La Nuit Rouge

TW: death, blood

Image by Aman Upadhyay on unsplash

“Regardez seulement si vous l’osez.”

Watch only if you dare.

Detective Miles Harrison sat in the evidence room of the New Orleans P.D., holding the plastic DVD case that had been slipped under his office door two minutes before seven PM. This was quite an unwelcome development in his ongoing investigation. He hated staying late. Really, he hated being anywhere after dark, except safely inside his studio apartment smoking a cigarette and binging noir detective movies.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating tiny plumes of dust as Miles pulled out the old TV cart. He would have—should have—watched this at home, but he hadn’t owned a DVD player since 2016.

A low static hum coursed through the mildew-laden air as the television flicked to life. The film began almost immediately after Miles inserted the disc. Muted violin music drowned out Jimmy, the security guard’s, snores that drifted in from beyond the door. The title flashed across the screen, crimson lettering against a grainy backdrop.

La Nuit Rouge.

Miles pulled a Marlboro from his pocket, igniting it with his trusty fleur-de-lis engraved lighter. Taking a slow drag, he leaned back in the cheap folding chair.

He’d seen this film before. Why had someone sent him this? What good would watching it again do?

In fact, he’d watched it so many times he’d practically become fluent in French. This underground experimental project by the elusive Louis Fournier had once been a comfort watch. Miles had fallen asleep with it playing on his laptop more times than he could count.

It was Miles’s deep fondness for noir films that prompted his promotion to chief detective on the Fournier Fanatic murder cases.

Three women dead over the past six weeks. Each crime scene had been ripped straight from La Nuit Rouge. Classic MO of a copycat killer.

Miles ran a hand down his stress-lined face. He hadn’t slept well since taking the case.

The first murder unfolded as usual onscreen, except something felt slightly off. Miles leaned forward, squinting. The beats played out exactly as he anticipated. Sultry jazz music. Smoky night air. The French Quarter. Woman number one: glossy blonde hair, black stilettos clacking against the pavement, a blood-red silk scarf trailing in the breeze.

Then the shadow appeared behind her.

Miles froze. The actor seemed different somehow. Taller. Broader.

Per the script, the killer grabbed the loose ends of the scarf from behind the woman. She stumbled backward, gasping for breath as the silk tightened around her slender neck. The mystery man shushed her softly, squeezing until she slumped against him.

That should have been the end of the scene. But the camera kept rolling, zooming in on the killer’s face obscured behind a grotesque Mardi Gras mask. He leaned close to the dead woman and whispered:

“Rien de bon n'arrive la nuit tombée.”

“Nothing good happens after dark,” Miles whispered.

Suddenly, he was eight years old again, standing barefoot in the narrow hallway of his Granny’s tiny duplex, watching her install new locks and shiny brass bells above the door. At that age, Miles tended to wander in his sleep, and Granny had discovered him one too many nights outside at three AM, staring into the night.

“Nothing good happens after dark, mon chéri,” she used to say.

Sweat beaded at Miles’s temples as the scene cut abruptly. The camera angle was wrong somehow, the lighting a shade too amber.

Another blonde woman, dressed for the club, hung from the balcony of a secluded French Quarter hotel. Her body swayed gently in the breeze as a church bell somewhere nearby struck three times. The murderer was nowhere to be found, but the phrase sounded once again in strained French:

“Nothing good happens after dark.”

Miles coughed through his next drag. It felt as though the room was closing in on him, metal shelves encroaching like prison bars. The final murder was about to unfold. Though Miles knew every move the killer would make, he watched with an overwhelming sense of dread.

The same masked figure—too tall, too broad—knelt before the blonde woman tied to a high-backed chair. They were in a gothic bedroom, heavy crimson drapes shrouding the windows. Embers popped in the fireplace, fading and shriveling like the last remnants of life leaving the victim’s eyes. Her head lolled backward, her gaze fixed upon the intricately molded ceiling. Blood drenched the front of her dress, spilling from the slit across her throat.

Just like in the film, this final murder was the most grotesque—and the most intimate. A jilted lover betrayed for the last time. Miles closed his eyes, cringing at the sound of fabric tearing, of flesh being carved.

“Regardez… Regardez…”

“Look… look,” the killer’s voice—familiar, yet different—commanded.

So Miles looked.

His cigarette hit the dirty concrete floor. His spine went rigid.

On the victim’s chest, just above the curve of her breasts, a heart had been carved into milky white skin. In the center were initials he knew too well, the handwriting painfully ubiquitous.

“No,” Miles whispered. “No, no, no. What is this?”

As if in answer, the killer turned toward the camera.

It was like staring into eyes he’d known his entire life. As the killer removed his mask, the breath stole from Miles’s lungs.

Then came a final utterance—the true cinematic climax, one that had never appeared in the original film.

“Nothing good happens after dark.”

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<3

Hallie

Disclaimer: The author is not held liable for any tooth decay the reader experiences after consuming this syrupy tale. That’s what dental insurance is for.

Carmex Kisses

Some nights are spicy, some are sweet. Tonight, we nearly pass out watching TV, waiting for our nerd spawns’ rooms to go silent.

We peel ourselves off the couch. Bring the dog in, brush our teeth, and slip under the sheets. I wait to switch off the aging lamp until you’ve applied your Carmex.

We kiss. I roll over. Your arm slips around me. I nestle in like I’m made to fit the shape of you.

You’ll fall asleep first. That’s okay.

How sweet it is, drifting off in your arms, your heartbeat echoing against my back.

Held. Safe. Loved.

Thanks for reading! Check out my other entries here in the directory:

<3
Hallie

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Fairy Godmothers and Other Delusions

It’s 1:45 PM on a Wednesday. Let’s see. Where was I? Ah, yes—trying to avoid falling into a bottomless pit of despair.

I’ve been productive today. Client session, picked up the dog from the groomers—she’s still loopy from her anxiety meds, so she should leave me alone—and I’ve got time for a breather. Kids are in school for another hour. Time to crawl into bed and rest, a.k.a. scroll on Substack.

I need to feel something. Maybe check on Threads? No, I don’t need to feel that much.

Dear gods, what am I even doing with my life?

“You should be writing your next book, but you seem to be suffering a severe case of task paralysis that is actually masking your deep-rooted fear of failure.”

“Go away, Wanda,” I groan, pulling the cheap Costco comforter over my head in a fruitless attempt to drown out my inner critic’s voice.

“Oh, dear. Wanda can be so unbecoming, can’t she? Won’t she ever learn?”

What the Fu—

I throw off the covers and roll over to find… Cinderella?

“Good afternoon, [redacted].”

I blink. Blink some more.

This is it. I’ve finally lost the last marble.

A life-size, animated Disney princess sitting on the edge of my bed. She smiles at me, white-gloved hands folded neatly over her lap. Her skin shimmers, rippling like the surface of a crystal clear pool.

I reach my hand out to touch her arm, and it goes through her body. Horrified, I yank it back. There’s this little crackly, sparkly sound, and then glitter flies everywhere.

“Excuse me,” Cinderella chides, smoothing her digitally remastered blue skirts.

Cool, so this is my life now. Hallucinating the character I was obsessed with at age four.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, let’s see,” she says, tapping her chin. “Your muse sent me. Well, technically, Bradley posted a prompt written by JM, who sent his muse, Kira, to get your mom. But she was at work, so I’m here instead.”

“Okay, how exactly…did you get here? You’re a cartoon.” I sit up all the way, my flabbers thoroughly ghasted.

“You write fantasy.” Cinderella waves her hand. “Don’t think too hard about it.”

“Right. The whole hand wavy thing. My favorite magic system,” I mumble. “All right, so what do you want?”

“I just thought you might need some motivation.”

“Motivation?” I repeat. “Now is not the time. The house is quiet. I have an hour before my kids need to be picked up from the bus, and I just want to do nothing.”

“By ‘nothing’, you mean rot in your bed marinating on all your perceived shortcomings?” Cinderella flashes a cheeky smile.

“Ugh, this feels like some kind of shit Yelena would pull.“

“Yelena is not real.”

“Neither are you. This is a dream, right? A weird afternoon nap delusion.”

Cinderella giggles, the sound ushering in a chorus of bird songs outside my bedroom window.

“I’m not a delusion. I’m your muse’s stand-in, that’s all. And you, young lady, are avoiding some things.”

“Me, avoiding things? What are you talking about?”

She just smiles demurely, staring at me with her unsettling, perfect, non-blinking eyes.

“I’m not avoiding anything. I’m just tired,” I groan. “It’s not like I have little mice helping me get all my chores done.”

“Clearly not,” Cinderella scoffs, surveying my bedroom, all dingy carpet and ugly blue walls that we’ve never gotten around to painting. “This place is a mess. Do you ever actually fold your laundry?”

“Ha! You’re one to talk,” I huff, crossing my arms. “ You live in a castle now with Prince Charming. You don’t have to clean anything for yourself anymore.”

“Old habits die hard, I suppose,” she chirps, gesturing toward the open bathroom door. “If it weren’t for my dress and glass slippers, I would be in there scrubbing that toilet. Also, your Roomba is stuck under the bed.”

Jiminey Crickets, I’m having a mental breakdown.

“OK, you seem distressed,” Cinderella soothes, “Take a deep breath and just listen.”

Sure, whatever. I’ll take relaxation tips from a Disney Princess. Why not?

“Last week, Kira sent your mom, and you wrote a beautiful—slightly emotionally damaging—piece. Your mom doesn’t know about it, of course. But she thinks about you all the time. You know how she loves to tell the story of when you met me at Disney World thirty years ago. How it was one of the only times she’s ever seen you speechless,” Cinderella sighs, a hand flying to her chest. “That’s why she sent me as your muse today, your favorite princess.”

I just stare at her, buffering. Is my brain quiet-quitting?

“I’m still your favorite princess, right?”

“Uh, sure, let’s go with that.”

“Phew! I was worried that Leia replaced me,” she sighs dramatically. “Anyway, remember back to that trip to my castle, and you met me?”

Pretty sure I met a college intern in costume, but I nod, humoring her.

“You were entranced. You thought it was really me, your hero. You were filled with joy and believed in your dreams. You believed in magic.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not four anymore, Cinderella. I write about magic, but I don’t have any magic going on in my life.”

“Hmm, you don’t?” she asks, tilting her head. “What about that guy who makes you coffee every morning? Your Prince Charming.”

“My husband is not a prince. I’m not a princess. We are two tired parents doing our best.”

“Two tired parents who are madly in love, growing old together--”

“We’re not old!”

“And besides,” Cinderella ignores my interruption. “The enduring spark between you two is what makes the love stories you write so… heartwarming.” She clasps her hands over her chest with a dreamy grin. “You write such ah-mazing men. And women, of course. But your male characters are chef’s kiss.”

“Did you seriously just say ‘chef’s kiss’?” I deadpan.

“I’m serious! Like, so magical. A man who pays attention to his partner’s needs and isn’t terribly overbearing. Who doesn’t spend all day on a horse, riding across the countryside doing presumably important princely things, leaving you in a lonely castle all by yourself with no one to take care of your needs?” She emphasizes the last word with a wink.

“Whoa, Cinderella, I don’t need to know about your needs. You’re rated G, remember?”

Her animated cheeks flush. “Right. Excuse me, we’ve gotten off track. You’ve been avoiding things. Particularly, writing your next book. There is a very charming couple who needs their story written! And you’ve been putting it off.”

“Are you talking about Taryn and Carter? They’re just fictional characters--”

“Ah, yes, Carter.” Cinderella goes all starry-eyed again. “Again, the men that you write--they’re so amazing. Like that Greek runner, he is so gorgeous. Well, at least, he is in my head.”

“Phil?”

“Yes, Phil. If I weren’t married to Prince Charming, I would gladly go for a happy ending with him.”

“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “I don’t think Jessica would be too thrilled about that.”

“Jessica’s just his roommate, right?”

“Cinderella, look, I’m flattered, but you really don’t need to nag me. I’m a little busy with,” I gesture vaguely around, “stuff.”

She leans forward, placing her barely corporeal finger on my lips.

“You are entirely too worried about ‘stuff’ when you should be worried about your stories. You can’t just abandon them because you feel like an impostor.”

“First, back up off me, princess,” I say, “Second, you wouldn’t know anything about real life. You don’t have bills, chronic illnesses, and kids who have a million school activities that the teachers never email about until 20 minutes before I need to be there! I’m surviving, not thriving. It’s not like I have a fairy godmother, like you.”

“You don’t need a fairy godmother,” Cinderella says softly, “You are the fairy godmother.”

“Okay, maybe you should go back to your movie now. I don’t think therapis is the role for you.”

“Wait! Just think back to when you were a girl, writing stories with your glitter pens--”

“I wrote Nancy Drew fanfic, Cinderella.”

“So? It doesn’t matter. You wrote, created worlds, befriended characters. You brought your inner story world to life. You are like the fairy godmother of stories, okay? You write things that draw people in, take them on a journey, show them something they might not have otherwise seen. That’s your magic.”

“You’re confusing me with Yelena, I think,” I mutter.

“And who wrote her?”

Damn. She has a point.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” I say, avoiding her sparkly gaze. “If I really were the fairy godmother of stories, I would have charmed some agent and publisher to give me a book deal. But… they’re clearly not seeing things they ‘otherwise wouldn’t have seen’ from reading my work.”

“Eh, maybe they’re just out of touch with their inner child or something,” Cinderella says, as if this is an undeniable fact.

“Sure, Cindy.” I chuckle.

She laughs her polished Princess laugh, and my shoulders loosen just a little.

“So,” she says, “You’ll think about finishing your next book, then?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good.”

My phone vibrates on the bed next to me. Mr. Hallie. He’s at the office. Why’s he calling so early?

“Sorry, Cindy, I need to…” I pause, realizing I’m now staring at the empty space on the bed. “Take this.”

I let the phone ring a couple more times, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan above. Did that really just happen? Trying my best to sound composed, I put the phone to my ear.

“Hey, hon. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just headed back to finish up work from home.” My husband’s chipper, Golden Retriever-esque voice rings through the phone. “And I wanted to talk to you.”

I glance back at the corner of the bed where Cinderella had just been, then over at the pictures on the wall of myself and my husband, and the family we created together.

Maybe, just maybe, we do have our own magic, after all.

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<3,

Hallie

All That Glitters is NOT Gold

Dig, dig, dig 
Every vein runneth dry 
Same old, same old
Whistle, strike, pry

It happened on a Tuesday
Tim’s pickaxe finally rang true
Gleaming, glittering splendor
None had seen since 1852

“Eureka! Eureka!”
Sweaty men whoop and holler
Like kids in a candy store
Spending Pa’s last dollar

Nuggets upon nuggets flow
Like the earth’s golden blood
“Fellas, stuff your pockets!”
Axes dropped with hasty thuds

Like rabid dogs, they scrambled
Entranced and drooling, madly
They never heard it rumbling 
Right beneath their hands and knees

What once was a mine shaft
Yawned its cavernous maw
It had laid the perfect trap
Between these sedimentary jaws
 
Desperate, the prey gathered
Like blind mice to cheese 
*CHOMP*
They went down smooth—
Savory tidbits of greed

The presses will soon be alert
Vying for the scoop
The devil’s in the details
Except when there’s no proof 

“They vanished into thin air!”
Which isn’t entirely untrue
But the monster’s rarely satisfied
The gold rush will soon come for you

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<3

Hallie

I chose the song “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. Not long ago, I was out to dinner with my family and it was playing in the restaurant. My mom said to me: “Everyone thinks this song is about children growing up and their parents being sad about it. But it was actually about Stevie Nicks trying to decide if she was going to keep pursuing her music career and her emotions around that decision.”

I could explain in more depth why I chose this song, but I would rather you listen to it, and then read the short piece and decide for yourself. :)

Landslide

“Go to the conference table in your mind, and invite all the past versions of you to join,” she says.

You nod, closing your eyes. The clock ticks, subtle and relentless. Though you only come to sessions once a month now, your heartbeat still adjusts to its rhythm.

“Are any of the past you’s angry?” She asks.

“Mmhmm.” You clutch the orange throw pillow in your lap, wondering how many other people have sat in this chair, opposite this woman who has stopped dying her hair since you started seeing her eleven years ago.

She’s gotten older, and you’ve gotten older, too.

You look up at her now, eyes glazed with tears. Every four weeks, you come to this therapist’s office with her essential oil diffuser and soft Christian music on repeat in the waiting room. You haven’t called yourself a Christian in ages. She doesn’t seem to care.

“Which one is angry?” She asks. Not pushy. Curious.

“Teenage me,” you mutter, staring down the box of Kleenex on the coffee table like it’s personally offended you.

“Okay,” your therapist nods with that ever-patient smile. “Can you talk to her? Ask her why she’s angry?”

You comply, closing your eyes a little too tightly. There’s a conference table all right, but it’s just you--and her. That sixteen-year-old in a Beatles t-shirt and Chuck Taylor high tops. The version of you that used to use boxed hair dye and hid the Avril Lavigne CD she bought at Hot Topic under her mattress because it wasn’t “appropriate”. She used to play guitar with the guys out on the school lawn between classes because the snooty, rich girls at the private school never made much sense to her. Especially confusing was the time her friend, Veronica, kept tickling her side in the movie theater. It felt a whole lot like flirting, which was confusing as hell to your teen self, because she wanted to flirt right back.

Focus! You chide yourself.

“What’s she saying to you?” The therapist asks.

You open your eyes, gazing at the taupe lines in the rug beneath your feet. “She’s still angry. That no one stood up for her. No one protected her. But…I couldn’t back then. I couldn’t defend her.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” the therapist says gently.

She’s right. You close your eyes again. The memory races in, nearly eighteen years ago. You’re pulled from lunch for a meeting with the principal. She sits across from you in the science classroom, sporting a dark perm that in no universe is natural for a woman her age. Her steely gaze pierces you in the gut.

She’s never liked you, this woman you once believed spoke for God. She’s punished you before for breaking rules, but this time--this boy--this is the last straw.

“You know it’s against the rules for two students on the leadership team to date each other without approval.”

She’s going to kick you out, you can feel it. The fluorescent lights are too bright. You’ve forgotten all about your lunch. You can’t bear to look at her, so you stare at your muted reflection in the shiny black, chemical-resistant tabletop. Your friends are probably wondering what’s going on, or they are the ones who ratted you out. Regardless, you’re trapped. You have no recourse. And why only you? Are they going after him next?

“Our parents know about it,” you finally speak up. “And we’re not acting any differently on campus. No PDA or anything.”

“Do you understand that you are stealing his heart? From God?”

The memory fades, and you’re back in the conference room in your mind. Your younger self is seething. She knows it wasn’t enough. She’s still angry that she had to stay in that school for another year and a half, pretending she didn’t know her best friend. Pretending that he didn’t exist. Pretending that she didn’t exist. Staying as small and as “above reproach” as possible.

“What’s going on now, in the conference room?” your therapist calmly interjects.

“She’s still so angry,” you murmur, “Because she was powerless, silenced.”

Your therapist instructs you to tell your teen self that she’s safe. That she survived, and she doesn’t have to prove herself worthy because she always has been. That she’s now the kind of adult who would never treat a young person the way she was treated.

“You can let that part of you go now,” she says.

You squeeze the throw pillow some more, shifting in your chair. Eyes closed, it’s back to the conference room for the last time. You reach across the table and take the hand of this version of you who was scrutinized for who she was, who she loved, how she dressed, how she spoke. It occurs to you now that by keeping her buried deep inside, you will never be able to fully grow into who you are meant to be. She will always be part of you, yes, but you’ve changed. And you have to tell her.

Even though you’re scared as hell, you take a deep breath, squeeze your younger self’s hand, and say:

“It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. We made it.”

<3
Hallie

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I had SO much fun creating this piece. Also, like yesterday’s post, this comes with a musical pairing. Without further ado, please enjoy the most unhinged piece of science fiction I’ve ever written.

Planet Boogie and the Rocket Man

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS · MAY 10TH, 2038

NASA Satellite Imagery Confirms Extraterrestrial Life — And They Have Our Records

NASA satellite imagery of the newly identified planet Cantor-1977 revealed what appears to be the wreckage of the lost Voyager 1 probe. The images and videos gathered confirm what scientists believe is an advanced civilization of intelligent humanoid beings.

Analysis of the footage initially baffled NASA’s researchers, which depicted 6,000 aliens gathered in an open field performing a ritual dance. A junior audio technician made a brilliant discovery: the citizens of Cantor-1977 had recovered the two Golden Records sent with the Voyager, and the chanting heard in the clips was none other than the 1970s Bee Gees hit “Stayin’ Alive.”

NASA spokesperson Alicia Gonzalez states, “We have brought in the world’s leading anthropologists to study this civilization. We anticipate their findings will be truly fascinating.”

SMITHSONIAN │ SCIENCE & CULTURE │ JUNE 2038

They Built a Shrine to Elton John. NASA Is Baffled.

New footage from Cantor-1977 reveals an extraterrestrial civilization that has transformed the wreckage of Voyager 1 into a temple to one of humanity’s greatest Pop icons.

By Staff Science Correspondent

After reviewing NASA’s extensive collection of satellite images, researchers made a shocking discovery: The Cantorians have fashioned the remains of the lost Voyager 1 probe into a shrine. At its center stands a forty-foot-tall statue of Sir Elton John, surrounded by Cantorians leaving gifts, reciting prayers, and performing what can only be described as ritual dancing to the tune of “Rocket Man”.

“They seem to be treating the data from the golden records as something between a sacred text and a greatest hits compilation,” says Dr. Gerald Harris, Head of Anthropology at Cambridge, who has spent the last three months studying Cantorian culture. “We believe they view Sir Elton John as a sort of… cosmic deity.”

NASA is working tirelessly to develop a crewed mission to Cantor-1977 in order to make contact with this seemingly peaceful — and rhythmically gifted — population. They anticipate that funding will not be difficult to procure.

SOCIAL MEDIA SNIPPETS · SUMMER 2038

CNN COVERAGE — SEPT. 2038 · THE OVAL OFFICE

Tonight, Madame President Taylor Swift and First Gentleman Travis Kelce addressed the nation and the world to announce the official Extraterrestrial Outreach Program.

Phase one of the mission, a probe titled BeeGee2039, will carry a curated selection of music from every participating country. The records range from K-pop to reggae, bluegrass to Celtic folk, Afrobeat to EDM. Sir Elton John, now nearing his 91st birthday, will record a special message of peace and hospitality for the Cantorians.

“What a miracle it is that music was such a big part of our first contact with life outside our planet,” President Swift, sporting her iconic bedazzled pantsuit, stated. “Hopefully, through the invisible strings of this cosmic symphony, Planet Boogie and Earth will form an amicable friendship that lasts evermore.”

*Author’s Note: NASA states ‘Planet Boogie’ is still officially named Cantor-1977.

Sometime later, in a quiet London studio…

Sir Elton John sits alone behind a white Baby Grand piano, draped in a navy cape bedazzled with silver stars.

“Citizens of Cantor,” he begins, adjusting his signature tinted glasses, “I think it’s gonna be a long, long time before this message reaches you.”

He smiles, arthritic fingers spreading over the glossy keys.

“I am no space prophet. Just an old man who’s somehow still standing. However, I am honored that my music has brought joy, not only to billions on Earth, but to our neighbors in the next Galaxy.”

He winks at the camera as he plays a warm-up chord.

“So, Planet Boogians, this one’s for you!”

EPILOGUE

Twelve years later, NASA’s satellites unveil footage of Cantor-1977, lit up like an intergalactic disco ball, as its citizens gather to pay tribute to their illustrious Rocket Man.

I hope you all enjoyed this crazy interpretation of the prompt. Stay tuned for more silliness to come!

<3

Hallie

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Please enjoy this Taylor Swift-inspired psychological horror story.

The Show Must Go On, Babe

“She’s kooky. She’s silly. Possibly a little mentally unstable…”

Applause. Cheers. Whistles.

My head pounds, my vision goes blank. Am I hungover? I did have two bottles of wine after last night’s show and my disastrous phone call with Mom…

“What do you mean you’re missing Great-Aunt Mabel’s ninetieth birthday party? Can’t you afford to cut one of your silly comedy gigs short?”

Like she even knows. She isn’t paying for two kids in private school and exorbitant legal fees from a messy divorce.

“Give it up for Casey Carlton!”

Oh, right. It’s showtime. Man, I feel like I just did this. I don’t even remember waking up, getting dressed, hair and makeup… And why is it so dark in here?

The crowd roars my name. The intro music starts. But it’s wrong.

Taylor Swift’s “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” blares loud and tinny, like it’s been remixed into some janky carnival theme.

“Barb?” I call out to my stage manager. “Where are you? I can’t see anything.”

A hand pushes into my back, the smell of Doublemint gum tickling my nostrils as the familiar voice fills the air.

“The show must go on, babe!”

Then I’m falling.

Radio static fills my ears, a kaleidoscope of colors flashing all around me. I must be dreaming…

The ground meets me with all the grace of a Sunday morning hangover. The aroma of stale popcorn and funnel cakes swirls around me as I come to. My stomach rumbles in response. Damn, I could go for a funnel cake right about now.

Focus, Casey.

Pushing up on my hands, I hang out in cobra pose for a second, inspecting my surroundings. The lighting is like a bad sepia filter, but it’s enough for me to realize I’m not on stage in Branson, Missouri anymore. I’m in a… hall of mirrors?

At least, I think they’re mirrors. The kind you would find in a carnival funhouse. But I can’t see my reflection in any of them. It’s the strangest thing. If mirror-shaped, why not reflective?

I whip my head to the right. Then the left. Was that laughter?

No. Jingle bells.

Again, I look side to side, pushing up to a kneeling position. More jingling. It takes me a second, but I finally register the striped tights covering my legs. And the Harley Quinn-esque skirt hanging from my hips. Slowly, I stand, pointed shoes on my feet. Since when do I perform in costume? I’m a stand-up comedian, not a—

Dear God, there I am.

One of the mirrors finally realizes it’s supposed to be reflective. But now, I’d rather it not show me how ridiculous I look. I’m dressed like a court jester, one of those weird hats sitting lopsided on my head. How did it even survive the fall?

Am I having a mental breakdown? Surely Barb would have warned me if my agent wanted me to do some weird experimental shit like this.

“Step right up, Casey Carlton! Step right up!”

A disembodied voice — like an old-timey circus ringmaster — echoes between the mirrors.

Where is it coming from? Ahead of me is a hallway with seemingly no end. Behind me, a paint-chipped door with a NO TRESPASSING sign.

I’m normally not one to ignore warning signs — not counting all the ones with my ex-husband — but desperate times, I guess.

My hand meets the rusty knob. It refuses to turn.

Damn.

I resort to banging my fist against the wood, desperately crying for help. From behind the door, I think I hear them.

The crowd.

I try the knob again.

Nothing.

“What are you doing here, Casey?”

The voice turns my blood to ice.

Slowly, I turn to face the mirrors. They all reflect not my likeness, but Megan Butler’s.

How can this be? I haven’t seen her since high school, some twenty-five-odd years ago.

“This study group is for serious learners. No class clowns allowed!”

The discount Regina George throws back her blonde head, letting out a truly blood-curdling cackle.

Applause from an invisible crowd fills the tepid air.

“Welcome, one and all, to the greatest spectacle of Casey’s forty years of life!”

It’s that weird carnival announcer again. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. This has to be a nightmare.

Before I can formulate some kind of escape plan, the cheering fades. Everything goes dark. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. Arms outstretched, I take several tentative steps in what I hope is the right direction. More funnel cake smells. Faint sounds of screams, like those from a thrill ride.

“Can someone please tell me how to get out of here?”

A spotlight clicks on, blinding me. I stop in my tracks.

“And for the next act, turn your attention to the mirrors!”

My Dad, in technicolor 360 view. He’s been gone a few years now. But back when he was alive, he looked kind of like Ted Lasso, minus the heartwarming optimism.

“You want to drop out of college to run off with some Hollywood bureaucrat?” he sneers. “You really think this guy can make you famous? Admit it, Casey. He’s only claiming you have talent because he wants to get in your pants.”

The spotlight moves in an erratic pattern, my father’s image distorting until it morphs into that tall, dark, handsome frame I’d tried so hard to forget. His California-tanned face glistens as he lowers his overpriced sunglasses. My former agent (with benefits).

“Sorry, Casey. From now on, I will work only with serious talent. Please don’t take it personally.”

The rage that barrels through me could rival Bruce Banner’s. Before I realize what I’m doing, my fist flies toward the glass.

“Fuck you, Brian!”

But the glass doesn’t shatter, just ripples. As I shake out my hand, a slideshow of memories flashes across the mirror’s surface, every looking glass a sordid reminder that no one has ever taken Casey Carlton seriously.

“Stop goofing off and pay attention!” Mrs. Henderson, tenth grade.

“Do you really think you’re that funny?” My brother, after attending my first gig.

“What kind of job is a stand-up comedian? You should have stayed in business school instead of running off to L.A.” My granny. (God rest her soul).

“You’re ignoring all his red flags because he makes you laugh. But life is not a sitcom, Casey. Can you actually see this guy sticking with you till the end?” My best friend, fifteen years ago, on the eve of my and Garrett’s wedding.

“Okay, Barb, this isn’t funny!” I cry, hot tears stinging my cheeks.

For one terrible moment, the mirrors finally reflect me.

Not the me who performs on stage night after night. Not the weird jester version of me that woke up here. It’s the messy bun, sweatpants, ugly-crying version of me—the night Garrett asked for a divorce.

“We can’t go on like this, Casey.” His voice is canned, far away, his shadow looming opposite my past self’s reflection.

“Garrett, I’m trying. I’m doing this for us. For the kids. Because it pays the bills! I wish I could be home more—”

“You’re married to the hustle, Casey,” he delivers the words that broke my heart. “You’re not married to me. You never were.”

“No!” I scream, weird jester makeup smearing as I fall to my knees in front of the mirror. “No! No! Garrett, please! I love you! Don’t go!”

I’m banging on the glass, but nothing happens. Laughter echoes in the distance, signaling a cruel twist of fate.

It’s my laugh.

“Stop!” I shout to no one. “Stop! It’s not funny! Let me out of here!’

“Mommy, why aren’t you going to live in our house anymore?” The tiny voice cuts through my panic.

Trembling, I turn in a slow circle. My twins’ faces are on every single mirror, their lopsided ginger pigtails drooping with all the sadness they felt the day I moved out of the house.

A never-ending road of regret stretches before me. I can’t answer them. I can’t look at them. They deserve a better mother than me. Hopefully, one day, they’ll realize I did this for them.

Suddenly, I’m running, jingling all the way back toward the mysterious door. I’ll break it down if I have to. Anything to get the hell out of—

WHOOSH!

I’m falling again. The strange, colorful light show flickers all around me. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact. But it never comes.

My eyes fly open, chest heaving. I’m backstage in Branson, Missouri again. Night 23 of my cross-country tour. The roar of the crowd hits me, the correct theme music playing this time.

“Casey, you okay, sweetie?”

Barb. Real Barb. Not push-me-into-a-freaky-wormhole Barb.

“Dear God, have mercy, it happened again,” Barb says, her wrinkled face slowly coming into focus. She pushes her bright pink cat-eye glasses up her crooked nose, loudly smacking her gum. “Do ya think ya might need to see someone about these episodes?”

I don’t answer right away. Relief washes over me as I look down to find my normal jeans and Chuck Taylors. I throw my arms around my stage manager, burying my face in her sunspotted neck.

“Barb, it’s you, for real,” I murmur.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Barb says tentatively, patting my back. “What’s gotten into you, babe?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I say, releasing her from the awkward embrace. “I… just think I need to take some time off soon. Maybe just one weekend, so I don’t miss my Great-Aunt Mabel’s—”

“Give it up for Casey Carlton!”

“We can talk scheduling later, sweetie.” Barb smiles. “Lights, camera, smile, bitch.”

She winks, holding out her fist for me to bump.

And though I’m dying on the inside, regret gnawing at my heart like a mouse to a cheese block, I bump right back.

“Try and come for my job, Barb!” I tease, turning on my heel and strutting toward the stage.

Because the crowd doesn’t care if my life’s a trainwreck.

They came for the laughs.

I hope you enjoyed this story! Thanks for reading.

<3

Hallie

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That’s a cool-looking hallway in honor of the challenge title. Now, without further ado, here are the stories.

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Day 8

Day 9

Day 10

Day 11

I’ll keep this updated as I add new stories. So pop in periodically to see anything you’ve missed!

<3

Hallie

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If you’ve read any of my ACOBAC snippets or my It’s All Greek to Phil series, you may recognize some of these characters. There is also a BIG hint to my next novel in-progress in this story. Enjoy the read!

Gods, Ghosts, and Ghastly Fanfic Disasters

It is a fact universally acknowledged that Zeus, king of the gods, gets around.

But this story is not about Zeus. Not directly. You see, one of his immortal problem children has a tendency to cause cosmic chaos in the name of “Happily Ever After”...

Said problem child—gifted with the ability to create portals to other realms through stories—sits opposite her father at the shiny marble table. In her lap is a tortoiseshell cat, who is also magical.

The Mount Olympus conference room blends classic Greek architecture with top-of-the-line modern technology. Since it is the year of (that other) Lord 2023, the Pantheon decided to “get with the times.” An ethereal figure, swathed in a translucent black veil, sits at the far end of the table in front of a gilded projector screen.

“We’re just waiting on Hades,” the figure—Mor—says, the voices of Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos melding into one haunting monotone.

“Why does Hades need to be here?” Zeus asks, reclining in his ergonomic swivel chair.

Before Mor answers, the God of the Underworld struts in like an emo philosophy professor who recently became hot on TikTok. His expression reads: “I’d rather hang out with lost souls forever than attend another meeting that could have been an email.”

“I see you’re still sporting the Jeff Goldblum look,” Hades says, sliding into the chair next to his brother. 1

Zeus ignores the jab. “Again, why is he here?”

“You shall see,” Mor says, consulting their golden clipboard. “Now that we are all present, it’s time to discuss the Cedar Gap Incident.” They turn to the short, wild-haired daughter of Zeus. “Helene—”

“Yelena,” she corrects, stroking her tortoiseshell cat.

Mor sighs with all the weariness of a goddess trinity relegated to middle management.

“Your daughter still chooses to identify as a Russian?” Hades snickers at Zeus.

Yelena shrugs. “It’s my favorite accent.”

“She does what she wants.” Zeus waves his hand.

Mor slams the clipboard on the table. “That is why we are here. Yelena has once again breached protocol, and the cat has once again failed to report it.”

I have long given up on trying to talk sense into this infernal demi-goddess. The cat, Mishka, meows (which magically echoes as words in the gods’ minds).

With an exasperated harrumph, Mor gestures to the screen, its surface rippling like Narcissus’s pool. The lights dim as the footage rolls. “I present, exhibit A.”

Mor pauses the footage, turning to the others.

“What was that?” Zeus asks.

“Hades, care to explain?” Mor asks.

“That is Wanda Fletcher, a reclusive creative writing professor and freelance ghostwriter. She died in 1990 alone in her late parents’ cabin, and was found with her head on the desk next to her unfinished manuscript.”

Silence shrouds the room. Zeus blinks. Once, twice, then bursts into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Mor asks.

“Are you saying that this woman’s poor, unfortunate soul is trapped in a typewriter?” Zeus manages, catching his breath. “A literal ghostwriter?”

“How perceptive of you, brother.” Hades rolls his eyes.

“Let me get this straight,” Zeus says. “Yelena’s breach of protocol was communing with the soul of a ghostwriter?”

“Not entirely,” Mor sighs. “The breach is that Yelena tried to type her portal activation story on Wanda’s typewriter instead of using the approved Chronosbook.”

“I wanted to feel authentic,” Yelena shrugs. “Wanda was a very harsh critic of my work, though. She said ‘this reads like mediocre fan fiction.’”

“Does Thanatos know of this trapped soul?” Zeus asks, ignoring his daughter’s anecdote.

“Souls bound to inanimate objects are notoriously hard to reap,” Hades says flatly. “Wanda may not even realize she’s dead. But since she’s confined, her reaping is low priority.”

“Can we stay on track, please?” Mor says, their veil rippling in agitation. “Yelena was assigned to conjure a happy ending for the single father who manages the property in which she was residing. Instead, she did this.”

The projector shifts to a scene resembling a low-budget crime sit-com.

Mor pauses the footage. Zeus stares blankly ahead, as if this is the one thing that finally stumped his omniscient brain. Hades crosses his arms, chuckling under his breath.

“Yelena,” Mor says gravely, “you are very fortunate that your employee’s addiction explained away the story portal magic. Otherwise, this could have been much worse.”

“So… what happened?” Zeus asks. “To the employees, I mean?”

“They went to rehab and have since started a literacy program for troubled youth in juvenile detention.”

“You see,” Yelena grins. “I followed protocol. I painted the mural on the bookshop wall for the portal. I wrote the story to activate it. And I found people in need of happy ending!”

“What’s the issue, then?” Zeus stares pointedly at Mor. “Other than the soul trapped in a typewriter, this seems like a win-win.”

Mor runs a spectral hand down their veiled face. “She completely disregarded the assignment. She was supposed to make the single father fall in love with—”

“Relax!” Yelena waves dismissively. “He’ll be fine.”

Hades yawns, mostly to draw attention to himself. “Are we done here?”

“Wait,” Zeus interjects, leaning forward with sudden enthusiasm. “Mor, do you have my daughter’s next assignment?”

Behind Mor, the spinning threads of Fate click rapidly, like knitting needles in a garbage disposal, producing a black file. It floats through the air and lands in front of Yelena. The Storyweaver takes it, a smile creeping across her face as she reads.

“Northwest Georgia… another bookshop… two emotionally constipated millennials…Romantasy buff…golden retriever…I have just the story for them.”

Her smile widens as she looks up at the gods and goddesses, a magical twinkle in her centuries-old eye. “This one will be… easy peasy, squeeze the lemon!”

Yelena and Mishka will return, in a story you may recognize… hopefully soon.

If you’d like to read more about Yelena and Mishka’s origin story, check it out here:

Thanks for reading,

<3

Hallie

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The prompt:

Now, here’s my super short poem:

Door Number Three

Keep her behind closed doors

She’s not welcome here

What with her raw skin

Bleeding heart

Fragile disposition

She makes everyone… uncomfortable

Best to keep her under lock and key

The “monster” behind door number three

They warned me:

But I cannot fight the curiosity

The desire to meet this foul creature they hide

So I wait for the opportune moment

To open the door and slip inside

What I find is truly… terrifying

A positively petulant sight to see

All along, how did I not know

That the monster they hid is me?

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<3

Hallie

Planning a Trip is Hard to Do

Fall in love all over again at Hibiscus Haven, Kaua’i’s premier couples’ resort and spa. Experience the beauty and wonder of the Garden Isle in one of our all-inclusive beachfront bungalows…

Right. Because apparently, the internet decided “romantic getaway” means overpriced mai tais and making out under a waterfall after a sunrise whale watching tour.

We’re too old for that. We just want to sleep past 7 AM and not have to cook for anyone.

I take a swig of my lukewarm coffee--the third one today--and shove another handful of sour gummy worms in my mouth. I’m nearly thirty-five, and still haven’t figured out how to make vacation planning less stressful.

After logging into Mr. Hallie’s Delta account, I find he’s accrued a respectable amount of SkyMiles. Perfect. It might even be enough to go somewhere outside the U.S. For the hell of it, I pretend I’m booking flights to Paris. If we leave on a Thursday and come home on a Tuesday… yeah, that could work. And, I do have that 60-day French streak on Duolingo.

I can picture it now. The two of us, sitting outside a quaint cafe, with a glistening view of the Eiffel Tower. The waiter comes to take our order, and Mr. Hallie says: “Omelet du croissant, por favor!”

The thought of him purposely exaggerating the word “croissant” makes me giggle. I need to get him on Duolingo. Stat.

My pastry-filled Parisian daydreams deflate when I see the hotel prices. Maybe we should stay at home with a charcuterie tray and Costco wine…

I pop another gummy worm and decide to check out Scotland. Just a wee trip to the land of my ancestors.

Ach! I didnae ken a Bed and Breakfast in the Highlands was so pricey. Should we really drain our life savings just so I can get pictures by the standing stones and make a post claiming I’ve been transported to the 18th century?

Yeah, no. Besides, something tells me Mr. Hallie won’t appreciate my joke about getting sucked back in time and stumbling across a strapping, kilt-clad Highlander with massive, corded forearms.

Oh, but I do have that tartan shawl. It would be perfect. Surely, there’s something affordable on Airbnb…

Yikes. The only rental we could afford looks like it’s haunted by the spirit of a maniacal doll maker.

Okay, let’s check out Canada, the land of Mr. Hallie’s ancestors. He’d fit right in--pale, apologizes too much, loves maple syrup. And it’s also the home of his favorite EDM artist, the one and only Deadmau5.

Crap, that means he’ll want to bring his handmade Deadmau5 head for photo ops. No way would that thing fit in our checked luggage. Especially not with the way that man packs. Also, December is probably not the best time to visit Canada.

Okay, moving on. How about Japan? I’ve been practicing Japanese on Duolingo, too.

Konichiwa! Watashino kutsu wa akai desu!

Oof. Saying “my shoe is red” is pretty useless. At least I’ve got seven months to catch up.

Switching back to the Delta tab, I look up the flight prices and suffer a minor heart attack. His Skymiles would cover maybe half a seat. We’d be better off staying home, ordering overpriced ramen, and binge-watching anime on the couch.

By now, I’m ready to chuck my laptop, and its 23 open tabs into the garbage. A notification pops up on my phone. Gmail. Something from Carnival Cruise Line.

That’s it. A cruise. Mr. Hallie always prefers the warmer climates. We could eat all the ice cream we want, get a couple’s massage, and lounge on a private beach in the Bahamas! I’ll just need to pack lots of sunscreen. The last thing we need is a repeat of the summer of 2010, when Mr. Hallie got so sunburned that he couldn’t move without crying.

Downing the last of my coffee, I scroll through the Carnival website. The prices aren’t bad. We could make this work.

Just as I’m about to press “book”, something gives me pause. Memories of the cruise we took a couple of years back with the kids flash through my mind. They had so much fun. We can’t do another cruise without them. Maybe we save this for next year’s family vacation…

“Did you find some good options for our trip, hon?” Mr. Hallie asks as he ascends the stairs. It’s past 5 PM, and he’s finally done with his workday.

“No. Too many options,” I sigh, slamming my laptop shut. “It needs to be something good. It’s our fifteenth anniversary, after all.”

He plops down on the couch next to me, leaning his head on my shoulder, looking up at me with those big blue eyes. I study his face like I haven’t seen it nearly every day since 2011. There are a few more gray hairs in his beard, deeper creases between his brows. Sometimes, it’s hard to imagine he’s the same high school “best friend” I had a crush on all those years ago.

I lean my head back against the couch. The kids are chattering loudly as they play video games in the other room, making it harder to focus. I’ve always been the one who plans the trips, eager to travel the world. But this trip… well, it’s a milestone. It needs to be relaxing, with the perfect ratio of activities and downtime. Preferably, it needs to be affordable, so we won’t need to take out a second mortgage.

“You okay?” Mr. Hallie asks, pulling me out of my anxiety spiral.

“I just…I don’t know,” I sigh, unsure of how to put my feelings into words.

“You just what?”

Another, deeper sigh escapes me. “I just want this trip to be perfect.”

“Hey.” He pulls me close, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Don’t stress, Hon. Anywhere we go will be perfect, because we’re going together.”

Thanks for reading!

<3 Hallie

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Here is the prompt description, and you will find my entry below. Read at your own risk. Perhaps grab a tissue, or five.

An Open Letter to my Muse:

When I was a teen, you warned me, “Don’t get a useless degree like I did.”

I know you didn’t mean to imply that a Bachelor’s of Arts is a waste of time. You were just trying to protect me. We live in a world where most creatives can’t earn a living wage on their art alone. You were being practical.

But, Mama, let me tell you: All that time and effort you put into your music degree was not in vain. You knew from the time you were 12 that all you wanted to do was play piano. You joke about your “stubby” fingers being barely long enough to reach all the keys. Still, your gift has given so much to the people around you.

Just ask the congregation at your church, who I know love to hear you play every Sunday. Your medleys have softened the sharp sting of grief at funerals and ushered in processionals of true love at weddings. You once even learned to play the Blippi Excavator song (by ear!) for my boys. In my mind, you were (and still are) the best pianist I’ve ever heard—sorry to your man, Billy Joel.

Besides, if it weren’t for your music degree, you might not have met Dad in college. And a few years later, you might not have had me, am I right?

You say I’ve been singing since I could talk. That I made you read books to me until you were blue in the face. You taught me to write and the importance of good spelling and grammar. You were a spelling bee champ growing up, after all.

You watched the “plays” I’d perform in my dress-up clothes, and attended every one of my ballet recitals. I’ll never forget you telling the story of how frustrated four-year-old me was on stage at my first recital because the other kids weren’t performing correctly. I don’t even want to know how many miles you put on your old minivan over the years, driving me to classes and rehearsals.

I know homeschooling wasn’t easy, but because you were home with me, I learned so much about music, art, books, and, of course, TV and movies. When I started writing stories, you kept me fully stocked on sparkly gel pens and notebooks. Then you taught me to type, and I wrote a whole “novel” on the computer, which you took to OfficeMax to get spiral-bound for me.

High school brought the emo singer-songwriter phase, in which your ears were subjected to my trial-and-error attempt to teach myself guitar. Now I understand why you used to keep the TV volume so loud.

When college rolled around, I decided I wanted to be a writer. When I announced I’d major in English, I didn’t quite understand your concern. Still, I took your advice to heart and chose something else. Four years later, I graduated with a degree in social work that I’ve yet to put to use.

Turns out, getting a degree of any kind doesn’t always mean much. After several interviews with no job offers, and a year and a half into my marriage, I got pregnant. You were worried. Rightfully so. I was young and hadn’t gotten a chance to start a career.

But now, you’re front row at all of your first grandson’s orchestra concerts, telling him to follow his dreams.

You’ve never said this to me, but I’m sure it may have crossed your mind. That maybe you felt like I’d look back and think you were “just a stay-at-home” mom. I know you wanted me to be a strong, independent woman, so I was embarrassed as hell to tell you I quit my job six months ago.

But of course, you understood. When I told you I was dabbling in writing again, you asked, “Will you take your old Mom along when it’s time for the book tour?”

Here’s the thing: you still don’t know that my book exists, because I haven’t told you. Oh, you’d get every nerdy joke (I even threw a Star Trek one in there just for you!). And the sarcasm. And the deadpan humor. And the fact that I was very choosy about when I used a curse word--because you always said too much cussing is a sign of a subpar vocabulary.

The truth is, Mama, that I don’t want to embarrass you. A lot of my work isn’t PG, and I don’t want your family to label you as the one whose daughter became a “black sheep”. So I hide behind a pseudonym, and I never tell you about the crazy, wacky, maybe a little too “woke” stories that I write. I couldn’t live with myself if I let you down that way.

See, it’s your creativity and your appreciation for the arts that shaped me in so many ways. It’s you I have to thank for my love of pop culture and sitcoms. More importantly, you taught me kindness, compassion, and what it means to be a loving parent.

When I look back on my childhood — when I look back on you—I don’t see an exhausted homeschool mom with a “useless” music theory degree.

I see my first muse. Selfless love. Everything that I hope to be.

So maybe one day, when I finally hold my book in my hand, I’ll call you up and say:

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’ve been keeping a big secret.”

And somehow, I’ll bet you will have known what I was up to anyway. (Just please, whatever you do, skip over the middle of chapter 22).

Love,
J.

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