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Three days after what would become known in music journalism circles as 'The Pyramid Incident,' the first teaser dropped on Ye's Instagram. It was just thirty seconds of darkness with a single triangle slowly rotating until it transformed into a circle. Pre-orders hit two million in the first hour. &nbsp; Three days previously The room was an expensive kind of industrial. High ceilings, exposed beams, soft lighting that looked effortless but was undoubtedly the work of a top-tier design firm. The walls were lined with platinum records, each reflecting a distorted version of reality. Everything smelled faintly of expensive leather and ego. A long table stood at the front, covered in matte black, because glossy was too pedestrian. In front of it sat a dozen journalists, each clutching their notepads, recorders, and the quiet resignation that comes with knowing they were about to endure something both exhausting and historic. Then, he arrived. Not walked in—arrived, as though materializing from a different plane of existence. The door swung open with the slow-motion drama of a prestige film, and in stepped Kanye—no, Ye. He was wearing what could only be described as post-apocalyptic messiah couture: a massive, oversized trench coat made from a material that looked like it could double as a heat shield during atmospheric re-entry. His pants—if they were pants—billowed with an almost sentient level of confidence, and his shoes were the kind of bulbous, foot-swallowing creations that suggested either the future of fashion or the beginning of a footwear-based dystopia. On his face, a pair of sunglasses so opaque they could have been solid onyx. Or just an exaggerated metaphor for his worldview. He took his seat at the table, dramatically removing the glasses—not to make eye contact, but to let the room appreciate the act of removing them. The moderator, a weary-looking man who had clearly lost several years of his life wrangling Kanye press events, stepped forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. We are here today to discuss Ye’s forthcoming project.” Ye leaned into the microphone. “Not just a project. A cultural inflection point.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in. “You ever think about silence? Like…. really think about it?” A journalist, Sarah pressed her pen against her notepad, the familiar anxious ritual she'd performed at twenty-seven Kanye press events over eleven years. She had started as an idealistic music journalist with dreams of uncovering the next Kurt Cobain. Now she was here, preparing to translate incoherence into clickbait, already mentally drafting headlines that would walk the knife-edge between ridicule and reverence. Her editor's voice echoed in her head: 'Make it weird enough that people share it, but not so weird they think we're mocking him.'" “So, the album—” Ye waved a dismissive hand. “We don’t say ‘album’ no more. That’s outdated thinking. This is a sonic experience” He let that hang. “Except without sound.” Another journalist frowned. “So… silence?” Ye grinned. “Nah, not silence. It’s me…. narrating my dreams. Dreams where I time-travel. Where I redesign the pyramids. Where I tell Beethoven to step his game up.” A murmur passed through the room. The journalists exchanged nervous glances, mentally calculating how to spin this into something their editors would approve. Someone braved a question. “Uh, when’s the release date?” Ye leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. “Time is a construct, fam.” A beat of silence. The journalists scribbled that down, because what else could they do? The moderator sighed, already composing an apology email to various media outlets. Meanwhile, Ye smirked, knowing full well he had them exactly where he wanted them—confused, intrigued, and unwilling to look away. A journalist in the second row, wearing an expression of reluctant curiosity, raised his hand. “So, this… sonic experience. It’s just you talking about your dreams?” Ye nodded solemnly. “But not just talking. Experiencing. Y’all ever lucid dream? It’s like directing a movie but God is your cinematographer.” He spread his arms. &nbsp;I’m the Spielberg of subconscious cinema. I’m the Da Vinci of REM cycles.” Another journalist leaned forward. “Are there any featured artists?” Ye scoffed. “Feature? Nah. I am the feature. Beat. &nbsp;“But also, - Morgan Freeman reading footnotes. And Elon Musk beatboxing, but only in Morse code. You ever hear a Tesla beep in C-sharp minor? That’s the frequency of genius.” The room absorbed that, processing it like a computer forced to run software it was never designed for. A voice from the back dared to ask, “Is there a tour?” Ye clapped his hands together. &nbsp;“Now we talking.” He leaned forward. &nbsp;“But I’m flipping the concept. Y’all come to me. You get a ticket, you get a GPS coordinate. You gotta find me in the desert. No cameras. No tweets. Just vibes. That’s the show.” The journalists, collectively teetering on the edge of understanding and exhaustion, exchanged another glance. The moderator rubbed his temples. “Any final questions?” he asked, voice barely concealing his plea for mercy. A reporter hesitated, then asked, “Why the pyramids?” Ye’s eyes gleamed. “Because they messed up the first time.” Beat. “You ever see a blueprint from 4,000 years ago?” Silence “Exactly.” Journalists looking at each other. Processing. Failing. “That’s why I gotta fix it.” Ye continued &nbsp;“I’m the Picasso of soundwaves. I’m redesigning geometry itself.” His voice dropped to a whisper. &nbsp;“Triangles are cancelled” Beat. “Circles are the future.” “I’m the orb of truth.” A journalist sighed. “ So, How do you make pyramids better?” Ye grinned. “First, we add WiFi. Second, we make ‘em float. Third, we put my face on ‘em. I want a sphinx but with my head.”“It’s time.” Silence. Then a slow, resigned clatter of keyboards as the journalists accepted their fate. This wasn’t an album rollout. This was performance art.. The moderator stood up, threw his clipboard onto the table, and walked out without a word. Ye smirked. He put his sunglasses back on. And just before he stepped out of the room, he turned. “You ever hear a pyramid whisper?” Then, he was gone. The door closed behind him. A long pause. Then, one journalist, staring at his notes, nodded to himself. “Circles are the future, man.” And just like that, they were all part of it now. &nbsp; One month later Sarah found herself in the Nevada desert, following GPS coordinates like everyone else. She told herself she was there as a journalist. By midnight, when Ye emerged from behind a handcrafted pyramid made of LED screens, all professional distance had evaporated. She was no longer covering the story. She was the story. FSF

Pyramids

&nbsp;Canberra, 1975 – 8:42 AMCharlie Whitaker woke up in his dressing gown, which would not have been a problem had he gone to sleep in it. Instead, he had apparently spent the night in his suit, and at some point, perhaps while pouring himself that last, ill-advised whisky, had swapped out his trousers for nothing at all.He staggered into the kitchen, scratching at his three-day stubble, and poured himself a coffee that was more bourbon than caffeine. The radio was on, and a dull ABC newsreader was droning about interest rates, which only added to the persistent throb behind Charlie’s left eye.He looked at the day ahead and sighed.By rights, Charlie should have been a respectable man. His father had been a judge, his mother a woman who hosted charity luncheons. His brother was in Parliament, and his sister had once dated Bob Hawke long enough to make the family photo albums. But Charlie? &nbsp;Charlie had walked away from all of it. Or maybe he’d been pushed. A disbarred lawyer, a journalist who mostly worked for whoever had the best bottle of Scotch, a man who had once been brilliant and was now just… here.Which is why, as he sat there in his dressing gown, contemplating the uphill battle of sobriety, his phone rang.A Labour mate had a job for him—an envelope to be delivered to a “trusted party.” “It’s simple,” they assured him. “Just take it straight there.”Charlie agreed. And of course, he did not take it straight there. The StopoverCanberra, for all its pomp and politics, was a small town at heart. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone had dirt on someone. Which is partly why, on his way to deliver the envelope, Charlie made a quick stop at his favourite establishment—The Velvet Lounge, a brothel tucked discreetly on the outskirts of Kingston.He told himself he was just stopping in to say hello. But the moment he saw Veronica, with her long red nails and laugh like a glass breaking in slow motion, he knew he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.“I’m in a rush,” he told her, already taking a seat and accepting a whisky.“Sure you are,” she said, passing him a cigarette.An hour later, there was more whisky, then cocaine, then that dangerous haze where time stretched and words slurred and everything felt both brilliant and deeply stupid. By 3:00 PM, Charlie was slumped on Veronica’s couch, snoring softly.And that’s when she found the envelope. The PhotographVeronica had never cared for politics but she understood leverage. The envelope had been easy to find—Charlie was as careful as a man playing blackjack blindfolded. When she slid it open, she wasn’t expecting much. A few dirty secrets. A politician’s name scrawled somewhere.Jackpot. Government stamps. Handwritten figures. A few middle eastern names. A signature she recognised from the papers.&nbsp;She didn’t understand it, but it looked like the kind of thing a smart girl held on to.She took it to the manager, a wiry man named Ray who had a habit of showing up at the worst possible times. Ray took one look, snapped a few photos, and carefully placed the envelope back where Charlie had dropped it.Then he made a call.The SpiralBy midnight, photocopies of the documents were circulating in Canberra’s underground. By dawn, they had made their way to the office of a particularly gleeful Liberal Party strategist, who promptly walked them over to Malcolm Fraser.Malcolm Fraser read the papers slowly, carefully, his face unreadable. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and a sharp little smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.This wasn’t just useful. This was everything.He folded the papers, set them down, and tapped his fingers against the desk.“Time to finish this.” The Morning AfterCharlie woke up on Veronica’s couch, his head pounding, his shirt missing, and his sense of time completely obliterated.“What time is it?” he croaked.“Wednesday,” Veronica said.Charlie blinked.“What the hell happened to Tuesday?”She just shrugged.Charlie groaned, pulled himself upright, and patted his pockets. The envelope was still there. Thank God.He stumbled out into the morning light, utterly unaware that its contents had already gone on a journey of their own. Two weeks later, on the steps of Parliament House, Gough Whitlam stood before the nation, while Charlie sat in the dim light of a Canberra bar, the whisky slow-burning down his throat. On the television, Whitlam’s voice rang out, sharp and furious:“Well may we say ‘God Save the Queen,’ because nothing will save the Governor-General.”The bar was silent for a beat, then erupted—cheers, curses, arguments flying.Charlie just stared at the screen. At Whitlam’s face. At history breaking apart in real-time.The envelope. Veronica. The missing Tuesday.Christ.He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and took another sip, slower this time.“...Shit, shit shit….” FSF

The Butterfly and the Brothel

Finnley sat cross-legged on the soft moss, hands buried in his pockets, shifting a small stone between his fingers. The wind carried the scent of rain through the valley, and above him, Vryathar’s enormous golden wings rustled gently as the old dragon curled around the roots of a great oak. "You always know when it's about to storm," Finnley murmured, watching the sky shift from blue to grey. Vryathar chuckled, his deep voice rolling like distant thunder. "I have seen more storms than you have seen summers, little one. The air speaks to those who know how to listen." Finnley kicked at the dirt. "You always talk like that. Like the world is whispering secrets to you. But if it is, why don’t I hear them?" The dragon tilted his head, his long whiskers twitching. "Because you are still young. The world only speaks to those who have learned to be quiet enough to listen." The boy frowned. "That doesn’t seem fair. I don’t want to be quiet." Vryathar smiled. "No, I suppose you don’t." A comfortable silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the rustling of leaves. "Vryathar?" Finnley asked after a while. "Hmm?" "Will there always be dragons?" The dragon shifted slightly, his tail curling around himself. "Ah. That is a question I have heard before." "And?" "And the answer is not as simple as you might hope." Finnley sat up straighter. "You mean no, don’t you?" Vryathar exhaled slowly, a wisp of golden smoke curling from his nostrils. "Not in the way you think." Finnley scowled. "That’s just another riddle." "Perhaps. But tell me, Finnley—do you remember the first time you saw me?" The boy grinned. "Of course. You were huge! Bigger than the tallest tree, and your wings were like—like sunlight on a river!" Vryathar laughed. "That is not what you said at the time. You called me a 'fat old lizard' and tried to poke me with a stick." Finnley giggled. "Yeah, well, I was five." "And now you are nearly ten." The boy nodded. "So?" "So, you see me differently now." Finnley hesitated. "I guess. You seem… smaller, maybe? Not as bright?" Vryathar sighed. "That is the way of things, little one. When children are small, they see dragons everywhere; in the clouds, in the forests, in the corners of their own dreams. But as they grow, the dragons grow smaller. Quieter. Until one day…" Finnley’s stomach twisted. "Until one day what?" The dragon did not answer. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the first raindrops kissed the earth. The boy swallowed hard. "You mean until one day I won’t see you anymore." Vryathar dipped his head. Finnley clenched his fists. "But that’s not fair! That’s not right! I don’t want to stop seeing you!" "Ah, but it is not a matter of wanting, Finnley. It is simply the way of things. Childhood is a season, just like summer, and no summer lasts forever." The boy shook his head violently. "Then I’ll remember. I’ll make sure I never forget you, no matter how old I get!" The dragon’s golden eyes softened. "I believe you will try. But memory is a strange thing, Finnley. The sharper you hold onto something, the faster it fades." Finnley’s eyes burned. He hadn’t noticed it before, but Vryathar really did seem smaller today. His wings, once so grand, were folded tight against his body. His scales, once blinding, looked duller in the dimming light. "But I don’t want you to go," Finnley whispered. Vryathar lowered his head until their foreheads touched, warm scales against cool skin. "I will always be here, in the stories you tell, in the dreams you dream. And one day, if you are very lucky, you might hear the whisper of wings on the wind and remember what it was to believe." The rain began to fall in earnest. Finnley wiped his eyes, but when he looked up again, Vryathar was already fading into the mist. "Wait!" the boy called, but his voice was swallowed by the storm. And just like that, the last dragon was gone. FSF

The Summer's end

Roll out the carpet, polish the mics, The words have come to fight for likes. They strut, they pose, they pander, they preen, A gladiator pit—but make it linguistic sheen. Here comes Resilient, chest puffed out, Scarred but proud, still shouts aloud: "Recessions, scandals, climate doom, Yet here I stand in every room!" And oh, Iconic, poor exhausted thing, Once fit for kings, now forced to cling. "I spoke of pyramids, of fate, of time! Now I sell sneakers for $9.99." Behind them shuffle the faceless mass— The quiet workhorses, the sturdy brass. The, And, But—no cameras flash, Yet without them, towers crash. Then—silence. A gust of fear. A shadow looms. The end is near. The stage recoils, the crowd stands tight— A spectre sways in viral light. Covfefe. A ripple, a quake—words shrink in fright. Gasps. Stares. Phones held tight. A god? A fraud? A void in disguise? None dare to ask. None question the rise. It means nothing. It means all. It stands where greater words did fall. And so the others kneel, they weep, For meaning dies where trends run deep. A word is worth not truth or weight— But how it warps the hands of fate. Yet somewhere, past the viral roar, Beyond the screens, the market’s lore, A quiet place, a slower pace— A scholar guards the written grace. Miss Jarmy stands, ruler in hand, Teaching words to take their stand. Not for likes, not for show, But for the love of what they know. FSF &nbsp; From: Karen B

Words on parade

Seventh grade, the air thick with the hum of the television, the glow of history flickering across our faces, A teacher; our teacher; stood at the front, watching us watch, waiting. We were taking notes, because that's what you do- When authority speaks, you listen, you obey, you don't question. Then; snap; light flooded in, harsh and sudden, and her voice cut through the dim like a blade, "Charles Anthony Greenberg!" she barked, "You are not taking notes." But he was. I saw his pen move, the quiet scratch of ink on paper. We all saw. She asked the room, slow and deliberate, "Does anyone want to stand up for Charles?" Silence, a cough, a muttered half excuse. Someone tried, I think, a syllable maybe, But she crushed them with a glance. She sent Charles to the headmaster’s office. No one followed. The door closed behind him like the sealing of a fate. Then she turned to us, smoothed her skirt, took a breath deep with satisfaction, and said the words that would echo in my mind for years: "See how easy that was?" We were reading Anne Frank. And in that moment, I learned how things begin. Not with war, not with blood; but with silence, with stillness, with a room full of people, with a room of eyes that look, but do not see. FSF

Seventh Grade, Under Fluorescent Light

Chapter One: That Island FeelingThe sound is different to the eager pop of the Bollinger that had bubbled so hopefully in our glasses at Taylor and Mitch’s wedding reception eighteen months ago. This sound, although still somewhat hopeful, is hollowed, as though it’s already weary from the responsibility of punctuating Taylor’s new chapter."I'm so glad we made this trip happen," I say, squeezing my best friend around the waist. "You're absolutely glowing!" I add, admiring her shiny blonde hair and cute sundress—the super-short kind I can’t wear without my kindergarteners running their small hands up and down my prickly legs, their fingers like incy wincy spiders."Thanks, Andie." I catch a faint glimpse of a smile. Taylor is the yin to my yang, the Cher to my Dionne, the Carrie to my Miranda. I hate thinking about what that arsehole Mitch must have put her through this past year. With the divorce finalised just two weeks ago, she truly deserves this holiday.I pour the honey-coloured fizz into our glasses. "Drinks are up!"Grace and Lizzie answer the primal girls’ trip call, leaping off their sun lounges and bounding over to our patio table by the pool’s edge.Lizzie reaches us first. Growing up as the youngest of four siblings has instilled in her a perpetual fear of "missing out," and parenting twins for the past three years has only intensified that feeling. Grace saunters behind her, her wrist still adorned with a fluorescent band from whatever last night’s escapades involved. To say that we’ve all been in different seasons of life is an understatement, which is why it feels like a minor miracle that we’re all here together now.If we were to each have a season, Grace would undoubtedly be summer. It’s not just her sun-kissed skin; it’s the newly engaged aura she exudes, with life positively sparkling around her. Lizzie embodies winter, bunkered down, enduring the throes of early motherhood—but cosy and caring. Taylor is spring, poised for a magnificent rebirth, and I am autumn. Autumn is a perfectly pleasant season—Nora Ephron’s favourite, no less—if you’re simply passing through. But I remain stuck in life’s rut, surrounded by curled brown leaves, permanently shrivelled and on the brink of falling. It is moments like this, the rare glimpses of warmer notes of tangerine and saffron, that make it bearable.Picking up my glass, I take in the scene with a satisfied sigh. Moorings, our home for the next week, is even better than it appeared in the photos online. Half an hour ago, when the riverboat docked at Pearl Island’s tiny wharf, we loaded our suitcases into wheelbarrows and bumped our way up the leafy hill, then down again to the other side of the island where the sprawling house winked in the sunlight. Stepping inside felt like walking into a brochure.With panoramic views of the glittering river from every window, a gourmet kitchen, an expansive outdoor deck, an infinity pool, and a hot tub, the waterfront home really is something special. Sydney was all hurried bodies and honking cars. Our giggles and snort-laughing aside, the only soundtrack now is the soft lapping of water on the foreshore. We’re steps away from a white sandy beach, and a shiny barbecue and garden fire pit sit waiting to be assaulted by cliché city girls. I wonder if the fire pit knows its fate—that it’s about to become all fire-starters and scrunched newspapers in electric blue and emerald green from birds high up in the gum leaves. King parrots, maybe?I smile to myself as I imagine becoming a professional birdwatcher by week’s end and disembarking the Pearl Island riverboat in full safari get-up, binoculars proudly strung around my neck, ready to identify the markings on bin chickens. Although it might be best if the parrots stay hidden, given they don’t match our cheerful yellow colour scheme.Upon googling "divorce party decorations," a lemon-yellow aesthetic was the obvious pick. After all, we’re here to help Taylor turn lemons into lemonade—or, more accurately, lemons into champagne. In addition to the copious bottles of sparkling and the truckload of decorations I’ve purchased off Amazon, I’ve custom-ordered a lemon meringue divorce cake. Yellow snacks were harder to come by—especially gluten-free yellow snacks. Hummus is yellowish. Luckily the house is inoffensive with its fresh white decor, and we’re more than happy to have a view of that gorgeous blue, blue water.Hopefully, I can steal a few moments at some stage to launch myself off the pontoon that’s anchored at the beach in front of the house. I noticed it as soon as we arrived; it’s made from floating timber boards like those old-timey rafts in American summer camp movies."Just a sec," I interrupt. "I’ve prepared a quick toast!"I catch the unsubtle eye roll in Taylor’s direction.Shit. How have I messed up already? I thought I’d planned everything to perfection."Well, girls!" I hold my glass aloft, ignoring their exasperated expressions and my sloshing stomach. Public speaking used to be my forte, but that feels like a lifetime ago now. It might have posed a challenge if I’d stuck with a career in the arts, but it turns out it’s not an issue as a kindergarten teacher. Thankfully, five-year-olds don’t seem to intimidate me in the same way adults do—even on rainy days when they’re cooped up inside, acting particularly feral.I clear my throat. "Thanks for making the effort to be here this week. For arranging the time off work—especially you, Liz, with your kid-wrangling. I know it’s not easy, but Taylor—we—truly appreciate it!""I might say a couple of words too!" Lizzie announces suddenly, stepping up onto one of the chairs.I stifle a relieved sigh. Girls’ trip back on track."To divorcees and fiancées going wild!" Grace cries back. I laugh nervously.We’ve paid two thousand dollars in bond and plan on getting every cent of it back. I remind myself that Lizzie’s definition of "wild" is washing her whites with colours.Grace has always been a looser cannon, but in recent months, Maeve and the new rock on her fourth finger have done a good job of keeping her better tethered."We’re going to have so much fun!" I exclaim. "An entire week of vision-boarding, chick flicks, swimming, oysters, and wine. And we get to enjoy it with this as our backyard!" I gesture to the stunning surrounds.I can hardly wait for the endless sunshine, moonlit evenings, and the infinite D&amp;Ms of the week to come.The spectacular summer day soon transforms into a spectacular summer night. The moonlight shines down on the river, turning the water golden champagne colour. Fitting, given the number of bottles we’ve consumed.Unsurprisingly, our carefully packed suitcases remain untouched, and we end up in the pool. The last of our inhibitions vanish along with our swimsuits. It feels like I’m finally shedding my grief cloak and slipping into something more comfortable—an older model of me.A loud knock at the door.I freeze, hoping whoever is there will disappear when they knock again. It’s only 8 pm, so surely it’s not a noise complaint.Moving cautiously, I approach the door and open it a crack."Oh, hey," I breathe, my shoulders relaxing.I recognise the set of sea-green eyes staring back at me and swing the door all the way open."Hey." The captain’s voice is rough and gravelly and rolls over me like a tractor on ploughed field, causing my stomach to do this weird seesawing thing. Chapter Two: That Island HungerThe captain stands in the doorway, his sea-green eyes gleaming under the dim villa lights. His forearms flex subtly as he shifts the tackle box, the veins along his hands looking almost sculpted, too pronounced, as if his skin were stretched too tightly over something more ancient beneath."You left this on board," he states, his voice thick and unhurried, like molasses poured over gravel.I swallow. My throat is suddenly dry."Whoops," I say, stepping forward. One hand tightens my towel around my body, the other reaching for the box. I move deliberately, trying to maintain my composure, but my stomach twists. Something feels wrong.That’s when I notice them.Behind him, lingering just beyond the reach of the porch light, three figures stand too still, too quiet. One, a man with slick, shoulder-length black hair and a silk shirt unbuttoned too far, steps forward. His lips curl into a grin so pristine and symmetrical it looks almost inhuman. He raises a hand—And waves.A chill coils down my spine."Who’s your entourage?" I joke weakly, though my instinct is screaming don’t let them in.The captain’s smirk flickers, sharp and knowing."Holidaying," he says simply. "Same as you."Inside, the villa feels too quiet. The breeze off the water has stopped entirely. The usual background hum—the ice in our glasses, the faint splashes from the pool—has vanished.And then I see it.The air is unnervingly still. The captain’s crisp white shirt has no creases, like it hasn’t moved with him. The black-haired man steps further into the light, and his reflection in the glass doors—Lags.A half-second behind.A wine glass on the counter trembles. I didn’t touch it.Grace and Lizzie don’t notice. Taylor is still swaying, humming to herself, oblivious.And then—The lights flicker.Only for a second.When they return, the captain is inside. The others glide in behind him, too fast, too fluid, like shadows peeling off the walls.The door clicks shut.The smell changes. There’s something metallic, something rich and cloying—Like pennies on the tongue. Like rust in the air.My stomach clenches. The shift happens too fast. One moment, we’re basking in our own laughter and wine, the next—Glass shatters on tile. A scream slashes through the air—Grace.Chaos erupts.The black-haired man moves first. He grabs Taylor mid-spin, clamping a hand over her mouth, yanking her into his chest. She thrashes, limbs flailing, but he is unnaturally strong—inhumanly so. The veins in his arms bulge, pulsing as though they are alive beneath his skin.Lizzie lunges for a bottle, but the pale woman beside her—Catches her wrist. Twists.A crack.Lizzie screams.I don’t move. Can’t move.The captain watches with mild amusement, hands in his pockets, his expression one of mild curiosity. Like a spectator at an art gallery."Now," he says, slow and measured. "I understand this is... unexpected." He glances around at the carnage, the tremors running through Grace’s body, Taylor hyperventilating, Lizzie gasping for breath."But," he continues, "this is our vacation, too."He strolls to the table, tapping a long, slender finger against an empty glass."You know, people always assume we’d kill right away," he muses, adjusting the bottle of Belvedere Vodka in the ice bucket. "That’s the human ego for you. Thinking we’d drain you dry, leave a mess. No, no." He tuts. "We savour."The black-haired man grins. "It’s all about the balance. A little blood, a little vodka. The key is just enough." He lifts a tumbler. "Can’t ruin the flavour profile.""Exactly," the captain agrees, finally turning his full attention to me. His pupils are too large now, swallowing the green. "Drink too much from one, and it’s all coppery, too much iron. But take just enough—" He reaches for my arm. "—and it’s... divine."We are rounded up, corralled into the villa’s grand dining room. The table has been stripped bare, save for an ice bucket filled with Belvedere Vodka.The porcelain-skinned woman methodically arranges crystal tumblers in a neat row.The black-haired man flips a knife open, the steel catching the chandelier light."Ever had a Blood Baby?" he asks casually, rolling up Taylor’s sleeve.No one answers.He sighs. Slices open her wrist.A dark crimson ribbon blooms against her skin, cascading down in slow, velvet streams. The cut is surgical, controlled.Taylor whimpers, trying to pull away, but the man holds her firm, tilting her wrist over a glass. The blood drips, curling into the vodka, swirling like a grotesque marbling effect.The captain raises his glass. "To fine dining."They drink. We don’t die.That’s the worst part.The vampires? They’re polite about it. They chat, they clink glasses. They laugh, drinking our blood like we’re part of a Michelin-starred tasting menu.And when the first traces of dawn paint the sky—They simply wipe their mouths. Gather their bags. Leave.They don’t kill us. No. That would be too easy.They tie us up. Neatly. Precisely.They arrange us in a perfect circle on the suite floor, wrists bound behind our backs, pillowcases over our heads like some kind of ritualistic nightmare slumber party.Before the last one leaves, he crouches beside me. His breath is cold against my ear."Same time next year?" he whispers.The door clicks shut.And then—The sun rises.The villa is silent once more.We are left there, waiting. Bound. Helpless.For room service.This was supposed to be a girls' trip. A week of drinking.Guess we just didn’t think we’d be the ones on the menu.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Pyramids

The Butterfly and the Brothel

The Summer's end

Words on parade

Seventh Grade, Under Fluorescent Light

That Island Feeling