Fiction Portfolio

Okay, so, I fucked up. 

I fucked up really, really badly. 

I’d started to worry I fucked up about three minutes after I left her. It took three years after that for me to finally admit it, and another year to gather the courage to come back. Malison had been pissed at me when I told him I was leaving, but Mal was also an asshole, so I tried not to feel too bad about that. Tried not to feel too bad that the only way to fix leaving Bronte was to leave Mal. 

Leaving seemed to be the one thing I was good at. 

But, as good as I was at walking away, I was shit at remembering not to look back. I had run to almost every corner of Astrya, but no matter where I went, all I thought about was her. I heard her voice in the wind, saw her dance in the fire, felt her touch brushing along my arms every time I rested in that hazy half-consciousness between waking and sleep. For the first twenty-two years of my life, I’d rarely been more than a half-mile away from her. Fully removed from her side, her lack of presence ached like a phantom limb. 

A few of the coins I’d acquired from my work with Mal had bought me a ticket on the Greenwood Rail from Storm’s Haven to their southernmost stop in Littlebee Ford. From there, it was a two-day walk through pine forests to the village. I’d hoped the train ride and the walk would give me enough time to figure out what I was going to say to her. But now, as I strode up to the wooden posts marking the outer boundary of Lykovo—my beat-up old flintlock on my hip, my patchwork bag slung across my good shoulder, my vicious little attack dog trotting happily at my heel—I still had no idea where to even begin.

“Hey, baby,” I muttered, “Sorry I—no, I shouldn’t call her baby; she’s probably pissed at me. Hey, Bron—maybe that’s too familiar. Hello, Bronte. Not familiar enough? Shit.” I looked down at my dog, as if he’d give me an answer. He wasn’t paying me any mind at all, too absorbed in reacquainting himself with the smells of Lykovo. I tried to pause at the village entrance. Titan just barked and rushed right on in. I snorted a laugh and followed after him. 

Lykovo was an Orata, which meant two main things: first, that the village was predominantly populated with Oryans. Second, that it was real fucking small. I’d figured that everyone I saw would recognize me. I did not expect everyone to stop what they were doing and stare in shocked silence as I walked past them. I waved awkwardly and tried not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. There were people I’d want to go talk to later—my friends, Phoebe and Damien’s friends, a handful of amicable exes. But first, home. 

First, Bronte. 

“By the Gods Above and Gods Below—Rion Avocet, is that really you?”

For a split second, I thought the voice calling from behind me was Damien’s, and a nauseous mix of dread and relief rose in my stomach. When I turned around, though, it was just Nikos, standing there with some new grey in his beard and a basket of foraged chillberries slung over his arm. 

Titan barked and ran up to Nikos. I whistled a command for him to get down, but the little 30-pound mutt ignored me and jumped up on Nikos’ leg. Nikos, who was no help at all, laughed and gave Titan a few berries. I turned my attention back to Nikos and grinned, awkward and lopsided. “Uh—yeah, hi, it’s me. I’m back.”

“Half-thought you’d died, boy, how long it’s been since you were here. Do you have any idea what you put Phoebe and Damien through, leaving like you did? Half your life they raised you—Phoebe dove into a damn freezing ocean to pull your sorry self out—all for you to leave without a word like that?” 

I winced. “I know, I know, I—”

“And Bronte! Damn near broke her heart, you know.”

“I know,” I snapped. “Why do you think I came back?”

Full story available upon request.

I have been nine years old for sixty-three years. 

Everyone says I’m lucky. Most people who get Idunna Serum are rich—and I mean, real rich, the kind that comes with yachts and mansions in the plural. The kind where you can throw around millions to keep your face all young and shiny forever. And me, I can’t even have a bank account. But as long as I’m performing for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, they’ll buy it for me.

I assume so, anyway. Banjo Doggie’s Wayward Western sold so few tickets they barely made back the cost of that awful dog puppet, and I know my last few films before that didn’t do much better. It’s possible my contract contains a clause allowing them to terminate it if my box office performance suffers enough, but I don’t know for sure. Nobody’s ever let me read it.

A voice downstairs booms, “Oh, Peggy Sue! We need to get to the studio, honey!”

I trudge out of my bedroom, averting my eyes from the pink bedspread, the Raggedy Ann dolls, the Little Golden Books. Downstairs, I avert my eyes from the ghouls waiting by the door.

Their names are Marty and Jan, but I’m contractually obligated to call them mommy and daddy. I call them nothing instead. I’ve sat next to them in countless interviews where they recount the heartwarming tale of their years on the Little Stars Caregivers waitlist, never daring to hope they’d be chosen—so just imagine their surprise when they were picked as the new parents of the Peggy Sue Baxter!

Marty pats the top of my head and commands, “Jan, grab my briefcase.” As she scurries off, Marty gives me a conspiratorial smile and stage whispers, “We’re running a smidge behind—mommy forgot to press daddy’s shirt last night.”

Jan returns with the briefcase, and I look up just long enough to see the still-fading red mark on her cheek. “Here you go, dear,” she says demurely. “Are we all ready to go?”

“I need to take my vitamins,” I say abruptly. I scurry off before I can be told otherwise.

In the bathroom, I shove past the chalky Flintstones vitamins in favor of the glass bottle at the back of the cabinet. The first few times I stole Jan’s Valium, I spent days after terrified that she’d notice. In the three years since, she hasn’t said a word, and her little bottle keeps getting dutifully refilled—a prescription for four pills a day, even though she only ever takes two.

I let the Valium rock me to blissful unawareness as I move like a robot through my day.

ENTRY ONE 

SFX: Long chime

MINA
This is Mina Thomas, uh, log number one? Shit, where'd the sheet—

SFX: Papers rustle

MINA (CONT'D)
Here, okay, uh. Sorry, this is Patient A-6. Entry One, date December 1st 2018. Project Cryo. Uh, shit, I hope this is recording—the doctor showed me how to do this, I think I'm doing it right...? There was a list of prompts…

SFX: Papers rustle, again

MINA
Uh, "How are you feeling about the procedure?" Nervous. Uh, really nervous. I generally don't feel great about anything that makes me sign that many disclosure agreements. But, I agreed to this. No, I signed up for this. So. I feel okay, I guess.

SFX: Even more papers rustle—they really did give her a hefty stack of paperwork

MINA (CONT'D)
Question two. "What are your hopes for the future?"

Mina laughs.

MINA (CONT'D)
Uh. I mean, you all got my statement during the psych eval. I'm here because of my deep love of science and my desire to improve... science.

She’s definitely hiding something. She clears her throat.

MINA (CONT'D)
Question three. "In addition to any letters you wrote during Stage 2, Emotional Counseling, do you have any messages you would like to leave for your friends or family?"

A longer pause as she seriously considers.

MINA (CONT'D)
Okay. To my sister: I know it was really hard for you to be a replacement for mom after she died, and you did the best you could. I wish you were nicer, though. To my brother... 
(pause)
I’m gonna fix everything. I love you. I'll be back soon.

ENTRY TWO

SFX: Long chime

MINA (CONT'D)
(groggy)
Uh, Mina Thomas—no, patient—shit, what was it? Uh…

SFX: Rustling papers

MINA (CONT'D)
Patient, uh, A-6. Entry 2, date December 1st 2218. Project Cryo. I just woke up a few hours ago, and I'm a little out of it. I hope I'm using this thing right, it's... completely different from anything we had where—when—I'm from.

A moment as she catches her breath, already a little winded just from that.

MINA (CONT'D)
Things are different now. Uh, time travel still hasn't been invented. Which is kind of a bummer. And hospital gowns literally haven't changed at all. Also a bummer. Things are pretty different? People talk differently. I mean, I can understand people, it's the same language, but all the slang and vernacular is just... off. It feels like I'm talking to someone speaking weird, coded English that I'm not in on. Okay, now I'm supposed to talk about what the procedure felt like—but, honestly, I don't remember most of it. The anesthesia hit before the cryo-whatever. Waking up was weird, though. It felt like I just blinked and suddenly I was 200 years in the future.

She pauses, contemplating.

MINA (CONT'D)
I'm going to ask if they can put me back under. I haven't gone far enough yet. Uh, science. And all that.

ENTRY THREE

SFX: Long chime

DANIEL
—eah, it turns on like that.

MINA
Okay, yeah, I think that's how I had it before. Great. Uh, Patient A-6. Entry 3, date December 2nd 2218. Project Cryo. I didn’t think I’d get any visitors 200 years in the future, but—

DANIEL
Hi!

MINA
Hi! This is my brother Matthew's great-great-great... how many?

DANIEL
Great-great-great-great-great-grandchild. I’m Daniel Gonzalez. 

MINA
How did you find me here?

DANIEL
My grandmother told me stories about you—she never met you, of course, but Matthew told his kids and then it got passed down. When I was in college, I got the idea to try to track down information on Project Cryo. I told them the story, asked to be contacted when you woke up, and… well, twenty years later, here we are.

MINA
Wow, that’s… thank you. It really is nice to meet you. I was definitely not expecting anyone to visit me, so I thought it would be a nice thing to log.

DANIEL
Thank you for letting me be part of this. 
(pause) 
Mina, can we talk privately for a minute?

MINA
Oh, sure. Here, I'll turn this off—

SFX: Button click

MINA (CONT'D)
(louder volume; she’s holding the recorder)
I think that was the stop button?

SFX: Recorder clunking on table

MINA (CONT'D)
What's up?

A beat as Daniel tries to piece together the slang.

MINA (CONT'D)
Sorry, uh, what did you want to talk about?

DANIEL
Mina... the nurse mentioned to me that you requested to be frozen again.

MINA
Yeah. I did.

DANIEL
And she told me the first thing you asked, when you were lucid.

MINA
(growing defensive)
Well, what about it?

DANIEL
Mina, time travel is—it's science fiction. You have no idea when or if it'll ever be invented.

MINA
Well, what am I supposed to do? I can't go back from here. The only way I can go is forward.

DANIEL
(softly)
Then don't go.

MINA
What?

DANIEL
Don't go. Stay here. My wife and I have room to expand; adding an extra room to the house will only take a day or two. You can stay as long as you want. Forever, even. You don't have to go.

A pause.

MINA
I have to get back to him.

DANIEL
But what if you can't?

MINA
... Can I give you an answer tomorrow?

DANIEL
Hey, yeah. Of course. I'll come back tomorrow, okay? You have my number, if you need me before then.

MINA
Okay. Thank you, Daniel. Uh... I think I need to rest now, if that's okay.

DANIEL
Of course. Can I give you something, first?

MINA
Yeah...?

SFX: Bag opening, closing

MINA (CONT'D)
Where—how did you get that?

DANIEL
You recognize it?

MINA
I gave it to Matthew right after—

A pause. It happened 200 years ago, but to Mina, it's still fresh.

MINA (CONT'D)
—after our mom died. So he could write down everything he was feeling. Where did you...?

DANIEL
Matthew made his kids promise to keep this safe until someone could give it to you. It got lost a few times, and it's... pretty beat up. But it's been sealed up for the past century or so, so it should still be legible.

Another pause. Mina sniffles.

DANIEL (CONT'D)
He named his first daughter after you.

Mina begins to cry, small sounds that quickly progress into full-on sobbing. Daniel immediately shifts into Dad Mode.

DANIEL (CONT'D)
Hey, hey, hey—hey, I'm here, I'm here—do you want a hug? Yeah, okay, here—it's okay, Mina, it's okay. I'm here. It's okay.

After a moment, Mina forces herself to calm down.

MINA
I think I need to be alone for a little while.

DANIEL
Hey, of course. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?

MINA
... Okay.

ENTRY FOUR

SFX: Long chime

MINA 
Patient A-6. Entry 4, date December 2nd 2418. Project Cryo.
(pause)
There's not really anything here worth talking about. I'm going back under tomorrow.

Seattle had no shortage of sleazy, washed-up, middle-aged men who could have been running the front desk of the so-called “death hotel”—but of course, when I entered the corner store on the hotel’s ground floor, it was Radcliff Raeburn’s startled face peering at me from behind the glass. 

The neon Mothburn Hotel sign next to him cast stark lighting on his pale face, illuminating his sharp cheekbones and casting deep shadows over his dark eyes. On his other side, an acrylic sign affixed to the glass advertised the hotel’s rates: all $100 or less per week, varying by floor. I stopped a few feet back from the desk. “Somehow, I’m not surprised that you’re the one running this.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say running it, by any means,” he said. “Involved, though? Oh, yes, most certainly. Most certainly, indeed. I must admit, I am rather surprised to see your darling little face here. I didn’t think you were quite so…”

“Stupid?”

“Desperate.” He leaned forward until his nose was nearly pressed against the plexiglass divider. “And yet, I can smell the desperation all over you. You know, my dear, if you’ve fallen on hard times, I’m always happy to—”

“No,” I interrupted. “It’s not—it’s not that. It’s my… girlfriend.”

Radcliff raised his overly-plucked eyebrows. “Your girlfriend?”

“Ex-girlfriend. Kind of. It-it’s complicated. Um—the point is, she, she checked in here about a month ago. Last week, she stopped responding to anyone’s texts or calls, stopped showing up for work, and just sort of…”

“Disappeared,” Radcliff finished. “What floor was she staying on?”

“I don’t know.” 

Radcliff looked me over. Whatever he saw apparently moved or satisfied him enough, and he hauled a giant, worn, old binder out from under the counter. The thunk! it made when he set it on the counter rattled the room like an earthquake.

“Is that… a paper ledger?” I asked. 

“The bosses have a very particular way they like things to be done. Name, please.”

“Beatrix Blackwood.”

Radcliff gave me a look that was equal parts exasperation and pity. “Your girlfriend’s name, dearest.”

“Right, uh—Angeline Fortier.”

He nodded and began flipping through his massive ledger. “Have you been sleeping well? Or… at all? You’ve always had a bit of a wandering mind, but I’m not used to seeing you so scattered.” 

“I’ve been trying to sleep.”

“And failing, I suppose. What date did you say she checked in?”

“November 1st.” 

“November 1st… Angeline Fortier…” he muttered. “Ah! Here we… eugh.”

“What? What was that sound for?”

“She must have been quite desperate. Room 608.”

“608,” I echoed softly.  

“Sixth floor—$70 per week. An incredible deal, really, but… well, that’s also the floor where things start to get very dangerous.” He tilted his head. “If she was so desperate, why didn’t she stay with you?”

“Uh—like I said, it’s complicated.” I rubbed my face. “Okay. I’ve got some questions.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“How many floors does this building really have?”

“Oh, I’ve no idea.” 

“Really? You’re running this place, and you don’t even know?”

“Managing, not running,” he corrected. “And no, I don’t. You must have seen the outside of the building as you approached it—how many floors do you think it has?”

I fumbled. “I… don’t know. I tried to count the rows of windows, but the top of the building was covered by clouds or fog or something, and—and every time I counted, I got a different number.” 

“Mm.” A tight, close-lipped smile spread across his face.

“Alright, moving on… how did this place get built so quickly? One night, an empty lot; the next morning, a fully built and furnished hotel. How the hell does that happen?” I asked. All he gave me in return was that same impenetrable smile. “Okay. Fine. Be coy. Next question. How many people have disappeared so far?”

“How many do you think have disappeared?”

I suddenly understood why he was protected by a sheet of thick plexiglass. “It’s… hard to say. Just from the missing persons reports I read, at least fifty over the six months the hotel’s been open.”

“But…?” he prompted me.

“But… outside of thrillseekers, urban explorers, and some unfortunate YouTubers, the people who stay here must be desperate. Poor, uncared for, the kind of people who don’t have a friend’s couch or an uncle’s spare room to crash in. Plenty of them wouldn’t have jobs—or at least, jobs that would be willing to call the police to report a missing employee. So there’s probably a lot of people who have gone missing who were never reported at all.” 

Radcliffe beamed. “Clever girl.” 

“How has this place not been shut down yet?” Again, he didn’t respond. “Have you seen… anything?”

“I see plenty of things, dear. I know you think me old, but I haven’t gone blind yet.” 

“You know what I mean,” I snapped. “Have you seen the…” I trailed off, unable to find a way to say the next word without feeling ridiculous. 

“The what?” he said softly. 

“The… monster,” I forced out. 

I honestly expected him to laugh at me. Instead, he gave me a look I couldn’t quite read and simply said, “This floor is safe.” 

“What about the other floors?”

“Not safe. No, not safe at all. The second and third are safer, relatively speaking, but—from there, it just gets worse and worse the higher you go.”

“And the sixth floor?”

“Like I said, your girlfriend must have been quite desperate.”

I examined the acrylic sign more closely. Prices were all per week, and listed by floor: the second and third were both $100, then it decreased by $10 a week until the tenth floor, where it started decreasing by five. That continued until the sixteenth floor, listed at a mere $5 per week. The last line of the sign simply read:

Seventeenth floor and above: ???

“How much does the seventeenth floor cost?” I asked.

“Oh, my dear, I’m not at liberty to say. You’re not quite that desperate yet.” He looked me over again. “But by god, you really do look exhausted. Let me get you a cup of coffee—on me.”

“If I drink this, is it gonna trap me in the hotel forever?”

“I’m not a fairy, dear. Well—not that sort, anyway.” He laughed at his own joke as he unlocked the door to his little booth and stepped out into the main room. A minute later, he handed me a cup of piping hot drip coffee with lots of vanilla creamer. “Here. Maybe this will help you look a bit less dead.”

Out here in the light, Radcliff didn’t look too far from dead himself. He’d always worn sleek, fashionable, well-styled clothes—not quite luxury and nothing he would find impractical to move around in, but nice enough that I’d always felt unpolished standing next to him. Now, he was wearing the same sort of clothes he always had, but everything was rumpled and even a little stained, like he’d been wearing the same thing for weeks without washing it. Even more shocking, his buttoned-up blazer didn’t match the rest of his outfit at all.

“Have you been sleeping?” I asked. 

In response, he just poured himself a cup of coffee and added a bottle of 5-hour Energy.