Vanished - NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2016

This is my submission to the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2016. I and another 2100 participants wrote our stories over a 48 hour period. My story was edited down from 1850 words to 1000 words. That is why the ending is a bit ambiguous and also shows strain from the editing.

My prompts for this story were as follows:

• Genre: Suspense (Emphasis is on the suspense, even more than on characterization)
• Location: A Bookstore (Majority of story must take place in this location)
• Object: A Passport (Must at least be mentioned in the story, but may play a key roll if desired)

Vanished

I stared across the street into the window of the bookstore, suitably named “The Book Nook”.  The shop was bathed in darkness, diffident, unimposing. I saw something move within.  Was it a trick of the light?  I shook my head and fell back into the warm embrace of my home.

Every evening I found myself stood at the window in the throes of insomnia, watching, waiting.  Tonight the moon was full illuminating the inky curtain of sky. Rays of light bounced off the bevelled glass of the aged bookstore and there she was.  I found myself staring into the eyes of a young girl, my hot breath distorting the image I frantically wiped the window.  She was gone.

After a sleepless night I broached the ancient building. What I had considered quirky and quaint suddenly appeared ominous.  The windows were dirty, the paint tainted and chipped.  For a second I hesitated.  Turning the brass handle, a rusted chime echoed around the space within.  The smell of incense and stale cigarettes clung to me as I marvelled at the lengths of literature, basked in a dusty haze.  I was not sure how far the shop went back but it appeared endless.  Scraps of paper adorned the walls, musings, quotes “a life without books is no life at all”.  

The sound of a cough tore me away from the overflowing shelves of used paperbacks, and I turned to the desk nestled in the corner.

“Can I help you?” said the man occupied behind copious mounds of magazines and books.

“Sorry, good morning Mr….?” I asked.

“No need for such formality my dear, you can call me Charles”.

“Good morning Charles” I repeated.  “May I ask, do you live here alone?”

“Goodness gracious me, what a bizarre question.  Yes Harper, I do live here alone.  Why do you ask?” he came from behind the cranny of his desk.

Astonished that he knew my name I was momentarily silenced.  Before I had time to engage, he held out his hand containing my passport, which I took confused.

“You must have dropped it, I found it yesterday by the post office.  To be honest, that is why I thought you were here, I left word with the postmaster”. He looked at me questioningly.

Reality smothered concern and I felt embarrassed. “I didn’t get your message.  Thank you for returning this to me.  I was copying it for ID purposes.  It must have fallen from my bag.”  I realised I was jabbering incessantly and fell silent.  Charles just watched me, amused, absorbing.  I felt my senses sharpen and my skin prickle.

“Why did you ask me if I live alone?” he asked.

“It was just that I thought I saw a young girl in your shop, last night, late?”.

He shook his head quickly “you must have been mistaken. I am here alone”.  His voice was deep, mellifluous, convincing but I saw uncertainty cloud his eyes, unblinking yet drawing me in. I suddenly felt a chill.  

“May I look around?” the words came unintended.

“Of course Harper, it would be my pleasure.  Now if you don’t mind I need to get back to my work” and with that Charles disappeared beyond the mountain of clutter he had earlier emerged.

With trepidation I made my way into the bowels of the shop.  Dust collected as far as I could see. Spider webs weaved loosely around books and between the dirtied shelves. Ancient lamp fittings hung motionless embedded into the cracked ceiling. The floor was littered with dirt, books, discarded paper. The fissures in the wall housed abandoned piles of dated material. Dust floated lazily in the air catching in the back of my throat. With each footfall it billowed and fell. All that could be heard was the rustle of paper beneath my feet and my own hurried breath.

I became immersed in the tiers of tired battered spines, mottled gilded print portraying obscure inscriptions of unknown authors, a mish mash of size & shape.  I wasn’t aware how long I had been there but a gloom fell, making the silky thread of web invisible in the dim light.  I heard a sniffle and as I rounded an ornate bookcase there she was.  Sat huddled in a crumbly crevice was the girl.  Two browns eyes stared up at me, the same eyes.

“Hello” I said to her “What is your name?”

She stared at me, her eyes red and swollen as though she had been weeping for a lifetime.  I saw fear in her eyes that appeared to flow flagrantly from her soul.  “Leave” she whispered. Shuffling towards me she grabbed my wrist with a strength I was not expecting.

“You must leave” she pleaded “Go now, before it’s too late”.

A clatter from behind made me jump and turn, releasing the grip of the girl.

“Who’s there” I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the clogged cases.  When I turned back the girl had gone.

I turned to leave, making my way back through the dust and debris.  The lofty shelves looming, threatening.  At each turn another bookcase. I hurried through the labyrinth and yet the passageways still stretched as far as I could see. Panic engulfed me.  The daylight had dwindled to a barely perceptible somber glow. Each wall of books was identical to the next without any identifying marker of any kind. Suddenly with a deafening grinding the walls of literature began to close in, I screamed but it caught in the back of my dry throat and I keened, like a wounded animal, as the historical prose consumed me greedily.

Charles awoke with a start.  The shop was in darkness and he was unaware how long he had been dozing.  He stretched with the enthusiasm of a tired elderly man, and mused that Harper must have turned down the lights and  left discreetly leaving him sleeping.  He turned the sign on the door and retired upstairs.

Flash Fiction - Lucky Charm

One of my fellow writers alerted me to the above challenge/competition, full details of which can be found on the following link http://www.nycmidnight.com/Competitions/FFC/Challenge.htm in a nutshell you are given a genre, location and object and thereafter you have 48 hours (yes only 48 hours) to write a flash fiction of no more than 1000 words.  Everybody gets two challenges and the best progress through the remainder of the year.  This all kicks off on the 22nd July and I am still undecided whether to enter as it is not a small fee (55US Dollars) however there are many cash prizes to be had and I do love a challenge!  I thought I would give it a trial run and asked my daughter to give me a genre, location and object.  She came up with horror (genre), cove (location) and spoon (object).

LUCKY CHARM

The boys huddled around the injured animal which lay whimpering at the feet of Sam.  A look of warped triumph contorted Sam’s handsome features.  Ben, Tim, Ralph and Rory looked on with apprehension at what Sam would do next.  The rough bloodied rock was still clenched firmly in Sam’s fist and he delivered the final, fatal blow with purpose.

The boys, rather than digest the dead rabbit, all stared at Sam.  Ben and Rory in awe, Ralph with disgust and Tim looked as though he may faint.  Sam carelessly cast the rock aside and reached inside his sheath for his hunting knife.  With swift accurate strokes he dismembered the rabbit’s feet and handed one to each of his friends, who took them without question.

“Tis lucky those boys, keep them close, keep them safe” he insisted.  

“Didn’t bring the rabbit much luck” muttered Ralph.

Sam slit the rabbit from throat to genitals and Tim gasped in an attempt to smother his cry.  Sam looked up at him menacingly.  “What’s the matter fat boy? You gonna piss your pants again?”

Ben and Rory sniggered, whilst Ralph leapt to his defence.

“Leave it out Sam, we’re all mates here”.

Sam stared at Ralph and held his gaze, without turning away he said to Ralph’s younger brother “hey Rory, pass me that spoon out of your tin.” All the boys carried identical tins which the home provided before they were kicked out of the door at sunrise.  Rory rushed to adhere to his beloved Sam’s wishes. 

 “There you go Sam.  Watcha gonna do with it?”

Without answering Sam turned back to his prey and with both hands pulled the rabbit skin apart. Blood splattered and tainted the warm air. He glanced at his audience, before using the spoon to shamelessly scoop out the insides of the dead animal.  It was too much for Tim, the contents of his butty tin together with last night's supper projected uncontrollably from the pit of his stomach, all over the bloodied remains, all over Sam.

“You fucking idiot” Sam spat and without warning lunged for Tim, knife still in hand.  Ben and Ralph quickly wrestled the knife from Sam and pulled him off, whereupon Tim took to his feet and shot off, faster than his voluminous body should allow.  Sam knocked Ben and Ralph out of his way and hurtled after him.

“Jesus Christ” stated Ben.

“He’s a fucking lunatic” Ralph responded.

“What do you think he will do if he catches him” asked Rory.

Ralph looked at Rory and winked “I still have this” he said holding up the knife “so hopefully nothing too ruthless.  Come on let's go and find them.”

The three boys stumbled across the steep sandy banks down to the cove which was situated on the other side of the bay.  It was a scorching summer day and they seemed to walk miles, their clothes drenched in sweat and clinging tirelessly.  They did not see Sam nor Tim on their journey and before long they tired of calling out for them.

Rory started to jump perilously on the precariously sharp cliff face. “There he is, there he is” Rory cried.

The boys turned simultaneously and followed the direction of Rory’s pointed finger.  They all recognised the rounded shape of Tim who was sitting, head in hands, on a grey rock close to the shoreline.  They made their way down to the cove and as they approached, Tim jumped up triumphantly.  “There you are, I have been looking for an age” he declared.

“Where the hell have you been Tim, and where is Sam?” questioned Ben.

“I outran him is what I did, can you believe it, not such a slow fat kid after all am I?” said Tim.  

Rory laughed “if I were you mate I would keep on running, he was as mad as hell and he knows where to find us.”

“I will buy him some fags, that’ll do it” giggled Tim.

“What the hell is that?” Rory exclaimed.

They all turned to see what Rory was looking at and realised that the rock they thought Tim was sat on was a beached whale. “I found it” Tim stated proudly.

“Is it dead?”

“Yes it is definitely dead Rory, I checked” replied Tim.

“Poor bugger” sympathised Ben “what shall we do with it?”

“We could try and get it back into the sea” offered Ralph.

“Not a chance, it will weigh a ton! Let’s just leave it be” said Tim.

Ben raised his eyes “I know what we can do, I once heard that a whale was opened up and precious stones were found inside, oyster pearls or something like that, worth thousands”.

“Oh god no, haven’t we carved up enough animals today” groaned Tim.

“Let’s do it Ralph, please, come on, if Sam was here he would do it in a heartbeat” pleaded Rory.

Ralph hated his younger brother’s approbation of Sam and he could feel his hackles rising.  “Sam wouldn’t do it Rory, beast is already dead, no torture, no fun”

“Oh I think he would” Ben responded “he is probably watching us all now, wondering who is man enough to slice open this beast.  Come on Ralph, you have the knife, open him up.  Make us rich”.

Ralph looked at three pairs of eager eyes expectantly awaiting his compliance and for the first time he saw pride and admiration in the eyes of his brother.

Ralph turned, leant over the creature and slowly inserted the knife into the cold grey skin.  Ralph was surprised how easily the knife penetrated the dead whale and he easily severed the beast open.  He stood back as the contents of the whale spewed out onto the baked sand.

All four boys stood open mouthed as they gazed with horror into the dead eyes of Sam, well the top half of Sam, detached from the waist down, still holding onto the spoon, and just like that, Tim threw up again.

The End

Seventh Day

Unfortunately the final 3 weeks of my Creative Writing Course didn't take place and the course has now finished until September. Wishing our mentor and inspiration Rachel a speedy recovery and look forward to seeing her again in Autumn. We have therefore not been working on any new genres or tasks, however I do still have work that I have not shared with you. Mainly because they are works in progress. They don't start out as this but as the story develops I feel I can take it further. One genre is fantasy fiction and another crime thriller. This is the first chapter, seventh day, of a yet untitled potential fantasy fiction novel.

Chapter 1: Seventh Day

Sienna was confused, tired and cold.  She was huddled close to her mother in the fetal position.  Her nose was filled with dirt and her lungs hurt from inhaling the destruction of her village, Manno. Sienna was with her family, hiding in what she thought was the bowels of the earth. Blood curdling screams came from above and explosions drowned out the terror of the massacre that was happening above them.  

Sienna listened to her father’s whispered assurances and being the good girl she was, she didn’t make a sound.  Warm tears spilled silently and she prayed to the gods that her father insisted did not exist.  Her brother Herme sat with his eyes closed, Sienna was unsure whether he was sleeping.  They had been holed up for such a long time she was unsure how much time had actually elapsed.  

Sienna looked at her mother Gynna, she was deep in thought and her eyes were glazed.  Her long red hair was tied up as always, but wisps of it fell on her beautiful face.  Sienna loved her mother’s face,she was a beautiful woman and so different to the other mothers in the village.  Sienna saw the way the men looked at her with longing and the women with envy.  Gynna was not just beautiful on the outside she was beautiful on the inside too.

Gynna looked at her husband Markil and Sienna saw the silent conversation between them, she wanted to see hope, but she saw fear, desperation and realisation.  Sienna was an extraordinary child with an extraordinary mind.  Whilst she was too young to understand she had a gift, she often would interpret thoughts through looks and gestures.  She also predicted impending doom long before the Sharalaime invaded the village.

Sienna did not know who the Sharalaime were.  Her father had gathered them and executed their escape just before the Sharalaime arrived.  Sienna had heard talk of the Sharalaime and her friends had told her stories of creatures who lived in a land called Exodus.  She had heard a variety of descriptions of the Sharalaime and had forged all these images in her mind to form her own unique image of a Sharalaime.

Her father once said that they had nothing to fear from the Sharalaime.  They lived far away on the other side of the world and had no cause nor reason to come to Santassia, let alone Manno.  Sienna believed her father as he had never lied to her and was always truthful, even when the truth was damaging.

Sienna had so many questions she wanted to ask her father.  How long would they have to stay down here?  What would they do when they got out?  What did the Sharalaime want? Were they going to die? Sienna knew the war was ongoing, as deep as they were in their sanctuary, the screams, shouts and explosions reverberated the chamber they were in.

Sienna thought of Annah and her silent tears once again fell freely.  Annah was her best friend and despite Sienna’s protestations her father would not let Sienna tell Annah where she was going. She couldn’t bear to think of Annah looking for her, scared and alone.  Sienna must have tensed as her mother pulled her close and stroked her lovingly.

Sienna felt her eyelids become heavy and her mother started to rock her gently and amid the chaos Sienna fell into a fitful sleep.  

Sienna awoke to complete darkness.  The gaslight had gone out and no natural light would penetrate the deep earth where they were holed up.  She was still wrapped in her mother’s arms and could feel the rise and fall of her breast.  She could also hear her father and brother lightly snoring as they always did, in sync, and despite the cold darkness this gave her a sense of reassurance.

Sienna realised in the darkness that the noises from above had stopped.  She listened hard and all she could hear was the breathing of her family and her own hurried breath.  She moved her head slightly so both of her ears were exposed and listened again.  Sienna heard somebody call her name, or had she imagined it?  She strained her ears and held her breath and again she heard her name being called.  Sienna had no idea if it was coming from above or below, it was faint and she wondered whether she was still asleep and dreaming.  Sienna often had lucid dreams.

Her breathing became even more hurried from holding her breath for too long.  This roused her mother from her sleep and in turn her father and brother.  They spoke to each other in whispers and held each other in the darkness until her father relit the gaslight.  They all sat in silence straining their ears to hear what was happening on other side of the dirty earth where they were buried.  They heard nothing.

Gynna whispered to her husband “do you think they have gone, is it safe to leave?” Markil shook his head “not yet Gynna, we must be patient, they have not found what they are looking for”.  Sienna wanted to ask her father exactly what they were looking for, but the conversation between her father and mother did not seem to include Herme or herself.  Herme was still half asleep, he was pale and the freckles scattered across his nose were exaggerated in the dim gaslight. “Herme” she whispered “are you okay?”. Herme looked at her and gave her one of his lopsided grins, something he always did when he did not know what to say. The familiarity of how he delivered it, again reassured his sister.

The Barton family remained in their sanctuary for a further three days.  On the seventh day, their supplies were low.  They were tired, dirty and cold.  Herme had developed a cough that was both persistent and loud, none of them were getting any sleep and Sienna thought she was going mad.  She was finding it difficult to distinguish between dreams and reality, as her sleep was filled with the image of the hole they were in.  The voices she heard calling her became more frequent but Sienna was convinced that lack of food, sleep and sunlight were causing her to hallucinate.

It was on that day, the seventh day, they were discovered.


Hayley Mars

Maggie

As you all know I am currently doing my third 10 week Creative Writing Course. As each course begins we often welcome new faces, which ultimately leads to us covering genres of writing we have previously undertaken. The latest one is "historical fiction" I have to confess it is not one of my favourite genres but again, as I did with my previous story in relation to the Titanic, I thoroughly enjoyed mixing fact with fiction to produce an account of an infamous historical event, this time going back much further to 1666 and the Great Fire of London.

In September 1666 the heart of England's capital, the City of London, was devastated by fire. Everyone knows the Great Fire of London started in a baker's shop in the aptly named Pudding Lane, but was it an unfortunate accident or a pernicious Papist plot?

Robert Hubert confessed to starting the fire, even though his story made no sense and it later transpired that he was not even in England until two days later.  It is alleged that  Robert was used as a scapegoat and he hanged in October 1666.

The proprietor of the Baker’s Shop Thomas Farynor and his three children, Thomas, Hanna and Mary managed to escape, but their maid perished in the flames.  This is her story.

It was the 1st September 1666.  Maggie hurried along the crowded streets, littered with beggars and urchins alike.  She breathed in the rancid air permeating from the squalid extramural slums clogged within  the unregulated urban sprawl.  Despite the devastation caused by the bubonic plague of 1665 the poor countryfolk continued to infiltrate the already crowded town looking for work.

Maggie made her way to the river Thames, to collect the parcel of fish for Master Farynor.  It was a humid day but there was a light breeze and as Maggie approached the riverside the air became clean.  She took grateful deep breaths but the sour stench clung mercilessly to her clothing.

“What’ll yer have Miss Maggie” Charley grinned a toothless grin at the pretty young maid.

“Good morning Charley, lovely to see you, I have just come for the master’s fish” Maggie’s soft voice just seemed to encourage Charley to speak louder.

“Oh yer a bonny lass if ever I saw em” Maggie smiled holding out her palm which contained the shilling.

“Yer keep that there, yer ere me  Miss Maggie?” he winked at her.

“Oh Charley I couldn’t, and I shouldn’t really, you do this every week.   Why are you so kind to me?” she tilted her head slightly looking at him with her enchanting chocolate eyes.

He took her silky hand in his, folding her fingers around the shilling.  “Now yer lis’en to me Miss Maggie, first chance yer get, yer and that gen’lman brother of yers get yer’self away from ere, fast as yer can, yer ere me Miss Maggie?”

“Aye Charley, let ‘em alone will yer” they both turned to see young Noah smirking up at them.

Maggie laughed, “see you next week Charley” and off she went.

Maggie thought about Robert joining her in a few days and her heart lifted.  Robert Hubert was her darling brother whom she hadn’t seen for many years, but after losing her mama, Master Farynor had managed to contact him by letter and over the ensuing years they had exchanged many letters and Robert had visited her in London on several occasions.  Maggie only had vague memories of living with Robert in Rouen, France, as a young child.  When their mama decided to return to England, Robert stayed with his father, a watchmaker, in Rouen.

Maggie’s mama did not speak too often of Robert and when she did her eyes would mist.  “Robert belongs with his papa Maggie” she would tell her often.  Robert was sickly and the sewage and filth of the east end would kill him she would often enunciate. Maggie never knew her own father and often thought of Master Farynor as her father, she had lived with the family since she was eight years old.  After her mama passed away from the Typhoid in 1956, Master and Miss Farynor had insisted she stay with them. They became her family.  She would be sad to leave them behind, but she wanted a new life with her brother in France and her mama’s warnings still rang in her ears, she couldn’t bear to lose Robert, he was the only family she had.

“Magggggie” she turned suddenly to hear the familiar excited voice of Mary.

“Mary, I thought you were studying with Master Brown” she questioned.

“No no Maggie, he had to leave early, an unexpected emergency he told us”

“Goodness gracious, I hope he is alright Mary”

“Such foolery he is just fine” acquiesced Mary.

As the two young ladies linked arms together the familiar sound of approaching horses hooves, caused them to pause.  Hackney carriages were common amongst the more affluent and Maggie and Mary scuttled against the wooden buildings to let it pass.  Mary was the youngest of the Farynor children and the most rebellious.  Maggie loved her dearly.  When Mary’s mother died from the bubonic plague a year earlier it had devastated the family and grief had ruthlessly ravaged them all, however Maggie had managed to disentangle them from the depths of despair with her inexhaustible empathy, compassion and genuine adoration for the Farynor family.  Maggie felt that they were now through the worse and as heartbroken as she would be to leave this loving family her heart and future belonged with Robert.

Master Farynor was hard at work when they returned to the Bakery on Pudding Lane.  Thomas Farynor was baker to King Charles II and was the provider of bread to the Royal Navy.  Mary skipped off to escape assisting her father.  Thomas and Hanna were already hard at work with their father.  Maggie went about her daily duties, cleaning and tidying all the bedrooms, sweeping the stairs and undertaking the washing.  Whilst the Farynor family worked hard in the bakery, apart from Mary who managed to evade all type of chores, Maggie was responsible for the upkeep and running of the house.  A responsibility that Maggie relished.

After completing her duties Maggie prepared the vegetables for dinner and the fish she had acquired earlier, free of charge. She rushed to assist Hanna get herself ready for dinner and as they all took their places around the wooden table, Mary miraculously reappeared as if from nowhere.

“Honestly Mary, you really are incorrigible, where have you been? Like it or not you must start to assist us in the bakery” chastised Thomas.

“Oh Thomas, don’t you know that with the assistance of Master Brown, our Mary is going to get herself a fine education, marry a Lord and live a life of indulgence and comfort” teased Hanna.

“Oh my dear Mary, if only it was that straightforward.  But if anyone could charm a handsome Lord, it is you sweetheart.”  Her father took her hand and fondly kissed her forehead. “Well Maggie, this all looks absolutely delicious” and together they bowed their heads whilst Master Farynor said grace.

The dinner was a humorous affair with Thomas and Hanna ruthlessly teasing their young sibling about her inability to perform any sort of chore.  Mary took it all in the light hearted way she took everything, her burned blonde curls buoyantly bouncing as she mimicked, laughed and playfully sulked.  Maids never usually ate with the family but Maggie had always dined with them since her mother’s death such a long time ago.

Once the meal was finished and they had all cleared the table together, Mary once again doing her customary vanishing act,  Master Farynor and young Thomas settled down to a game of draughts.  Maggie took up her sewing basket and Hanna immersed herself in book.  There was a comfortable silence within the house and the muted sounds of the outside streets were oblivious to them all.

Maggie retired to her quarter around 10.30pm.  She prepared herself for bed and took out Robert’s most recent letter, she digested his words once again.

“My Dearest Sister

The agonising wait is almost over. I will be by your side so soon.  Today I have been walking my thoughts occupied by you.  My little sister, my family, my future.  Since losing papa it has been difficult to carry on, but to know that we are to be reunited has lifted me so.  Tis with a light heart I set sail to England on the Maid of Stockholm and will be with you by the 3rd September. Master Farynor has once again been so kind as to offer me a bed and I know how much they mean to you.  Please rest assured dear sister that we will visit often and our door will always be open to them. My humblest gratitude to the Farynors’ for taking such good care of you.

Goodnight Maggie.”

Maggie read it again and one more time before she folded the thick cream paper and placed it back into the gilded envelope.  She held the letter close to her heart and gazing out onto the moonlit pavement, she thought how the hovel laden streets appeared almost splended in the glimmering moonlight. The sound of an oncoming hackney carriage reverberated around the wooden clad empty streets.  Maggie watched as the carriage passed and her eyes were drawn to the royal emblem, masterfully carved on the carriage door, and just like that the carriage disappeared around the corner as if never there at all.  The streets once again fell silent.

Maggie was not sure what awoke her.  But as her senses alerted her, the smell of burning became profound.  Fire.  Maggie’s eyes became pained as her room filled unceremoniously with thick smoke.  She heard the distant sound of her name being called “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie”.

Maggie clutched at the smog, attempting to find a way through the haze.  Her lungs were bursting and she was strangled by the relentless smoke, but she felt for the doorknob and pulled on it desperately.  As the door opened smoke billowed through knocking Maggie to her knees.  She could hear Hanna crying out her name “Maggie, quickly up here, we need to get out, Maggie please answer me”.  

Maggie was terrified. The all consuming suffocating fire flickered, flared, leapt and spat.  Plumes of black grey smoke, wound itself around her like a huge hungry serpent, devouring everything in it's path. Choking clouds of noxious smoke infiltrated her nose, mouth and every pore.  Dragging her down to the hot wooden floor beneath her feet.  She lost consciousness to a chorus of voices screaming her name.

Thomas Farynor stood before Robert Hubert.  “Why Robert, why would you confess to burning down the bakery.  I for one know that is not possible, you would never cause your dearest sister such harm.  You do not have to protect me Robert, the punishment for my carelessness must be mine” he bowed his head.

“Master Farynor, my life is nothing without Maggie, let me be.  I am the deranged french protestant they claim I am and will be punished as such.  Do not feel too badly for me Master as my soul belongs with Maggie and Papa.  It is with deepest regret that Maggie and I will never get the chance of our new life in France but I do not fear death, I embrace it.  My dearest Maggie will be waiting for me and I cannot live my life without her.”

“Maggie loved you so much Robert, can you not see it in your heart to live you life for her rather than with her?”

“Her absence is death Sir” and Robert walked from the room.

Hayley Mars