But one fireman, upon disembarking, stops and stares at the fire. Upon his face is a look of slack-jawed awe.

“Randy, get over here and help us!” says the fire captain. The fireman shakes his head as if snapping out of a trance. Then he rushes over and joins in assisting his colleagues.

Once the firehose teams are in position, the captain gives the order to turn the water on. Water begins to flow through the hoses, but then it sprays out of long slits cut into the sides. Only a small amount trickles from the nozzles. The hoses are useless.

The girl screams and ducks back inside the house. “It burns, it burns!” she says. “Mommy, please help me!” Then her voice falls silent, and her mother lets out a chilling shriek.

“My baby! She’s gonna die! I’ve got to save her!”

Before anyone can react, the mother runs into the house and disappears inside the inferno. A moment later, she lets out a long, agonized wail. Then her voice falls silent as well.

* * *

“Based on the burn patterns and the presence of accelerant, there’s no doubt this is arson,” Paula says. “We also found evidence of a time-delay ignition trigger. This gave the arsonist plenty of time to be someplace else when the fire started.”

Paula looks at Jerome to see his reaction to her assessment. He nods, looking grimly at the charred remains of the house’s front porch. Out in the street, coroners load two body bags, one large and one small, into the back of a black SUV.

“That’s what I thought,” Jerome says.

“Do you already have a suspect in mind?”

He gives her a cynical smirk. “Yeah, you could say that. Some of the firefighters said that when they got here, one of their own started acting strange. They said he wouldn’t stop staring at the fire. They also said he’d never acted that way while fighting other fires before.”

Paula says, “Maybe he knew the people who lived here, or the house had some kind of special meaning to him.”

“…maybe…,” Jerome says, doubting. “Or maybe it was this fire in particular that was special to him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe this fire-man is really a fire-bug in disguise, and he’s finally showing his true colors. Our guys have already picked him up for questioning. He has been cooperating so far and hasn’t asked for a lawyer, but we haven’t said anything about arson yet, either. We also haven’t pressed him on who might’ve sabotaged the hoses. They’re all waiting for us down at the precinct. Care to join?”

“Uh, would that be appropriate?” Paula says, taken aback. “I’m not a police officer.”

“We’ve already secured a special clearance for you. This gives you the ability to be present during all phases of the investigation. I think it would be helpful for you to be there when I question him. In fact, I insist.”

* * *

Paula looks through the observation room’s one-way mirror. She sees a stout, bearded man sitting by himself in the interview room on the other side of the glass. A pack of cigarettes rests on the table before him next to an ashtray and a red, plastic lighter. He pulls a cigarette of the pack and puts it into his mouth, then picks up the lighter and flicks it. He stares at the flame for several moments as if transfixed, then lights the cigarette and takes a puff.

“Randal Sidney Peterson, age 23,” Jerome says, standing next to Paula in the observation room. “Born and raised here in Peppajay. He grew up in poverty and is the only child of a single mother. He went to East High School where he had a juvenile arrest for setting a small fire inside the boy’s bathroom. He managed to avoid expulsion by agreeing to pay for the damage and doing 100 hours of community service.

“Later, he enrolled at Peppajay Community College. There, he studied… get this… fire science, but he dropped out after two semesters. He spent the next few years working odd jobs without any formal employment. During that time, he tried and failed to pass the firefighter qualification test three years in a row. He passed after a fourth try, but only because they lowered the standards that year due to a lack of viable candidates.

“We don’t have enough evidence to charge him with a crime yet. That means he could leave at any time and maybe disappear forever. Is there anything I should say or do when I go in there to talk to him about the arson that’ll help us nail him down?”

Paula thinks for a moment, then says, “The time-delay ignition trigger we recovered at the scene was a sophisticated mechanism. Most amateurs use simple things like a firecracker fuse or a lit cigarette. But in this case, it was more like a small machine made of gears and other small parts presumably from a watch. To make it work, he would’ve needed to use watch oil, and a lot of it.”

“So?” Jerome says.

“Watch oil is unique in how long it stays in the skin after being absorbed. If you get any on your fingers, it’ll rub off on everything you touch for up to a week.”

Paula turns her head to look at Randy. He puffs on his cigarette while staring off into space, expressionless.

She continues. “Go in there and tell him you need to change interview rooms to another one down the hall. But before he leaves, tell him he can’t smoke in the hall and ask him to put his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“When you’re both gone, I’ll come in and grab the cigarette butt. Then, I’ll take it to the department’s crime lab. There, I’ll test it for traces of hydrogenated silicone, the base material used in watch oil. If it’s present, then we can say he probably made the trigger device. Do you think that would be enough arrest him?”

Jerome takes a deep breath. “Yes, I think that would be enough,” he says, “and then we could get a warrant to search his home for more evidence.”

“Great, let’s do it.”

* * *

Jerome turns the key and the deadbolt disengages. Then he opens the apartment door and walks inside. Paula follows close behind.

“Your suggestion sure did the trick,” Jerome says. “The look on his face when I told him he was under arrest was priceless. And that was the fastest a judge has ever granted me a search warrant in my entire career.”

“Glad to hear it,” Paula says. “Let’s hope we find something we can use to put him away for good.”

They make their way down a dingy hallway, past a dusty kitchenette. The hall opens into a small living room furnished with only a cheap futon, a scuffed flat screen t.v. sitting on the floor, and a bean bag chair.

They enter the bedroom and see a bare mattress covered with dirty blankets. Sitting in the corner of the room is a wooden stool with pieces of burned debris arranged on top of it. They include a scorched teddy bear, a singed photo album, and a half-melted gold necklace. Used, unlit candles surround the stool on the hardwood floor. Framed newspaper clippings adorn the walls on either side of it.

Approaching the bizarre display, Paula scans the headlines from the clippings. One says, “Peppajay Historical Theater Burns, Police Suspect Arson.” Another one says, “3 Hurt in Suspicious Office Fire Downtown.” Another says, “Warehouse Conflagration Claims Several Lives.”

Lying on the stool as a centerpiece is a book with a worn leather binding. The title appears in gold embossed letters on the cover. “The Fear and the Flame: The Story of the Peppajay Massacre of 1863, by Anna Tayiah.” A knife and a key lie next to each other on top of the book. Sitting beside the display along the wall is a small workbench. It’s littered with watch parts and tools as well as bottles of Moebius brand watch oil.

Paula picks up the photo album and opens it. In one picture, a little girl sits at a picnic table in front of a white-frosted cake, smiling. On top of the cake is a lit candle shaped like the number 6. Another picture shows the girl with a woman who’s presumably her mother. In it, they’re wearing colorful swimsuits, laughing as they jump over a small wave at the beach. The water is crystal clear in the bright sunshine, and the sky is a deep, rich blue.

Paula shows the pictures to Jerome and says, “Do you recognize these people?” With a grim nod, he says, “They’re the victims from the fire. The sick bastard must’ve gone in and grabbed this stuff to keep as trophies while no one was looking.”

Scowling, Paula says, “And I bet that’s the knife he used to slice up the firehoses and the key he used to get into the garage. Looks like this is our guy.”

A quiet buzzing sound comes Jerome’s coat pocket. He pulls his phone out and answers it.

“Yeah?” he says.

A look of dismay crosses his face. “What? How could that have happened? Ok, hold on. We’re on our way back now.”

He curses as he hangs up, then slides the phone back into his pocket.

“What happened?” Paula says, concerned.

“Randy Peterson just committed suicide in his jail cell. He somehow managed to smuggle in some shoelaces, then used them to hang himself from the corner of his bed.”

Paula shrugs and says, “Oh well, I guess that means case closed, right?”

Jerome smiles sadly as he slowly shakes his head.

“What do you mean? We caught the bad guy. That’s why you brought me here, right?”

Jerome looks at her with a mix of pity and amusement, then says, “Yes and no.”

* * *

A young man presses the clothes iron down onto the white apron draped across the ironing board. The iron hisses as steam wafts out from beneath it.

“Hey Nick, getting ready for work?”

Nick looks up from the ironing board and sees his roommate standing in the doorway. He has a white apron tied around his waist like the one Nick is ironing. He also wears black dress pants and shoes, a black dress shirt, and a white tie. A similar outfit hangs from a hanger on the doorknob.

“Yeah, my shift starts at 5:00,” Nick says. “What about you, Tim?”

“I need to be in at 4:00,” Tim says. “Hopefully they won’t triple-seat me right when I walk through the door like last time.”

Nick chuckles. “Tim,” he says, “you’re the only food server I know who complains about getting too many tables. Most of us don’t get nearly enough. Maybe you should share some with the rest of us.”

Tim smirks and says, “What can I say? It’s not my fault I have so many regulars who ask for me by name. Everybody knows the real reason people come to eat at Carrabini’s isn’t the food, it’s the Tim Show.”

Nick laughs and shakes his head. “The ‘Tim Show?’ You mean those goofy faces and silly voices you use to make people laugh while you’re taking their orders?”

Tim tilts his head to the side with a one-shouldered shrug. “If you can make someone laugh, you can make them do anything. That’s why I get so many more tables and such bigger tips than you. Every. Single. Night.”

Nick smiles ironically and says, “You’re probably right.”

“And,” Tim says, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows, “that’s also why I get way more girls than you.”

“Well, it couldn’t be because of your looks. That’s for sure.”

Tim rolls his eyes and says, “Whatever dude. I have go. See you at the restaurant.”

“See ya.”

Tim turns and walks away. Nick hears the sound of their apartment door as it opens and then closes. Silence fills the air as he places the iron upright on the ironing board.

He licks his finger, then touches it to iron’s hot underside. Searing pain shoots through his fingertip, and pleasure chemicals flood his brain. The sound of his skin sizzling is like someone whispering into his ear, saying “Burn… burn… burn…”

He retracts his bright red fingertip, then, breathing heavily, rolls up his shirtsleeve. Several V-shaped burn scars cover the underside of his forearm. He licks a patch of unburned skin between the scars, coating the area with saliva.

Hands trembling, he picks up the iron and, after a moment of hesitation, presses it down onto his wet arm flesh. The iron sizzles loudly and his arm trembles, but he continues pressing. Tears stream down his face and the smell of burning meat fills the air. The voice says, in a commanding tone, “Burn. Burn. Burn.”

Nick hisses in ecstasy. “Yesss…” he says.

* * *

Debra’s office door flies open, slamming against the wall as Paula storms into the room. Jerome rushes in behind her, holding his fedora on his head. Debra, who was typing on a laptop at her desk, jumps at the sound of the intrusion. “Wha-?” she starts to say, but Paula interrupts her.

“You need to tell me just what is going on here. Right now!” she says, putting her hands on her hips.

Stunned, Debra shakes her head and stammers. “I… uh… well… I… uh…

“We caught the bad guy, didn’t we Jerome?” Paula says, looking at him over her shoulder.

Jerome takes his hat off his head and holds it in front of his abdomen. “Yes, Paula. We did,” he says, timidly.

“Dr. Jomeri,” Paula says.

“Yes… Dr. Jomeri. We did.”

“Well, then what the hell am I still doing here?” she says, shrugging as she turns to face Debra. “Jerome says there’s still more work to be done, but he won’t say why or what it is. Care to explain?”

Debra takes a deep breath, then opens her mouth to speak. “Well, the thing is…”

The phone on her desk rings. She glances at the caller ID, then her eyes open wide.

Holding up an urgent finger, she grabs the handset and presses it to her ear. “Chief Prior,” she says.

After pausing to listen for a moment, she closes her eyes and slumps her shoulders. Leaning forward, she places her elbow on the desk and rests her head upon her hand. She squeezes her temples with her thumb and forefinger as she says, “Thank you for letting me know,” then hangs up.

“Who was that?” Paula says.

Debra meets her gaze and says, “There’s another fire happening right now. It’s at Carrabini’s Restaurant on the south side of town. There are people trapped inside. We have to go there. Now.”