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solve et coagula ( The Wig)

  What's Done in the Dark Will Be Brought Into the Light Prologue: The Roadkill for Breakfast Years Before wigs spoke and gospel came in sequins, Eveline was a sad, lonely, confused soul. By nineteen, her parents had turned her into a medical experiment—diagnosed with ADHD, bipolar disorder, depression, and gender dysphoria, then enrolled in a mail‑order neurotherapy program that promised to “repattern trauma through guided dolphin sounds and light fasting.” Effexor, Seroquel, Lamictal: perfumes of despair fogging her up like a haunted mirror. On Sundays, televangelists thundered that mental illness was demonic residue, their frosted hair glowing like cheap halos while Eveline’s temples burned under hydrogel patches that smelled of melted plastic. But the darkness had teeth long before that. Trailer park nights reeked of stolen liquor, Zoloft, and Marlboro Reds. Eveline learned to paint bruises with Wet n Wild foundation, to swallow pills dry like communion wafers, to carve scriptu...
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The Crying Angel

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  The calluses on Ethan Lauderdale’s fingers came from tending her. Every scrape of lichen, every pulled vine was less maintenance than appeasement. The Crying Angel demanded touch. When he failed, her marble chipped in ways that matched his scars. Claire Holloway’s rental car skidded to a stop beside the wrought-iron fence. Afternoon light fractured through oak branches, streaking the angel’s face with phantom tears. Dry as bone when she blinked—but the statue’s hollow eyes did not release her gaze. Claire muttered “optical illusion,” though the angel’s lips seemed to twitch at the lie. Ethan wrenched ivy from a headstone. “Herbicide would save time,” Claire offered. He turned, pale eyes sharp. “This isn’t a cornfield. Some things deserve hands.” Behind him, the angel’s shadow stretched, wings framing him like a mantle. Claire felt chosen, though she hadn’t agreed. Mausoleum Lightning split the sky. Rain drummed her cheeks like tears. Ethan pulled Claire toward the mausoleum. As t...
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Period Perfect

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 "Eighty‑five cents,” the cashier muttered, eyes glued to her phone. The glow lit the acne scars on her chin. Tess dug through her wallet—receipts, lint, two quarters, a nickel. The espresso machine hissed like a cornered cat. Jamal, the barista, didn’t wait. He slid a demitasse across the counter with a wink. “Interview special. Extra shot of ‘fuck those guys.’” Tess snorted, coughed when the espresso hit—bitter as her last rejection. Jamal leaned in, apron strings dangling like nooses. “Let me guess. They wanted hustle culture but meant free overtime.” “Worse.” Tess thumbed the chipped glaze. “They had a ‘fun’ slide. With emojis.” Her phone still glowed with HR’s text: We went with a candidate whose values better aligned— Jamal’s laugh cut her off. “Translation: someone who’ll cry in the supply closet instead of quitting.” The chalkboard behind him listed Existential Dread under seasonal specials. Tess smirked. “You added that after Tuesday.” Jamal grinned. “Customer loyalty p...
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The Cello

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 Elira’s thumbnail pried at the cello’s seam until a chip of resin flaked loose. She caught it in her palm, surprised by the warmth. Inside the amber, something twitched—a mayfly, its wings folded like notation trapped between staves. For a heartbeat it lived, vibrating to the cello’s hum, then dissolved into iridescent dust that stung her nostrils with burnt sugar. The shopkeeper did not gasp. He leaned forward, ledger pressed to his chest, as if recording the insect’s brief aria. His shadow rose above him like a conductor’s baton, guiding the motes into alignment. “Every fragment remembers,” he intoned, his voice falling in tempo markings. “Every hum writes a name.” Elira’s breath caught. The dust settled into her cuticles, burrowing until her nail beds gleamed like polished pegs. She flexed her fingers and heard the faint creak of aged wood. The cello leaned into her touch, its shoulder pressing against her thigh with the insistence of a living thing. The shopkeeper’s coat flare...
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The Harmonica

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 The man in the brown coat hadn’t blinked in seventeen minutes. “You hear that?” he asked, fingers twitching against his thigh as if plucking invisible strings. Beneath his breath, muffled yet oddly precise, came the arrhythmic tapping of his left foot. The girl beside him—no older than twelve, her knees scabbed from climbing too many chain-link fences—tilted her head. “Hear what?” “Listen closer,” he breathed, and suddenly his foot stilled. The air between them thickened like cooling tar. Somewhere beyond the alley, a delivery truck’s engine sputtered into silence. A pigeon landed on a rusted fire escape, its claws scraping metal. The girl frowned, pressing her palms flat against the brick wall behind her. Then she heard it—not a sound, but the absence of one. The distant hum of traffic, the murmur of voices from the diner across the street, even the creak of her own jacket seams—all gone. Only the man’s unblinking stare remained, his pupils wide enough to swallow the light. His l...
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