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By R.M. Vaughan

A murder-mystery-ghost-story-romance that manages to subvert the entire traps of such genres Daniel MacIvor

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How Sylvain hated himself afterwards. He would cry, and read me pages of his book. " The fireball hissed red steam. Lampshades spun. Shut up, shut up, shut up, Marsh silently begged Samson. Why can't you see it? Samson calmly ate a lemon cracker, remembering the last time he'd made love to Marsh and regretting the comparison to Sylvain. As good as milk, was Marsh, and all a Brindle deserved. Marsh panicked. Cracks formed on the globe's skin. From inside, tiny flames licked for air. Marsh's bladder filled with agitated, frightened urine.

In the hazy mornings-after, Samson petted Sylvain's forehead and brought him a volume of Brecht to calm his nerves. He is mine now, Samson thought. He only needs a hobby. "I'll give you twenty-thousand dollars to write a book," Samson declared one morning during the third week of Sylvain's binge. "I don't know how to write a book," Sylvain whined. " "Surprise me, it's been years since anyone did. You can start tommorrow," Samson said, returning to his toast. Sylvain squirmed in his chair. How hard could writing a book be?

At the funeral, Samson read from Hamlet: 'A was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. Then Samson stood by Sylvain's grave and floated a single chrysanthemum down to the casket, one petal at a time. It took ten minutes. People were so uncomfortable, especially all those actors. Limited attention spans, but good at crying. I fell in love with Samson right there, watching his disappearing magic flower act. I half expected Sylvain to rise up and applaud. I guess the spell worked, but why me?

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