I am sitting on a barnwood floor

watching a candle's waxen waterfalls trickle

towards the open door.

I clutch a pencil between trembling fingers,

etching love letters to a stranger,

and when the flame no longer lingers

I lock the pages away,

tuck the key next to my heart

and wait for these childish dreams to decay.

she fastens the padlock, the key grinding through the rust. she sits at the table, warped and grainy, and begins to write, with a stub of a yellowy pencil.

the remains of a candle drip onto the corner of the paper. she begins to write, wrist shaking.

i know that you're expecting me to leave, but i couldn't do so without saying goodbye...

“My dear son,

As I write to you today, the tenth time this year, in the dim candlelight, my hands are shaking. They always do – just before. I don’t have much time, it is almost dawn. I glance at the door in front of me, wondering why it is that I am scared. I can see the strong padlock, protecting me from the man inside. It is he who should be scared. Yet he is not. I can hear him pounding the door. The padlock will hold strong I know but the violence of his blows and the violence with which he will go shortly, are not pleasant to contemplate. The candle’s nearly burnt out but it will be dawn soon. I wanted you to know that your father is not the evil man they may have told you about. I am only doing my job, the job that pays for your tutor, your fine clothes and your meals. It isn’t what I would have chosen. No, the axe is heavy, the aftermath messy. It is not a job for the weak-hearted. I hate it. Yet, here I am.”

I throw the stub of the pencil against the wall, crumple my letter into a ball as the candle blows out and step up to the window to watch the sun rise, as my helpers walk in to march the prisoner to the gallows where I will be waiting for him with my axe.

There’s nothing else here

it’s as empty as

your heart chambers

I can still hear the echo

of it’s palpitations

calling my name

it’s as distorted

as it’s always been

and I can’t respond

you don’t understand

all I have left

is a pencil

that’s been burned to pieces

a padlock

that’s never been able to

keep strangers away

and a half burned candle

that’s never gotten me to

stop wanting to burn things

down to a crisp

including everything

its ever touched

A man sits at his desk with a quill in hand and ink at his fingertips. The tip of his feathered pen scratches the yellow paper, then he switches to a pencil. He sketches a beautiful portrait of someone he met in his dreams and wrote a description on the corner of the page. The sound of pitter-pattering rain grows louder, followed by the roar of thunder. The night sky is a murky black and brown, the same color as the muddy streets of London. Only the half-burned candle was this man’s friend as it witnesses his work. A thick padlock hangs at his door for security reasons yet it rattles faintly. The man could not hear due to the storm, but he did hear the heavy padlock fall to the wooden floor. He turns around to see, but then he hears his door creaking wide open. The man looks up to see a beautiful woman in a flowing lavender dress. This haunting woman steps forward while the man trembles in fear. This bad omen approaches the man, her hand reaching for his neck when she saw his work. This woman, who creeps into my soul, who can easily stop my heart, who commands the unknown, I shall bow. The beautiful woman stares at the paper and instead of going for the neck, she places her hand on the man’s face. She lightly and swiftly sat on his lap and kissed his lips deeply. He waits for death, but to his surprise, he remains alive.

One Kiss brings Death, but One Kiss brings Blessings.

The door gently closed behind me. I slipped across the room silent in my stocking feet. He lay with his head down upon the desk, soundly sleeping, pencil still poised in his hand. The candle beside him was burning halfway down. Do I dare blow it out? No, I cannot give myself away. The pencil was there, but his papers where gone. What had he done with them? I needed to find them. It was the only way I would know what he was thinking, what he was going to do. I looked around. There was a padlock upon the second drawer of the desk. That settled it. No need to creak open the others. I yanked the lock half-heartedly. It gave way.

General Radford,

We have located [redacted] Bunker. Nuclear materials are confirmed. Unfortunately, [redacted] managed to locate the bunker just as our team did. Defense systems are down and we are without power. This message would have been impossible to write down if it weren’t for some half burned candles and the pencil pushing eggheads with their old tech. We have been mostly overrun; most likely the bunker will fall and the materials taken into enemy hands. The men have pledged their lives. We realize the situation is futile. We will fight back and hold our ground. We have the firepower, lucky for us the only thing keeping the armory shut was a rusty padlock. I only hope to find the means to get this letter to you. Perhaps it’s just the sprawlings of a soon to be dead man. Either way, if you receive this I must recommend we enact Winter Protocol. Please tell Samantha I love her and that every sun must set. She’ll know what it means. Please take care of her and ... [remainder of letter illegible due to blood soaking.]