Young Writers Society

At first, you are normal. Human- complex like a puzzle. The world you live in is filled with lies, wrath, and greed. Different areas of the human world are constructed under categories- the higher class (the cocky, egotistical morons who run the business front), middle class (the easy-going, soccer moms and stay-at-home dads who barely have enough time to push money to the higher class), and the lower class (mostly filled with the stupid people with little/no money). They got along with each other. Trading foods, animals, and pottery. It was a normal time back then.
Now, you are normal or cursed. Nobody knows how someone can actually get cursed. Secret markets form in the alleyways away from the big cities, of rallies against own family members. The next day, they are gone. A dark, horrible time for humans. You try to get away from your family, often sitting on the roof watching the stars or running away. Wishing. Hoping that maybe next time it'll be better. At the time it was peaceful, but now, it is only beginning.



Fighting. Bombs and bazookas. Ripping through flesh. For greed all nature is too little, they say. Red. It all started due to the first fall of the higher class- an accident. Caused it to go into a recession, which made mass panic throughout the higher part. At the time, nobody knew what caused it to crash- perhaps how greedy they were, stealing and robbing the innocent townspeople of the lower class. Tossed them aside like garbage. A rebellion sparked. Fire spread rapidly around. Flickering. Flickering away...

Money is rare as of now. Only the rich and powerful can get it, blackmailing others through a system of threats and holey promises. The world seems darker and mysterious, darkness prevailing and all of hope of something better, anything better, was shattered by fear.



Post-Higher Class - Elite, judgemental people who seek the common knowledge of everyone and everything. They wear fancy suits and ironed dresses- the kings and queens of the ranks. Love to boss people around and being praised for what they do. They enjoy the rich, expensive things in life and will be unreasonable. Very hypocritical and get into a lot of scandals. Most of the PHC is made up of PLC folks- this is a small amount compared to the amount of PLCs in the PMC.

(High) Intermediate - This class is more "stable" than their following class. Understand how to spend their money, what to save for, and have goals they wish to do before they die. Much like the PHC, they wear fancy dresses and suits with cleans shoes/heels. Some say "heaven resides here" as it is more calming and peaceful. Helps out the PHC. They are between rich/middle class standards. They receive a little more money than the PMC but not enough to be rich like PHC.

Post-Middle Class - Now we are getting to the lower class ranks. Here in the Post-Middle Class, they are dressed in normal human clothes. Rich enough to get food, but not rich enough to buy an estate. The jobs they have are common such as plumber, teacher, and small town baker. Unlike the PHC, they are more friendly here and try to help others out by donating to charities. What separates (High) Intermediate from PMC, is money.

(Low) Intermediate- Kinda nice, kinda hell. They have the leftover jobs from PMC and receive almost little or no money. However, unlike PLC, they have enough money to get a house, clothes, and food. Another thing is they can get doctor checkup whenever. Unlike the (High) Intermediate, (Low) Intermediate gets benefits for food, clothing, and doctor check ups. This is provided from some secret PHC group that go undercover, helping others out.

Post-Lower Class - Now, to the lowest of the low: the PLC. Sure, it isn't the nicest place here- most people here came from PHC and (High) Intermediate but fell due to the recession. They live outside, holding up a tin can and hoping for money. They wear what they had on before the recession. Most likely to be cursed by the Billionaire, since they are more "navie" than the rest of the ranks. Basically nomads, as they travel from place to place in hope of finding food or if they are lucky enough, an abandoned PMC home. They are treated like garbage from the PHC.

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You are a human with a hope or a human with a desire. You hold a secret. Placed high on the forgotten shelf, tucked behind long, lost memories. You toss and turn at night, gripping the blankets. A dream disguised as a nightmare. In the corner of your eye, you see it. The question is: What is it? What are you afraid of? Every day and night you live out your twenty four hours: waking and sleeping. Working and sitting. It's normal, nonetheless- but something seems off. People give you weird glances, mumble under their breath, and stare continuously. As if they know something.
One day you receive a package, wrapped in gift paper and addressed to you. Could it be from your mother? Your father? A friend or foe? This is where your story begins. It doesn't matter what rank you are: you have been cursed.

(Gifts, like one you receive are from the Billionaire. He is, in a sense, a selfish moron who loves to be dramatic. If you receive one of his gifts, which comes at random, you have been cursed. Most people think of the Billionaire as some "ghostly figure" and he tries to live up to that name. More information will come at a later time.)

How will you use the gift the Billionaire gave you? What could be inside?
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- You can have as many characters as you like (I suggest two).

- You cannot force kill someone- work with someone else or ask.

- General SB rules apply.

- Please make the characters older than 20.

- I like one of each rank, but two can do.


Character Template:



Reserved

1.) @Steggy (Post-Middle Class) - Amelia Rae McTyler
2.) @Jhinx (High Intermediate) - Gradyn Fhigher
3.) @Rydia (Post-Lower Class) - Albert Yeung
4.) @Keepwriting (Post-Lower Class) - Avangeline Terse
5.)
6.)

I just wanted my birthday to be have a smooth start, middle, and end- nothing with drama or fighting. Anything besides that, would be bliss. Carl wanted the party to be big, saying "you're only going to be thirty once. Might as well live it out." I kept begging for a normal day with some friends, drinking wine and chatting about our lives. Nothing fancy.
That morning, something seemed off. It wasn't exactly the mood, more as the setting. The sky was darker than usually, with the color of pink and grey on the west side. From my little window on the twelfth floor of the apartment building, I could see the small business shops opening, their owners walking out into the street and smiling. I huffed, sipping my coffee. Why did I get up early on a Saturday? My husband left work an hour earlier than he normally did. How unusual of him.
It wasn't bothersome until a few weeks ago, when he got a job as a plumber in town. Carl was excited for it, talking in great length of what he might be doing, how much he'd get paid, and what the job environment was like. I didn't care much for it, but as his wife, I had to smile and nod and talk sweetly to him. I worked as a teacher at the local high school, and to be completely honest, I rather be a plumber. Stressing over grading silly one page test and quizzes made my head explode. Of course, I never once complained to Carl- I never wanted to see him hurt by my stress.
Carl would come home with a smile, tried and paled. Hardworking. I loved him for that. But it seemed his attitude changed with the amount of hours he was working. Getting up at the crack of dawn then coming home late. He loved it, no less so I didn't want to bring up the issue.
Back in the PHC, you didn't have to work. If you did, though, it would be for one of those "high corperation projects" that you are randomly selected for. I've seen lots of people come and go from that job, looking brighter and happier than they did before. The job they had was changing their lives for the better, I guess. Carl was selected as Co-Leader, running the important issues and distributing thousands of cards in the mail. It was daunting. I could never do a job like that, staying in the shadows.
Sadly, a few months after the "high corperation projects" were off and soaring, the Post-Higher Class collapsed. Mass panic was spreading around and nobody knew why or how it fell. Rumors spread around saying the money the High Council had was running dry due to spending more and more on the city. Others speculated that a secret person, by the name of the Billionaire, was using the money to do something secret. I never believed these rumors as I am not the one to do so. But, was it possible that money was running dry like a river in summer?
It was then that everyone, even our neighbors, were being moved and rejected from special money offers from the Council. Soon the dynamic change settled, leaving some of the PHC residents in different classes. We were lucky enough to be in the Post-Middle Class- simple life, simple jobs, and simple payments.

I was so deep in my thoughts that I didn't hear the continuous ringing of the doorbell. After a few minutes, the ringer left. Shaking myself from the daydream of PHC, I looked at the time. I was going to be late for the third time this month. Another late excuse and I'll be fired! Panicking, I put my cold cup of coffee in the sink and rushed to my bedroom.
The city outside was bustling. People doing their normal lives. Walking about. Enjoying the world. I've always wondered what people, like myself, do on their free time. Did they work? Have dates and converse about gossip? It boggled my mind, even though I've been living in the PMC for a year now. I never seen the sights as much as Carl has- I wonder what he is doing right now.

I got dressed, looked in the mirror one last time, and was ready to walk out the door. When I was about to the door, my phone rang. I ignored it. No time for calling. The ringing chewed at my brain, telling me to answer it. I refused. I was going to be late- I didn't want to use the stupid excuse of "sorry, a friend called me and we talked for an hour." I'll answer it in the elevador.
Ignoring the phone, I opened the door and saw it: a present. Wrapped in pink wrapping paper with a blue bow. A piece of paper was tucked under one of the blue strings. I looked up and down the hallway, hoping to see if somebody mistaken this for somebody else's apartment, as if to just drop off a present. Nothing. I blinked. Could this be for me?
My brain was having panic alarms. Bright, red sirens yelling "DO NOT OPEN!" I bent down and touched the box. A cool, sentimental feeling. I slipped the paper out from under the strings, flipped it over, and read it.

Congrats, Mrs. McTyler. You've been Cursed.

I didn't know whether to laugh or be scared. I sighed, rolling my eyes. Probably a prankster. I ran quickly into the apartment and set the present on the kitchen counter. Shit. I'm going to be late. I wish I had something fast to take me.
Rushing out of the apartment, I made it to the elevator. My phone made a beeping sound, telling me I had a voicemail. I guess I can check it now. As I pressed the bottom floor button, I pulled out my phone and pressed the voicemail icon. A slow, deep voice spoke.

"Hello, Mrs. McTyler. I'm calling to let you know about your husband, Carl. In a recent event, we've found he has been having an affair with Miss Franklin of (Low) Intermediate. We're deeply sorry about this concern and wish to speak with you immediately about this issue. Thank you. And then the server clicked. I was left shocked and confused. An uneasy feeling settled in my chest. Was it sadness? Hate? Betrayal? I thought he loved me. When we got married, we promised to never cheat or do anything of the sort.

That lying ass. How could he do this?

I pocketed my phone as I reached the bottom floor. Different people dressed in different clothes surrounded me. I was alone and had nobody.

I'm going to be late for work. Don't be sad or angry. Just go to work. That's all that matters as of now. I slowly, but surely, blended my way through the crowd of the city.

Everyone in the city has a secret, a plan, and a dream. Somebody out in this city is doing something crazy, robbing a bank or falling in love. A normal life. A secret that can destroy lives and cause havoc. All I was was an ant.



A man smiles, smoking a cigarette. He is looking through the window of one of the tall building. As he withdraws his cigarette, he says:

"So, it begins."

And continues on with his life. As like anyone else in the city, he has a secret.

Albert Yeung

It was a cold, stamping your boots so your feet don't fall off kind of a day. I've had a lot of those. I was stamping outside the Mirador Citadel, a ritzy kind of building that used to be some kind of defense fortress but now provided hobnobbing PHC people with an (expensive) bed to sleep in. It hosted fancy meeting rooms and places for dancing or chit-chatting or rooms for all of the other hundreds of ways the PHC like to pass their time without getting anything useful done.

I was having a grinning contest with one of the security guards and my gap toothed, idiotic smile was currently winning. The young chap shifted uncomfortably and checked his watch.

"still not here," he mumbled.

The second security guard barked a laugh and shook his head. "Told you not to take it eh, didn't I?"

"Yeah, maybe."

They stood in silence for a while and I kept grinning and stamping and wondering when my contact was going to show. I'd just about given up on him when a suit walked out of the Citadel and stopped to drop a piece of metal in my waiting tin can. It made a clunk like coins but I was listening for it and so I heard the heavier clunk of a key.

"Uh- Sir-" The young guard hesitated as the suit half turned toward him, a look of contempt on his face. I tried not to look too closely and started to shuffle my way into the shadows.

"What are you doing?" hissed guard number two but not so loudly that his job would be on the line as well.

"Sorry Sir, but- I'm looking for an Albert Yeung." The security guard and I both held our breath.

"Don't insult me, do I look like a man with such a common name?" The suit sneered and glided away.

"Well that's that," the young security guard murmured. He looked at his watch like it might jump off his arm and bite him. "That's time." He was getting himself in a flap now and kicked the wall. I shuffled off a ways further in case he looked for something else more kickable. It was time to go. I had what I'd come for but my cursed curiosity had me rooted to the spot.

"Easy, easy. It's nothing to stress about."

"So what do I do with it?"

"I don't know. Give it to the bum, let him find this Albert Yeung guy."

And that was how I got a package with my name on it, all wrapped up in fancy paper and with a note from some big job.

I grabbed my suit coat from the leather loveseat. It was still in good shape from last night where I had hastily thrown it on there after a long day at work. Work was my life. It was my passion.

Staring at myself in the mirror, I studied my reflection for a moment. I wore these things all the time. The same type of suit. The same tux. The same slacks with the matching tie. Yet somehow it worked for me. I smirked, mimicking my favorite smile of all time: the lopsided "eh what are you gonna do about me" grin that made everyone want to hate me or kiss me. Sometimes both.

Donning the coat, fixing the wrinkles, and giving myself one last wink, I left the comfort of my mirror to the kitchen. It wasn't much of a walk, since I wasn't in PHC. They garnered all the attention; there were no money problems in PHC.

I lived well enough, not having to worry about how I got my next meal. But I was still a servant to the kings and queens of the PHC. If I treated them well, I was treated well. If I worked well, my people would receive just compensation. I was a servant to the government, but I was also a servant to my people.

I didn't need much, being a middle-aged bachelor workaholic. My tiny abode rose high above the other classes, a place where only the mightiest of my class were allowed to live in. It held only three rooms, with everything crammed tightly into those tight walls. But I was living. And I was living well.

As I cooked my food, the blinds to my apartment rose as per the usual, letting the rose-tinted sunlight flood the place with a warm glow. The Council was doing their last meeting for the month today, addressing the issues of the recent money crisis hitting many of of the HI citizens. As per the usual, I thought with a slight grin. Those who don't know how to use the system gets used by it.

I ate my food in peace, enjoying the last rays of the sunrise gliding into the room. It was a pre-made omelet: a PHC classic. It was easy to make and reproduce in the thousands. Somehow, though, people ended up with no food and on the streets.

I finished my omelet in silence. I needed no thoughts to myself. My life was boring; others were far more interesting to watch. It was simple how easily each class is manipulated by the ones above it. Even in the PHC, people were manipulated, twisted all the time. And above all else, the one who lies at the top and manipulates them all: The Billionaire.

I squinted at the thought. He is a mysterious force, but a powerful one at that.

Ding-Dong

The unfamiliar chime of my intercom system sounded throughout the apartment, softly coursing through and suddenly destroying any thought I had at the moment.

I don't normally have guests.

Ding-Dong

Breathing in a deep sigh, I glanced at the door. It was a mere ten or so feet from me, but the apprehension of who lies behind it kept me in my seat. Members of the Council were advised to never open their door, for fear of an enemy of the government could be standing behind it.

The doorbell chimed again, deafening all else in the room. Rising from my seat, I slowly moved to the door, careful to catch any noise that my alert me to the nature of the stranger's intentions.

Nothing. The silence felt thick against my ears, forcing them to ring to keep noise happening. Holding my breath, I forced open the door.

Nestled in the small confines of my hallway was a small present, wrapped in a dark crimson and bright gold. A finely wrapped bow lay on top of a dark piece of nestled paper. It was a letter.

Frowning a little, I knelt down and inspected the small contraption. It looked harmless at first, but first looks never tell the whole story. Alarms ran through my mind, highlighting the possible terrible scenarios of this present.

I decided to gently pull the letter out from the wrapping. In fine letters was-

Congrats, Mr. Fihigher. You've been Cursed.

I blinked twice. Still, the writing remained there. I sighed and picked up the box, inspecting it. There was no way in hell I was opening it at the current moment in time.

This will have to be reported to the Council. Setting the gift on my table, I pulled out my phone and pressed the speed-dial for the Head Council member: Sarah Cornell.

"Hey, Sarah-"

"Gradyn, have you checked the news today?"

I faltered. "Uhh, no, why?"

I heard a sigh over my phone. "Beware the press covered outside your door. Keep your head down and don't answer any questions until you get to the Council building. We need to talk."

"Alright. Hey Sarah, I was-" click. Putting on a large coat over my suit, I glanced down my window to the bottom of the building. Just like Sarah said, the area around my apartment complex was teeming with people. People for me. What the hell did I do to deserve this?



The sun casted its last rays on a man, half-coated in shadow. He pushed a pawn down on a wooden chessboard in front of him.

"The next pawn has been thrown."

With a long puff from his cigarette, he whistled the smoke out. A cheery tone. A secretive tone.

My job was absolute hell. During the afternoon lunch break, two teachers (Mr. Johnson and Alex) were fighting. I don't exactly remember over what, but I do remember the dent that was place above my head from a chair. Life can flash before your eyes, much like a camera. It holds that memory in place for a second, before continuing on. I had tried to come between the two men, but I was shoved onto the floor. The teacher lounge was a place of warfare and peace; somebody was fighting for something. The lies that were told around a highschool lunch table were considered reality. We never seemed to have the guts to tell the students this.
Mr. Johnson and Alex continued to fight, Mr. Johnson (a middle aged fellow with stunning brown eyes and handsome blonde hair) continued to throw threats after threats towards Alex (a young teacher assistant, of only twenty two, with green eyes and deep brown hair). He didn't even seem to phase towards these threats; it seems, as if, they were bouncing off a protected barrier. Alex would only smirk at these dumb remarks while Mr. Johnson would get angrier and angrier.

I decided to leave before something bad happened. When I first came to this school, starting out as a preschool teacher, some of my friends would warn me of Mr. Johnson. Even then I thought he was scary but the more I think about it: why would a kid like Alex make him mad? It was a stupid thought. Surely, they had their reasons. I didn't want to get involve with the crossfire.
I sighed, making my way towards my final class of the day. Even though I was in Math class, I could still hear the echo of fuss Mr. Johnson was spewing.
Even though it felt like worst was over, I was dead wrong. In other words, imagine twenty four pre-teens on their school laptops and not paying attention. Then imagine a teacher, who is already striken with stress and doubt, trying to teach this class. You get the image?

I wasn't saying today was going to be a bad but I felt as if it was. Towards the end of the class, most of the students forgotten their homework. It was annoying for the mosr part; kindergarteners were better than these students. Teachers are excited for the end, they get to go home and rest (unless you have to grade twenty four tests).
Grabbing my stuff, I walked towards the back entrance. What I didn't expect was flurries. Small flakes of white fell from the cloudy heavens. There was a slight wind gust that caused them to dance around the parking lot, hang still in the air, and land softly on the nearby bushes. I huffed, adjusting my purse strap over my shoulder. Did I walk or drive here? Honestly, I don't remember. The day was long and I had a growing headache.
Looking out into the teacher's parking lot, I had noticed my red car wasn't there (promptly suggesting, I walked here.) I groaned, pulling at the only warmth in my coat. It wasn't going to be a long walk to my apartment; the school was only a few blocks from where I lived but I wouldn't want to risk of getting sick. The doctors that are in the PMC aren't that "trained". They do, however, come free to those that work and/or have children. I was on the balance beam, meaning I was lucky enough to get onto the list of free doctors. If only they did that with taxes.

Moving along, I finally found myself on the sidewalk. There were only a few people out compared to eariler (which was slightly warmer, now that I remember it). Some were dressed in jackets, fur around the hood and sleeves while others were sitting under restraunt covers, staring into a daydream. I sighed, my breath coming out in a form of a personal cloud. The air around my got colder as the light was beginning to fade. My mother used to warn me, when I was only nine, that the monsters would often come out and take useless people from the streets at dusk. I believed it for most of my life until I was in college (or rather, lucky enough to get into college). Those stupid lies my parents used to tell me seemed to rub off and crave something human.

As I continued walking, the amount of people seemed to decrease, disappearing behind closed doors. Cars drove and left around corners. I've wondered, what people with breaks do? Or rather, how do people live? The town I lived in was continuous moving and always alive- even in the dead of night. I would try to ignore it but it is hard to ignore when you hear the sounds of screaming horns and rumbling trains. The city was alive.



When I finally made it home, the lights were off. Carl must not be home. His name was poison; it broke my heart every time I heard/thought it. I sighed, placing my purse on the kitchen counter and took my shoes off. The apartment was a normal; a small plant occupied a place by the couch, the tv wasn't grand but not poor for entertainment, and two couches (opposite of each other) faced a small black coffee table. There were two large windows that provided a view of outside. The kitchen, much like the living room, wasn't grand. A fridge was on the right side while an granite island held most the important/junk mail.
I opened up the fridge, a blast of cool air hitting my face and a welcoming scent of nothing ran into my nose. I groaned. Forgetting that Carl ate like a horse almost sicken me. I hadn't cared for it before since we would always eat out, only to have leftovers. He would try to cover up the fact that we didn't have any food in the fridge with leftovers. What a douche I thought, closing the fridge door.
Outside the sky was darkening, the first light coming from the full moon and stars. As I was walking out of the kitchen, I noticed the package from eariler. It was small package covered in pink wrapping. Perhaps a friend sent this. Then I remembered; I don't have any friends.
All of the close or "so thought' friends were still living their lives in the PHC. That was before the PHC crashed and the whole system of classes, broke. I don't remember telling them I moved down towards PMC or ever hearing from them.

As I picked up the package, I felt a tugging my stomach. A warning. I shook it off as I walked back to my room with the package tucked under my left arm. As I padded down the hallway, the warning knot inside my stomach seemed to tighten. The shadows of the hallway seemed to move and vanish. Things appeared larger in size. It's probably since I need sleep.
Opening my bedroom door, I set the pink wrapped present on the bed. Sitting next to it, I started tugging at the ribbons. It came undone and before I knew it, I ripped apart the wrapping paper to reveal a brown cardboard book. Huh.
The box itself was tapped along the top and bottom. "DO NOT DROP. STUFF INSIDE WILL BREAK" were written in black ink. Compelling but interesting. I ripped the tape off and quickly opened the box to find a gun. A small handgun, to be precise. As of right now, my head was screaming. Warning signs. Lights flashing. It was all blocked out.



A man is playing chess, humming. A lit cigarette is placed in the ashtray as he grins.

"All of my pawns are in order. Now we wait."

Albert Yeung

The trick to getting places without being stopped is to walk around like it would be somebody else's problem if they stopped you because nobody wants problems. A good, solid stick and an unkempt beard help. Maybe the beard helps more; they can see the stick but the beard is hiding something and when it's really messy, it could be hiding anything.

Mine mostly hides food, those little scraps that don't quite make it into the mouth; I'm saving them for a hard day.

So I beat my staff against the pavement with every step I take and I only stop when I'm standing in the cobbled alley outside The Downside Up House.

I retrieve the key from my tin and pocket it for later inspection then enter the pub and take a seat in the corner. I put the package on the table and then empty the rest of the contents of the tin in front of me and start counting change.

A few of the drinkers look around but most don't let their gazes linger too long. Some of them I know, others I don't. Most are ragged and tough looking people but you get some solid workers as well and a couple of clean shirts. There aren't any suits ever, but sometimes a few military men might pass through so it's best to sit where you can see the door.

The change is enough to get me a bowl of soup, a hunk of crusty bread and the all important pint. I've not had a good sit down meal in a couple of days but now that I've got the key, I'm two steps closer to a big pay day.

And then there's this package.

It's true that someone might know I like to use the citadel as a drop off point with the phc, but to think that they knew where I was going to be at such a crucial moment is unsettling. It's more than that, it's threatening. Knowing things is my business and if there's someone out there who knows more than me than I need to know who they are and what they know.

The package is fancy. The paper is green and shiny and its got this big tag and it says my name and even I can read that. I remember Maggie trying to teach me how to write them, the straight lines of the A and then the long fall of an l, the rise and curl of the b. Most days I sign with a circle interlocking with an oval, but I can scratch out these two words when I have to. Albert Yeung.

The top of the package has a white piece of paper taped to it and smaller, but still flourishing writing which could be telling me anything.

It could be laced with poison. There could be gas. People in my line of work do't normally send you nice gifts and anything that looks this pretty on the outside can't be good.

I cover my mouth and nose with a grimy handkerchief, breathing in the dirt from the road and last month's fever-sweat. I put the package as far away from me on the table as I can and then use the knife that came with my bread and butter - licked clean - to slide beneath the fancy green paper.

It's a slow way to satiate my curiosity but safer. Maybe.

"Hey, Einstein!" The voice cuts through my focus and the spoon falls onto the table with a clatter as a dark haired youth sits himself at my table. "What's this?"

"Danny you put that down!" I growl, my heart suddenly humming in my chest as he starts ripping into the box. I lurch across the table, soup chugging and my back bricking, to pull the package from his hands.

The box is open and from Danny's quiet hush, I think he saw its contents and I stare inside now with a growing trepidation.

"Where'd you get it?" Danny asks at last.

I don't know what to tell him. I never know what to tell him and now least of all for there in the box is a blade I thought I'd never see again in my life. I can feel my hand shaking and I almost don't see the second item wrapped around the dagger's handle. The locket. Maggie's locket, the one which Danny's mother wore around her neck until the day she died.

The morning sunlight was seeping through the bedroom window, golden strands of light dancing on the floor. A continuous process I could never get over and hopefully, it would stay that way. I moved a hand to the side of me, finding it not warm from Carl's warmth but cold from the air that held the imprints there. There was a slight hum in the air, probably coming from the kitchen as I sat up. Forgetting to change, I still wore the same clothes from last night. Rubbing the palm of my hand over my right eye, a small yawn escaped my lips as I moved my hands over my head. The sounds of bones popping was nothing enjoyable in the morning. I glanced at the clock, the red numbers glaring at my eyes.
Sighing, I slipped out of the bed. The cool wood meeting my feet sent shivers down my spine. Next to my feet was the pink gift box, containing the gift I received yesterday. I glanced in the direction of it, the thoughtless memories coming back. I don't remember the feeling I had when I got it. It almost felt peaceful that I had a weapon near my bedside. It was a secret about where it came from, though the note I got with it was more threatening than scary.

Congrats, Miss McTyler. You've gotten a gift to use at your disposal. There are special gifts within this one that can help you pinpoint or address better to your gift. You know what they say, you're on your own and you know what you know, and you are the guy who'll decide where to go. Good luck!

It wasn't signed or anything. Just simple words that gave her the permission to use the gun to my advantage. My brain was at war with itself, continuously begging and offering possible subjects to use. To be honest, I didn't know how to shot a gun nor did I ever want to to. In the PHC, it wasn't allowed to hold anything threatening towards the general public and if somebody did, they would disappear within the night. However, in the PMC, it was the complete opposite. The permission of guns was allowed and often carried by adults. I never seemed to care for it until the English teacher, Mr. Henn, came into the school and pulled out the gun to show to his students. The teacher council didn't approve of the matter, though, as it would possibly make students think it was okay to bring guns into the school. It was voted upon that any sort of weapon that was brought into the school, would cause the suspect to be fired or banished from the school.

I got out of the bed, limping towards the kitchen as pins and needles running down my legs. It wasn't a long walk to the kitchen, though, just a walk down the hallway and turn left. The humming was increased to a simple silence. I hated the silence; it often brought forth new ideas and sometimes these ideas were not that good. There was always a saying back home that the servants said, coming from a lowkey poet who spent most of his days in a shed on the east side of town, "To think is to go beyond the limit." A single phrase that changed some lives, maybe. I wasn't sure; poetry always made me overthink to the point of regretting my life. I guess you say, I was overthinking the simple things and just planning ahead of my life. With Carl, it was almost like stones were being weighed and dropped, however, now that I know he's a bastard, the stones are on my side.
The coffee pot was the only music that kept me grounded this morning. Looking out the window from my apartment, I saw the different cars driving to their jobs or doing shopping of the sort. I remembered when I was first welcomed into the PMC that everyone was crowded yet kind. Distance yet home. I sighed, turning back towards the bubbling coffee pot. The clock on the kitchen stove was a green 6:45 and I wasn't ready for the day. Even though it was a Saturday, there was a predicted gut feeling that stayed on my mind. It could be for the reason I had a gun next to my bed, hiding in an innocent gift box. The thought of the gun made me shiver. The message seemed to tell me, or rather, instructed me, to use the gun for something. What would that something be? I didn't know. The pondering of how to use the gun was going to make my head hurt. The pondering of what wasn't the matter now. My thoughts were just jumbled as of now (the hardest I've thought in all my years) and even if I tried pushing them off, it still sunk in the back of my head.

The coffee maker stopped, the smell drifting slowly into my nose and jolting me from my thoughts. I grabbed my favorite teal cup that I received from my sixteenth birthday party from my only friends. It had a happy elephant face with the words Happy Birthday, Amy Rae! I smiled shortly, setting the cup onto the counter. The small clock in the living room dinged quietly, the next hour upon me. Sighing, I poured coffee into my cup and lifted it to my lips.

To think is to go beyond the limit. The phrase lingered in my mind. What limit did a human have until they gave up? It seemed to almost inspire me to do something, but what? Sipping my coffee silently, I rendered my view to a nearby window. I had two potted plants, green leaves glowing emerald. A slow memory of my mother, reading me a book with the bedside table light on, a book from Dr. Seuss. At the time, I wasn't aware of who this person was but much like the lowkey poet, he changed so many lives.

"Think and wonder. Wonder and think." It was, much like the lowkey poet's words, made me think too hard. As a Math teacher, I could leave the speaking to Mr. Henn. It struck a chord with my process of what to do with the gun. It only made me stressed out. Dumping the remaining of my coffee into the sink, I turned my glance towards a picture of Carl and myself with my "rich" friends to the side of me. Frowning slightly, I reached up to the picture and plucked it from the cabinet. I looked younger almost with a placid smile and forced happiness could be seen in my eyes. Carl, on the other hand, looked generally happy. Flipping over the picture, I realized it was our wedding. No wonder I looked displeased. Shaking my head, I threw the picture onto the counter and wandered into my room.

The pink box was still on the floor where I left it, innocent yet deadly. Like a baby. I walked in front of the mirror, patting my messy brown hair. The pink gift was in my peripheral vision, blurry but there. I moved my view to it; the feeling almost felt like the gift was taunting me, welcoming to somewhere I wished not to go. It loomed the question of whether to use it or not. Turning my back to the mirror, I leaned against the armoire. From the night before, my brain was at war with itself. It continued on and on into the wee hours of the morning, the fading orange light slowly coming into the dark blue sky. I slowly walked towards the present, like stalking the gift as if it was a poisonous snake.
The gun was nothing special. How I use the gun was something unthinkable. My thoughts were snapped shut when I heard the front door open. Bastard's home. Sighing shortly, I moved out of the living room to meet my husband coming in. He looked tired, holding onto his yellow work pants and lunchbox.

"How was work?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe. He grunted a reply, setting his lunchbox on the counter. I frowned slightly, moving into the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"Some idiot broke the company's toilet."

"It took two days?" Carl nodded, moving around the kitchen putting his half eaten sandwich in the fridge. I nodded, moving to the counter.

He knows more than he admits. I thought. Carl was a steady guy but complex. He didn't like to share the important things and only watched from the distance. I loved him long ago, a rich girl whose parents forced her into marriage and overtime, I accidently fell into that sickening web. We married and had our fights here and there, but they were short tempered and drowned out by alcohol. A weird thought crept into my mind, tightening the wise things I've heard. I glanced towards Carl, who was walking out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom, I brought forth the thought.

"Even great men bow before the Sun. It melts hubris into humility," I whispered under my breath. I forgot where I heard that from but whatever it was from, must be true. I walked out of the kitchen, anger somehow traveling into my mind. I decided something right then and there; I was going to kill Carl with the gun.



"Sir, I'm glad to say that Miss McTyler has decided." A cool woman's voice from somewhere in the room, stated. The man was sitting in the shadows, back pressed up against a wall. He smiled evilly, looking up.

"Wonderful. Now we wait for the real fun to begin." He gets up from his seat and walked towards the chessboard. "Not all that have fallen are vanquished, a king may yet be without crown, a blade that was broken be brandished, and towers that were strong may fall down." He picked up the queen, moving it around his hand. "I'm fond of unexpected fates."

I set my phone down on the table, confused. My job wasn't supposed to be too media heavy, as I wasn't anyone important. My eye caught the Crimson-and-gold box sitting next to my phone. For some reason, all traces of confusion started with that box.

Hands shaking, I untied the delicate bow on top of the box. The wrapping unfurled and fell to the counter softly, revealing the blood-red box in its full dreadful glory. I lifted the top open, peering inside hesitantly.

Inside lay a voice recorder atop a black silk pillow.

I inspected it. No batteries. "Is this some sort of joke?" I muttered. Stuffing the reocorder in my pocket, I picked up my phone and rang for Simon.

"Gradyn."

"Simon, please tell me you're here to pick me up?"

"Yeah, I'm parked in the back. Do you know how much shit you're in?"

"Actually, no Simon, I have no clue what's going on. I'll make my way down there." Click.

I made one last glance at myself, fixed my tie, and headed out the door. The voice recorder felt heavy against my thigh as I took the stairs two at a time. The elevator's probably swarming with reporters right now, all looking for me. I racked my mind to figure out why this is revolving around me.

My job isn't necessarily the best job or the most ethical job in the world, but it's supposed to stay in the shadows. I was no one important on the Council. My work was a consultant between HI and PHC to solve the financial problems in both clases after the PHC financial downfall earlier in the year.

I pushed the collar up on my coat, looking away as someone crossed paths with me. They had a devilish look in their eyes, but they weren't geared towards me. Presumably they still thought I was in my apartment.

My heart raced as I landed on the last flight of stairs, making my chest hurt. Uncontrolled anxiety always gave me pains. As my hand touched the door to the back of the building, I heard a voice.

"Mr. Fihigher?"

I ignored the person and heaved the door open.

It didn't close behind me with the resounding thud as it usually does. "Mr. Fihigher, I'm not a reporter, I just wanted to know why you did what you did."

I turned around to see young boy, maybe around the age of 12. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about, kid. Go home."

The boy stopped in his tracks, but I ignored him and moved to the parking garage. Simon pulled out. Opening the back door, I looked back at the boy to see him on his knees, looking downfallen.

I shut the door.

Simon glanced back at me. "You're in some deep shit, Gradyn."

"Care to fill me in?"

Simon sighed, pulling out of the garage. The harsh morning light flooded the cabin, and I could hear the shouts of the reporters. I put on shades and glanced out the tinted window. These weren't just reporters. They were regular people, protesting. One sign caught my attention.



"Gradyn, half of the Council is dead. The rest believe there has been corruption within their ranks to kill the economy of the PHC to disrupt the ranks of every class." A pause. "They're blaming you, Gradyn. There will be a meeting internally today before a press screening tonight."

My heart pounded in my ears. All of a sudden, the voice recorder burned in my pocket. The recorder from that night.

Hell, maybe I really have been cursed.



The Billionaire rocks the bishop back and forth, tapping his foot to the knocking of the chess piece.

Tap. Tap. Tap Tap.

Albert Yeung

The locket is still on the table, still in the box and still wrapped around the hilt of a dagger I'm too afraid to touch. Ideas fleet through my mind of how I could take the locket without handling the dagger; use my spoon to pry it away; use the tablecloth to separate them both...

"Did it come with a note?" Danny asks, his voice blase but his eyes watching me in that way someone does when they know this is a bigger deal than you want them to think it is.

My breathing is heavy.

"You know I don't read," I mumble. There's a pitter-patter sound; it's slightly distracting and then I realise it's the sound of my fingers drumming on the table.

"Grady'd read it for you."

I have to make a visible effort to still my hand.

"It's private," I snap.

"How d'you know?"

How do I know? I know because everything in that box is private; a private nightmare I thought I'd put away. The only consolation is Danny's lack of recognition of a locket that hugged his mother's neck when he was too young to see it as anything more than a toy to be pulled on.

"I just know, alright? Now get outta my business."

"You don't mean that, Einstein. Here, I'll take the note to Grady myself."

He reaches for it. I don't make a decision to stop him, but I meant to or I mean to. I want to be able to keep my own business to myself but these people with their smarts and their writing and reading won't let you have that. So he takes it and he saunters up to the bar, this boy who used to swing on her hip, the constant reminder that some other man owned her heart.

I drop back down into my seat ad glower at the barman and boy alike. I don't hear the doors opening or address the presence of the woman until she addresses me.

"I'm... I'm looking for Einstein?"

"What for?" I growl, still not looking in her direction.