Excerpts

          From Incineration

Chapter Two (just the beginning)

May 2025

I am slowly unraveling. Just like the end of my braid—now long past my waist. Each strand wrestles into a new chaotic position, weaker than it was before. I’ve succumbed to my one hundred and eightieth Purification Procedure—more than anyone—and I know just what it does to me and it’s not pure. I know that now. If it was wholesome, I’d feel good about myself instead of like the ends of my braid. Without a hair band, the braid quickly disentangles leaving behind a frenzied mess permanently kinked. This pandemonium sometimes makes me wish I had died when the virus broke out.

I glance around the table at my “friends,” sixty or so of us, mostly men, and continue to be mystified by their general contentment. I’ve known them for ten years, and over that time everyone has come to accept our situation—except me. I still remember what it was like to be empathetic and domesticated. I shove my spoon straight into the can of SpaghettiOs and force it down my throat. Once upon a time, this kind of food was heavenly…and not expired.

Everything in the room is cast in a dull gray. The years have muted the colors, all the browns and yellows somehow faded into a monotone of neutrality. The carpet under my shoes has worn down to rough nubs of fuzz and dust. The pictures that used to hang on the wall have long since been removed or are cracked, leaving us with nothing to look at to escape this life. The only splashes of color come from our clothing, but most of us stick to the gray tone so we can blend into our surroundings. I grimace as I force another spoonful of SpaghettiOs down....

Chapter Four (middle of the chapter. Phee's braid is trapped in a door, her attacker on the other side)

            The door pulls against my hands and opens a little. I try to pull my braid out, but I can’t let go of the handle, and the braid is taut. He isn’t going to let go of it. I feel like a gazelle trapped in a lion’s paws before he bites down for the kill. I know it’s happening and there’s nothing I can do but struggle to make it more difficult. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the lion will get sloppy.

            “Let me go! Just let me go,” I scream in anguish wanting frantically to be free. This world is nothing but a prison. I know this can’t be all there is. Humanity couldn’t have died everywhere. “I’m nothing to you!”

            “You killed my friend! You deserve no less.”

            The hum increases, and again I turn toward the sound in time to see a car careening around the corner, down the alley, and past me. The headlights cut through the night, and I try not to be distracted. I must be hallucinating. Cars aren’t part of this reality. Gas is gone, batteries have mostly corroded. Rust has taken over. I must have already died. I turn back to the door, and still feel the pain from my hair as he continues to yank on it and pull more through the door to his side.

            I hear brakes squeal in protest, and turn to see the massive SUV, a Hummer I think, stop abruptly and a door swings open. I’m doomed. I pull on the door and my hair with as much strength as I can muster, but my hands feel so weak, and my wound has opened up again making my grip slick with blood. I continue to scream for him to free me.

            I am a deer staring into headlights unable to move, unwilling to yield against my assailant. I watch a young man emerge from the car and run toward me wielding a knife in his hand. My nostrils flare in anger and agony. I will not cry. If this is how I’m to end, I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me plead or beg for my life.

            He gets closer, adjusting the knife in his hand, and for a moment I’m struck by him. It’s not something I’ve ever felt before. It’s like time has stopped and this man is the only thing moving. He is the most beautiful man I can remember seeing; his hair a dark blond, his eyes translucent in the moonlight. My lower lip falls away from its companion in shock then I remember what he’s there to do. I close my mouth and pick my chin up. At least I will die and not be tortured.

            “Move!” he shouts, his pale eyes lock on mine—it’s too dark to tell what color.

            I continue to hang onto the door and pull my hair, unwilling to give into to him, not capable of understanding his request. Move where?

            “Move your hands,” he tries again, but I pretend I can’t hear him. I will not acquiesce. “Fine.” He spews the words out.

            He grabs my braid, his skin grazes mine, and I instinctively pull away. The constant fire beneath my skin burns through and my skin is scorched where he touched me. He raises the knife and I feel resigned. I close my eyes and lower my head ready for the death blow, but instead I feel all the tension release from my hair. I open my eyes to see the severed ends of my braid unraveling, and I feel like I’m falling through an elevator shaft, hurtling toward the ground.

“No,” I can barely hear myself scream. Somehow I manage to keep the door closed and Joe on the other side of it.

            “Let’s go!” the man who cut my hair shouts at me, but I barely hear him. All I can hear is the air whooshing through my ears as I feel torn from my parents all over again, and soon I know I’ll smack into the ground.

            “No, no, no.” I can’t be taken again. I can’t stand the idea of being tormented again. The last ten years of my life, I feel like I’ve been shackled, and now I would rather die than be abused any more. He just detached my last connection to my family from me, and I feel so rattled, so removed from myself; and I can’t let anyone take control of me again.

            “We don’t have time for this,” he lowers his face so it’s right in front of mine, and my breath catches by the closeness. He’s so attractive, yet all I can think is, “don’t touch me.” “Trust me. You’ll be better off with us.”

            I stare blankly at him then clench my teeth. The moment I let go of the door, it’ll fly open, and maybe Joe will be just the distraction I need to get away from this new threat. I get my stance ready. “Ready.”

            He looks accepting and glances over at the car before I let go and the door bursts in. He’s startled by Joe, and I use the opportunity to run. I head in the opposite direction of the car, and hear a deafening crack, like bone crushing, but I keep moving. I ignore the cry of agony and don’t think about who it’s coming from. Soon, footsteps are moving fast behind me, different than before, and the car’s engine is engaged and getting closer. Panic grips my chest making it hard to breathe, but I keep pushing forward. Maybe I can duck into another building, but I’m out of time.

            His hands grip the bag’s straps and he stops my momentum. I fall back onto the ground and try to claw my way back up onto my feet, but he hooks me under my arms and drags me backwards. “No! Stop, just let me go!”

            “Just trust me! We’ll help you.” His voice is authentic—not Joe’s—and I feel convinced by him, but I believed Mimi too. I won’t be fooled again.

            I continue to kick, but he is so strong; and I am so drained. He smuggles me into the back of the car, and I am encased in a dark metal coffin.

From Uncut

Chapter 1—Waverly

Everything is numb.  My butt is frozen, my hands are frozen.  I didn’t know it was possible, but it’s colder in this rural community.  Albion is a far cry from Evanston with everything.  As much as I hate it here, I don’t want to leave.  Four towns in the last nine months have been too much. 

            I climb the steps onto the bus headed home, and shiver my way down the aisle.  I slide into an open seat near the back and pull my hood up over my knitted hat covered head, slipping my earbuds in.  I put on The Killers, and try to ignore everything about my surroundings.  The people, the town.  Everything.  In six months I can leave this place and settle into a college far, far away.  There’s no reason to get attached. 

The plastic material on the seat is cold and frozen, and through my two weeks of experience, I know that it won’t warm up before my bus stop.  I pull my hands inside my sleeves, trying to warm them up.  The heat is atrocious on this bus, completely ineffective.  I feel like a mummy wrapped up in so many layers, but I don’t really care.  I’m not here to impress anybody. 

No one is in front of me for a change, so I lean back and prop my knees up against the seat.  I stare out the window at all the students, innocuous at first glance, but I know better.  It won’t be long before someone gets curious about me and looks me up.  Then they’ll know.  Then I’ll have to deal with it until my dad decides to move again.  We can’t go much further south in Illinois, so maybe next time we can move to another country.  Just to increase the odds that people won’t find out—this cancerous secret that follows us around.

            The bus lurches into motion, and I keep my eyes trained outside.  I don’t want to give off any vibes that I might be open to conversation, so I stare out the window, listening to Mr. Brightside.  My eyes glaze over, barely soaking in the barren trees and snow frosted buildings.  The constant pressure that sits on my chest flexes as I try to ignore my nostalgic thoughts.  Remembering my mom only hurts.  Thinking about how my dad used to be, hurts.  Every memory is tainted with people that have left me or failed me. 

            I rest my head sideways on the seat, listlessly.  I imagine that this is what depression feels like.  No desire to do anything.  All my emotions overshadowed by negativity.  My legs don’t even itch to run anymore.  I can’t even focus on reading half the time.  Music is my only solace.  I can fake it as long as the notes flow through my ears and suffocate all the thoughts I might independently have. 

            It’s cold outside, and the roads are icy from a small snowfall.  I learned a few days ago that our ancient bus driver is basically deaf, so I figure he’ll be concentrating on the road too much to notice the daily routine of my peers launching a tennis ball back and forth.  If I wasn’t so consumed by my own misery, I’d feel bad for him.  He gets taken advantage of, too. 

            Not long after the fourth stop, my attention is snagged by an eruption of excitement around me, but I refuse to look.  If I can just remain in the periphery at this new school, no one will have a reason to look too closely.  I’ve even abandoned all sense of fashion and dress in mundane clothes.  All for the sake of self-preservation.  I run my hands down my thighs, trying to warm them up.  I’m wearing my least flattering, but most comfortable relaxed fit jeans.  They have random holes throughout, and I’m starting to wish that I had picked a different pair to wear.  I’m so cold. 

            Sound escalates around me, an outburst of cheers.  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to let my curiosity win.  Two more bus stops and I can get out of this chaos.  I wish that my dad didn’t have to sell my car to cover the financial burden of having to move and get a new job every couple of months.  What I wouldn’t give for it right now. 

            I feel somebody’s knee jab into my back, and I try to ignore it, but it’s impossible.  My whole seat is being violently pushed.  My face is scrunched in concentration, but I can’t ignore it.  A glimmer of my old-self surfaces, and I whip around ready to give the person behind me a piece of my mind. 

I swallow my words.

            Two boys have their hoods pulled up over their heads and are viciously hitting whoever is behind me.  He’s not doing anything to defend himself.  Just taking the beating as if he deserves it.

            “Stop!”  Without thinking, I reach out and grab at the closest boy’s arm. 

            He hardly gives me a glance before shaking my arm off, and going back to pummeling the boy in the seat. 

            I yank my earbuds out, and glance around at the kids on the bus, cheering them on.  Another look up front confirms that the bus driver is indeed deaf, or just really doesn’t care.  What is wrong with these people? 

“Stop it!”  I shout again, pulling at the boy’s arm with more intent.

“What the fuck?”  He looks at me annoyed, his dark brown, shaggy eyebrows pulled down forming a hard crease in the center.  And then he smiles.  He actually smiles at me—an attempt at a sexy smile that is anything but. 

The guy they’re hitting pulls his arms in front of his face to block the blows, and the guy I was pulling at shakes me off once again to grab his hands away.  His friend, the other attacker, lands a punch on the guy’s face, his eyebrow splitting open and blood covers the side of his face. 

Dropping all pretenses of who I’m supposed to be at this new school, I channel the girl I’ve always been and I launch myself over the seat to cover the victim with my body.  I don’t know these guys, but I’m hoping they’ll have reservations about hitting a girl. 

In quick succession, I feel a hard jab in the back of my arm and another lands right on my cheek bone.  Fire burns around my eye, and I can’t help but cry out from the pain.  I pull my arms up expecting another blow, but the bus stops and feet shuffle as they hurry to get off the bus. 

My body is flush against this stranger.  His breathing is ragged.  I hesitate before sitting up, pressing my hand to my eye.  The guy next to me is covering his own face, blood seeping through his fingers.  The bus lurches forward again, and I see the two attackers high-fiving each other outside on the sidewalk, with a group of kids smiling and laughing around them. 

I glance back at the guy in the seat, his caramel skin marred with red blotches and blood.  “You OK?” I ask, my hands starting to shake from the whole experience. 

He looks up at me surprised, as if he didn’t realize I was there.  His eyes are covered in blood, and he’s squinting like he’s trying to see through it.  He doesn’t answer me, confusion and pain twisting his features; features that even through all the gore are arresting. 

“OK, well…” I get up and pull some tissues out of my bag.  “Here.” 

I set them down on his lap, wondering if he’s able to talk.  I move back into my seat, and grab my bag, hugging it to my chest.  I pretend I don’t notice the heads that swiveled in my direction, focused on me.  My heart is pounding like I just sprinted 200 meters.  I take a steady breath, and place my focus outside the window again.