Fen's Freelance

Fen's love affair with writing began during her early years, when she played a cassette tape of Cinderella over and over, following along with the book in hand. At age seven, she graduated to reading Calvin and Hobbes comics under her night light and not long after, she picked up a pen and started creating worlds of her own. A student at an unspecified university in upstate New York, she is currently pursuing a Master's degree in English with honors, focusing in creative writing. Her free time is typically spent scouring Fanfiction and Tumblr for new things to read, shamelessly watching bad television with her sister, eating ungodly amounts of carb-heavy food, and playing video games-- especially visual novels.

[fen-at-work]

I’m posting about this a bit late but a wonderful, lovely (super-patient) team picked me up to write with them for Ludum Dare 38! The whole process was a great learning experience and I had so much fun; I’m so grateful!  For the most part, I wrote Calder’s path and a few other little things.  

Here is a link to the project: Beyond the Deep!

Blurb: A mermaid princess wonders about what lies in the great beyond.  Does she decide to go out there and see for herself? And who will she find helping her along the way?  The mysterious loner of a merman, or perhaps a reliable childhood friend? A Visual Novel created for Ludum Dare 38, with the theme Small World.

Coding by Olivia; Art by Heidan; Writing by Fenwin and Godline.

[fen-at-work]

Completed Projects

Beyond the Deep (Ludum Dare 38)- Calder’s Path

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Contact Me

Business inquiries should be directed to the following email: [email protected]

[fen-at-work]

Work Sample #3 Sci-Fi/Tragedy/Pseudo-Noir (Alternative)

I sit on my haunches, cloaked in the shadows of the city.  The back alley is littered with wads of paper soaked in piss and filth, not to mention all sorts of other trash.

And you better believe I’m not just talking about wet, crumpled newspaper. Curling tendrils of smoky clouds stifle the light of the moon to a dull glow, casting the city into pitch black.  

A man walks into a single shaft of light provided by a flickering street lamp, pausing to pull a stack of stained bills from the pocket of his sweats.  My heartbeat picks up, pounding against my breastbone.  Eyes narrowing below black hat covering my scalp, I soundlessly inch behind my prey. 

His eyes are bloodshot, his clothes ratty, and his face young.  Yet it’s already too late for him to turn his life around.  He’s on my turf, made it onto my radar. He may not live long enough to regret it, depending on how cooperative he is with me.

A deep breath.

Exhale.

The flat of my palm shoots out to make contact with his temple as I slither deftly to his side.  

The hit is solid and brutal. He goes down quickly after, hands moving to protect his head from further assault.  His youth shows in his inexperience; he makes no attempt to fight back and the cash he’s obtained from the day’s work is left forgotten in the puddles filling the crevices between the cobblestones in the alley.  

Falling into a crouch next to his recovering form, I speak softly, “You sold to a few guys today, eh, buddy? Based on the amount of cash you just dropped.” He groans and I wait, unmoving as my breath puffs warm and damp against the mask covering the lower half of my face.

“What’cha peddling tonight, friend?” I hum lowly.

Another groan escapes his mouth and nearly I roll my eyes.  I barely touched him.  Whatever pain he’s feeling now is nothing compared to what he’s going to be feeling.  I reach into my waistband a pull out a penknife, flicking it open with a casual flip of the wrist.

The man whimpers and curls tighter into a ball, shaking.

He’s still exposed.  That won’t help him.

Either way, I’m starting to think my reputation among the rabble might be preceding me.

“Please—P-please don’t hurt me…” He mumbles, covering his face.

“Tell me what you were selling tonight, and maybe I won’t.”  I’m just toying with him.  I already know what he’s been selling.  And he knows I know. 

Otherwise he wouldn’t be blubbering so pathetically.

His breathing picks up and he begins to hiccup, struggling to get the words out, “I-I—”

“Quit being such a bitch and spit it out,” I snarl, nicking his shoulder with my blade as a warning.

“Alternatives,” he sobs, flinching away, “I was selling alternatives.  Please don’t hurt me…Please.”

Alternatives—the memory cards for SEATs. It’s not the worst offense I’ve stumbled upon this week.  In the grand scheme of things, however, that doesn’t matter.  All the dealers start small, but they spread and become absolutely uncontrollable.

   Just like mold.

I almost feel bad for him.

“Give me the ones you didn’t sell.”

“W-what?”

Glowering, I hover. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

His eyes go wide; frantic, he turns his pockets inside out and I stare as the squares of plastic clatter onto the stone.

I promptly crush them under my boot, grinding them into pieces.

Somehow, I’m no longer paying attention to the man on the ground, if he can even be called a man with the way he’s caterwauling.  I’m even considering letting him go. 

A sharp pain slashes across my leg and I inhale sharply through my teeth.  My head jerks to the side to watch as the man attempts to scramble away, stumbling along with a little pocketknife in hand.

Idiot.  There’s only one way in or out of this alleyway.

I made sure of that.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, friend,” Shaking off the pain, I lunge towards him, knife gripped tightly in my hand.

No one’s awake to hear him scream as I tear through his flesh with the vigor of an animal.

He doesn’t stand a chance.

_________________________________________________

Once I got home, I showered until the water ran clear, no red swirling stark against the porcelain tile.

Padding into the kitchen on bare feet, my toes curl against the cool feel of marble, robe swishing loosely around my thighs.  I’m lucky it didn’t take long to wash the blood from my hair; I keep it short and cropped close to my head for exactly this reason.  I could only imagine what my fiancé would say if he found blood caked in it.  It’s a risk I can’t take and the questions that would inevitably follow wouldn’t be ones I could answer.

More importantly, no one can use long hair against me in a fight anymore.

And believe me, everyone goes for the hair; it’s a shitty move, but highly effective.

I pull the stainless steel fridge open, marveling at the pretty arrangement of fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats as I pull out a head of lettuce to prepare salad.  Moving to the sink, I quickly turn on the faucet and begin pulling apart the leaves and placing them into a bowl.

The door creaks open slowly and the squeak of new shoes follows.  I don’t see him yet, but I know it’s Quinn.  He tries to approach me quietly—perhaps to surprise me—but I’m too tightly wound from my evening out in the city.  

A strong arm snakes around my waist from behind, hand laying flat against my abdomen.  A normal person would be surprised.  I try to emulate that reaction.  A gasp pulls from my lips and I place my hand against my chest, as if trying to calm a rapid heart rate.  “Oh my God, Quinn!” I exclaimed as I turned my head, eyes wide.  “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry, Mae,” Quinn pressed a kiss to my cheek, “I didn’t mean to.  How’d you know I was going to be home so late?  It’s 12:00 A.M.”

I smirk, “Because I know everything, Quinn.  Particularly, you.  And that you had a case to work on with the police department downtown, Mister District Attorney.”  That much is true.  Quinn always works late when he has trial the next day.  He has trial tomorrow.

That, and I have access to his schedule through the iCloud on our home computer.

“Such a smart one,” he teases gently.

“You have good taste,” I shrug in response.

Quentin’s touch lingers on my torso as he moves to put the head of lettuce away and grab a little Tupperware container of pre-cut vegetables and vinaigrette dressing, “Only the best for me.  Speaking of which, where’d you hide the scotch?”

“You have trial in the morning,” I remind gently.

Quinn makes a face at me before turning to get a cup of water.

It isn’t long before we’re both sitting down to a late night dinner at our little kitchen table, joking around and telling each other about our respective days.  I tip my head back and laugh about his snide commentary on one of the greener detectives, crossing a leg over the other.

“Mae!”

The tone of alarm in his voice jolts me into awareness, “What?  What is it?” My hand moves down to my hip out of habit.

“Your leg.  What the hell?” Quinn leans forward to get a better look at the little knick the man in the alley had made earlier.

“Oh.” I hadn’t even checked to see if the wound had stopped bleeding.  I need to be more careful; Quinn doesn’t know about my “nighttime activities” and I have no intention of making him aware.

Moving quickly, I pull my robe over the cut and paste on a smile, “Don’t worry.  I just cut myself shaving.  You know how they always look way worse than they actually are; they just bleed a lot.  The cut is actually pretty small.”

My fiancé raises his eyes upward and shakes his head, “You’ve spent twenty years shaving and you still can’t manage to come out unscathed. How am I marrying such a klutz?”

“You picked me, fair and square.”

He softens, “Yes, I did.”

I take a bite of salad, chew, and swallow.  “Don’t you dare get all sappy on me, Cassidy.”

“Yes ma’am,” Quinn drawls with grin, leaning back in his chair.  “So you remember we have the department gala this weekend, right?”

My eyes roll, “Yes, you’ve only reminded me about it every five seconds.”

“It’s for a good cause, Mae,” He reaches out toward me and grasps my hand, running his thumb over the inside of my small wrist.  “It’s going to raise awareness of SEAT trafficking.”

I cast my gaze to the side.  Despite SEATs being outlawed after a lot of virtual reality-related deaths cropped up, the business of selling SEATs is still rampant on the black market.  The department had been on the verge of cracking down hard on the main trafficking ring, but politics had gotten in the way.

“Right.  I know.”

_________________________________________________

Our police department may not be the wealthiest, but even I can’t deny it pulls out all the stops for the annual awareness galas.  The cause is different every year—we’ve done celiac awareness campaigns, domestic violence, sexual assault, drugs…  This is the first year we’ve ever done SEAT trafficking and I know it’s a move to appease.  In any case, the campaign itself doesn’t actually matter.  These galas raise money for the police department so that they can “put a stop to” whatever their issue of choice for the year is.

This year, their cause happens to be the same as my own; no one is stupid enough to believe that’s a coincidence.

The turn out is good though.  There are politicians of all kinds here: senators, representatives, a governor, a few wealthy benefactors… All more than willing to open up their pocketbooks if it means bribing the police department to look the other way from their shady dealings with the man holding the center of the room: Dominick Carmine, the local entrepreneur who’d made his money in “meat-packing.”

Everyone knows that’s a farce, though.  Dominick Carmine is the city’s mob leader and he holds the monopoly on SEAT trafficking.  Everyone in this room probably owes him something.  Unfortunately, that includes the chief of police and if that doesn’t cement a mobster’s power, I don’t know what does.

“You look beautiful, lieutenant.  Valentino suits you,” the chief approaches me, eyes stony behind his painted smile as he reaches out to shake my hand.

His grip is bruising.

I push back, matching his grip, “Thank you, chief.  I’m blushing.  But we both know there’s no need for formalities since you placed me on an indefinite leave of absence.”  My smile is full of cyanide, “It’s just Mae tonight.”

“And what is ‘just Mae’ doing here?”

A hand slips around my waist. “Keeping her devilishly handsome fiancé company,” His timing ever-impeccable, Quinn flashes a winning smile, but I know him well enough to see the condescension being directed at Chief Boydston. “And now, I will be stealing her away for a dance.”

His grip tightens as he pulls me away, dipping his head to murmur in my ear, “Why can’t you ever just stay out of trouble?”

“You know you love it.”

In lieu of responding, Quinn opts to sweep me out onto the dance floor for a waltz.

The opulence of the room is startling and almost too difficult to take in all at once.  Warm and low, the lighting is complimented by glittering crystal chandeliers and golden filigree on every surface of the room. Exquisite marble pillars lead up to the high ceiling at every turn, red velvet curtains hanging luxuriously between them.  The catering staff attempts to weave their way through the crowd, offering hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne and wine.  There is a gloriously rich, spiced scent floating around the room.  It’s dizzyingly good.  Or maybe I’ve just taken one too many turns with Quinn.

I could hardly believe when he came home one day, toting a large Valentino box.  The purchase was hardly financially burdensome between the two of us, but it had still seemed like a waste of money for something I would only wear once. Despite my voicing this complaint, Quinn had persisted.  As I watch the emerald green fabric flow like water along the polished mahogany flooring, I admit to myself that I’m glad that he had.  I feel like a queen with his thumb rubbing slow circles into my silk-clad hip as he leads me around the floor.  My head rests on his broad shoulder, feeling the subtle scratch of his tuxedo jacket against my cheek.  His sharp aftershave wafts just under my nose and my eyes begin to fall closed.

“Well!” A voice booms from next to us, breaking the spell. “If it isn’t District Attorney Cassidy and little Mia!”

Inhaling deeply to steel myself and separating from Quinn, I paste on a demure smile and hold out my hand, “It’s Mae, actually, Mr. Carmine.  How are you this evening?”

Dominick Carmine shakes my hand with such vigor that he almost seems sincere, “Oh, I do apologize Mae.  There’s just so many names—so many other important people.  I just can’t remember everyone. But I’m wonderful, thank you for asking”

I grit my teeth behind a simper, “Oh, none of us would expect you to Mr. Carmine.”

A warning squeeze from my fiancé.

“And how goes the meat-packing business?” I question, staring Carmine in the face with an intensity bellied by our cheery atmosphere.

“’Don’t ask me about my business, Kay,’” The mobster waves a playful finger at me, much to the enjoyment of the crowd, which erupts into boisterous laughter.

I recognize the reference.

And the threat.

Quinn laughs along, but I can feel the tenseness of his body against my own, “It’s been a wonderful evening, but it’s time for us to turn in, I think.  Mae, let’s go get our coats.”

Without fighting, I allow Quinn to steer me away, but I turn to glance behind at Carmine.

He wiggles his fingers at us, a mocking smile curving his mouth.

_________________________________________________

“Mae, what the fuck?” Quinn fumes, stalking through the door of our apartment.

Coolly, I follow him inside, taking my time as I hang my coat in the closet and remove my shoes, arranging them neatly on the shelf. The door closes with a click behind us.

“Why the flying fuck would you provoke Dominick Carmine like that?” He demands.

Whirling around, I approach him with narrowed eyes, “Are you seriously asking me that question? After what he did to my family?”  It’s all I can do to choke back my tears, to keep the lump in my throat at bay with the anger.

“That was careless, Mae.  Even more so since you know what he’s capable of.” Quinn attempts to steady me, reaching out to place his hands on my shoulders, a worried look in his eyes. 

I shrug him off and flinch away. “No.  I knew exactly what I was doing.  He couldn’t touch me, Quinn.”

“Maybe not right then—I don’t want to see you get hurt, Mae.  I don’t want to lose you to some careless remark you made in the heat of the moment, under the influence of champagne, to Dominick Carmine.”

I can’t take it anymore.  The mounting pressure behind my eyes breaks through the dam and I snap, feeling the rush of anger I had been pushing aside all night. “He took everything from me!” The words burn as they escape my throat in a howl of pain and grief and I collapse onto the marble tile, feeling my insides fracture as my knees hit the ground and I slump.  Another broken, enraged screech rips past my mouth, tears rolling down my face as I wrap my arms around my body.

I feel Quinn fall to the ground next to me and gather me into his lap, rocking me back and forth and murmuring comfort into my hair.

All I can do is scream and shudder in agonized fury, over and over.

“He killed them.”

_________________________________________________

After my parents died when I was young, I was sent to live with my maternal grandparents.  I never knew my paternal grandparents.  There was a time back then when I had wanted them to meet me, just once.  I grew out of that desire.

When I was twelve, I saw my paternal grandmother’s obituary in the paper. Two years later, I saw my grandfather’s.  I like to think he died of a broken heart, but that would imply he’d had one.  

Only a few years back, my maternal grandmother also passed.  Grandad, however, is still alive and kicking, always too stubborn to back down.  I try to visit him as often as I can.  Even though he claims that he’s fine alone, I know he misses Nana.

Trekking up the porch steps and wiping my feet on the mat, I knock on the door to his aging brownstone.  It takes a minute, but I hear limping footsteps and a smoker’s cough, then the click of a lock turning.  The door opens.

“Mae?” A grandfather he may be, but my Grandad isn’t so old that he should have been retired from the force.  His face is relatively young, with none of the aging spots.  He has a smoker’s mouth and an inordinate amount of laugh lines.  Perhaps for criminals, his large stature had been intimidating, but I had always found him to be rather comforting.

“Hey chief.  Can I come in?”

Grandad snorts, but saddles out of the doorway with the help of his cane, “I’m not anybody’s chief anymore, doll.  That asshat, Boydston, has the office.”

Crossing the threshold, I shut the door behind me and follow his slow-moving limp to the living room.   Along the wall, pictures of my mother hang, covering peeling floral wallpaper.  I have her eyes, Grandad always reminds me.  I have her everything, I think as I pass an antique mirror: her tall, slim build, her angular face, and her little, pixie-ish nose.  I glance away from the startling green that stares back at me in the mirror.

As Grandad finally makes it to the living room, he sinks into the old leather couch with a deep, long-suffering sigh.  “So.  What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” I fidget, perching on the edge of an old stuffed armchair in front of him.

“A hole with water,” Grandad grumbles.

“I’m marrying Quentin in six months.”

“Yes, I recall.  He came, asked my permission, and I imagine I’ll be buying you a wedding dress soon.”

I stare into my lap.

“I’m… not buying you a wedding dress, am I?”  Another sigh.

“As long as Carmine is out there, I will never be happy,” I admit, looking up at him with no small amount of shame.  “I thought I could let go.  For Quinn, for Mom—for me. But I just can’t.”

“You still going out at night? Beating up on those dealer boys?” His disapproval is tangible.

I cover my face with my hands and exhale long. “I killed one the other night,” I confess into my palms.

I hear Grandad breathe deep. “Jesus, Mae.”

I don’t tell him how many others I’ve killed before that.

“I just want to leave it all.  I want to go away with Quinn and forget all of this—let Carmine rot in this rat hole.” My hands drop into my lap.  “But I can’t forget.”

“The idea isn’t to forget, Mae,” Grandad intones, “It’s to make peace. Move on.  Let dead things lie.”

“How can I find peace knowing that Carmine will never face punishment for what he’s done?” I demand, frustration evident in my nails digging crescents into my leg.

“I don’t know.  But trust me when I say I do know that if you pursue Carmine, you can be certain that peace won’t follow, Mae.  And it’s naïve to hope it will.  But what you have with Quinn…? You could learn, in time, to be happy.  Yes, some days, you will feel your loss more than others.  But you will also feel loved, as long as you’re with Quinn.  He’s a good man, Mae.”

Grandad is right.  That’s nothing new.  

Am I really prepared to put myself, my own desires, before Quinn?  I love Quinn and he gives me everything in return.  Can I be so selfish?

But isn’t it also selfish of me to go off and live my happily ever after with Quinn and leave the city under Carmine’s control? So that he can hurt more people, tear apart more families…?

I don’t know the answers right now.

_________________________________________________

I return to the streets, knowing that Quinn will be home late again—not too late though, so I’ll need to make my little errand quick.  The night fell quickly, and the sky is cloudy again, not a star to be seen.   A light mist touches the upper half of my face left unprotected by a mask as I dart through the twisting alleyways of the city, sometimes hopping a fence or two for a detour.  As I make it to 34th and Way, I realize I’m in luck.  Leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his broad chest is just the man I’m looking for.

“Artemi Yanayev?” I question, approaching him with measured steps.

“Who is asking?” He pushes off of the wall, taking in my figure, likely assessing my threat level.  He would be smart not to judge me based on my appearance.  Sprite-like and sinewy, I know I don’t amount to much at first glance.  

And I like it that way.

Artemi apparently finds nothing to be afraid of, as he steps closer, “And what is such a little bug doing out so late at night?”

A huff of laughter escapes my mouth, warming my mask, “The smaller the scorpion, the more concentrated its poison.”

He freezes, eyes blown wide.  “That’s…”

“Yeah.  I know.  I look a lot smaller in person.”

With my ever-increasing infamy among the dealers, they’d come up with a name for me.  It isn’t exactly the cutest, most flattering thing I’ve ever heard, but I’ve been called worse things.

“You are—“ the man pauses and exhales slowly, looking as if he just can’t believe his terrible luck.

Neither can I, honestly.  Being named after a scorpion? Ouch.

“Yeah.  Let’s not call me that.  We’re not here to talk about me.  We’re here to talk about you.”

Artemi waves his hands pleadingly in front of his face, his babbling taking on the slightest Russian accent.  “I do not deal.  I do not even want to be working for Carmine.  He is a villain.”

“He is,” I agree, “And he’s wronged you, hasn’t he?”

“Carmine continues to wrong me this second,” Artemi spits, raking a hand through his dark, disheveled hair.

“Tell me.”

“My brother,” He begins, “Carmine facilitated his addition to the SEATs.  Everyone knows Carmine is the only one with a warehouse now. My brother got into that virtual reality shit.  He was an addict.  Spent all of his time in that God damned coffin.  Then Carmine starts peddling ecstasy.  He says it will heighten the effects of the SEAT.  Of course, my brother tries it.  

“It heightened the effects, all right.  He was so over stimulated that he went into cardiac arrest.  No one knew until it was too late.  So now my brother is dead and I am stuck paying off his debt to Carmine.”

“Then it seems that we’re friends,” I place a hand on my hip.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Artemi, we have a common enemy.  And I don’t know about you, but I want to see him burn.  Very literally.  Which is handy, because, uh, word on the street is that you can accommodate me there.” Allegedly, Artemi Yanayev is Carmine’s top demolitions expert. Artemi’s dislike for Carmine isn’t much of a secret either. I stick out a hand for him to shake, “Whaddaya’ say, Art?”

The Russian squints at me, “Are you aware of how dangerous that is?  I barely know you.  You are asking me to put my neck on the chopping block?”  A snort.  “You have balls, I will say that much.”

My hand drops to my hip, chin lifting to glare up at the man. “If you don’t help me, Carmine will get away with everything.  Nothing will change.  And you keep running around in circles for a thug.”

“I do this and I am dead.”

“Is that really so different from now?” I question.

Artemi is silent.

“Your neck is on the chopping block everyday.  You deal with explosives.  You risk your life.  For the man who killed your brother.  At least with me you get revenge.  And if you die… At least it won’t be for Carmine.”

“… What exactly do you have in mind?”

_________________________________________________

I return to my apartment at around 10 p.m.

Sliding the key into the lock, I give it a small jiggle and a twist, then hike my oversized tote further onto my shoulder and open the door.

“Hello, my dear.”

I jump, holding a hand to my chest, and turn to face Quinn, “Seriously?”

There he is, clad in pajamas and munching on celery, leaning against the granite countertop, “I thought we were getting dinner at 9:00?”

“I stopped at Grandad’s,” I explain.  He won’t question that. “Let me change into pajamas too.  Then we can order pizza or something.”  I run to our bedroom, eager to stash away the tote holding my mask and other things from earlier in the night.

Not an hour later, Quinn and I are picking up the vestiges of peperoni from our pizza out of the empty box and popping them into our mouths, our legs tossed over each other’s as we lounge on the couch.

“Six months,” Quinn sighs happily.

“Hm?”

“Six months and this will be the rest of our lives.”

A soft smile curves my mouth as Quinn reaches to pull me into his chest. I situate myself, laying my head in the crook of his neck.

“Remember when we first started dating?”

I snort, “You mean when you were district attorney for Organized Crime and I was still a rookie and we had to sneak around? Yeah, I remember.”

“We used to pull late nights all the time to work cases, eat sloppy pizza…” His fingers trace my lower back.

“Nothing’s changed then, huh?”

“Not yet.  But in six months your last name will be Cassidy instead of Gibson.”

“I like the sound of that,” I sigh.  It’s true, I consider as I listen to the slow beat of Quinn’s heart.  I want nothing more than to marry this man and forget everything from my past.  But how can I do that in good conscience?

We lay there for a long time, limbs fitted against each other’s, before we clean up and go to bed.

As I pull back the covers on my side, Quinn looks up at me.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” He says.

“Me too,” I assure, pressing a kiss to his mouth before crawling into bed.

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

As I lay there in the dark, swathed in sheets and comforter, warmth emanating from the other side of the bed, I feel the urge to see my plan through.  I feel uncontrollable, violent, and the warmth I had been feeling turns into licking flames as I clench my hand into my pillow.  I feel the intensity of the burn and know the spark has caught me.

I take my last looks at Quinn.  He’s an older man, seven years my senior, but his sharp wit and strong sense of justice caught my eye.  My mouth tilts as my gaze lands on his increasing waistline; he needs to ease up on the scotch, but I love him, faults and all.

I wait until approximately 1:00 a.m. to slip out.

_________________________________________________

Carmine’s warehouses are easy to find.  The man refuses to be subtle.  He uses one of his older meatpacking plants as a holding location for all of his SEATs; somehow the department could never get a warrant.

Crickets chirp in a low murmur as I prowl around the side of the building, looking for a sizable entry point.  The moon is out for once, reflecting upon the glass of the windows in the smallest sliver of light.  The window is my way in.

I pull it open and slither my lean body through with ease.

Thanks to Artemi, who has managed to shut off the alarms, I remain undetected. It’s not likely that will last.  Carmine has security swarming this place.  

And yet, Artemi had managed to get blueprints for the whole building, and map out where to strategically place bombs to make the whole thing come down.  He’d placed them earlier in the evening and delivered the detonator to me at an alternative location.  If he’s smart, he’s getting out of town right now.  Perhaps crossing the state lines.

I wander, feeling the weight of the detonator in my hand, waiting for Carmine’s security to happen upon me.

“Hey! What are you doing in here? This is private property.”

It’s like they come at my beck and call.

They approach me with quick, aggressive steps, one reaches out to grab me and I side step, holding up the detonator.

“Ah-ah.  Don’t touch,” I wave the detonator at them a bit, “Bring me to Carmine.  Try to take this and we all go up. How many of you have families?”

Three hands go up.

“Get out.” 

Shuffling footsteps follow; I turn my head to watch them leave.

“All right,” My attention returns to the others, “Let’s go.”

The security team walks with me through the winding, windowless halls.  The last time I felt this type of dread going anywhere was when I went home for the first time after the deaths of my parents.  There was still yellow tape around the apartment door, I remember.  My Grandad held my chubby little hand as we entered and although the SEAT my father had been found in was gone, there was still the lingering stench of his decaying body.  A red so deep it neared brown still splattered the walls in the kitchen.  A marble rolling pin lay on the ground in a puddle of congealed blood and what I now know to be brain matter.

I had thrown up.

The security team stops at a set of large double doors.

“This his office?”

A few nods.

“If it isn’t, I will blow this whole place before you have time to get out.  Is that clear?”

More nods, vigorous this time.

“Go.”

They scurry off.

Taking a deep breath, I run the pad of my thumb over the ridges of the detonator in my hand.  When I finally gain the courage, I push open the doors.

Carmine sits at his desk, at ease in his wingback chair, only deigning to glance up at me as I enter, my hand on the detonator stuffed in my pocket. “Little Mae Gibson,” He chuckles a bit, “What can I do for you?”

I don’t say anything, but continue to stare at him.

“You know, I always wondered why you were so dead set on going after me when you were on the force.  It didn’t take me too long to figure out, Madeline.  Or did your mom call you Maddie?”

My fist clenches, “I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”

“I made it my business when you first started sniffing around my factory like the rat you are,” Carmine stares down his nose at me, arrogance evident.

“Well, good for you.  You’ve seen my files.  Not exactly a feat since you have Chief Boydston eating out of your hand like a little lap dog,” I snort, “So you’re aware of your transgressions.  You killed my parents.”

Carmine shakes his head as if he feels sorry for me, “No.  I didn’t.  Your father killed your mother.  And then he died from his unhealthy addiction to virtual reality.”

“Which would have never happened if it weren’t for you,” I hiss.

“Don’t be naïve, Maddie,” Carmine condescends, rising from his seated position, “Your father already had an addictive personality; he was a deadbeat.  And your mother was a nagging whore.”

“How dare you?” I snarl, “My father was put on your fucking case, when you sold all those organs.  You told him about the SEATs and then his whole personality changed, he started staying out late, he lost his job.  He would have never touched my mother if your Goddamn SEATs hadn’t driven him insane.  Don’t fucking talk down to me.  And even if my mother was a whore, you had no right to take their lives.  To take them from me.  You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies.  You aren’t a God.  You’re just a pathetic man who refuses to take responsibility for his own wrongdoings.”

Carmine looks bored, “That was a very inspiring speech, Maddie.  Pardon me while I go dismantle my entire business because I’ve been so touched by your story.”

I smirk, and pull the detonator from my pocket, “No need, Dom.  I’m more than happy to do it for you.”

His eyes widen, “Wait—“

Without giving myself more time to think, I press the button that will end it all and squeeze my eyes shut.

Nothing.

Nothing, but silence, I mean.  My eyes are shut so tight that I’m seeing white flurries floating across the black of my eyelids.  Slowly peeling my eyes open, my gut begins to sink, mouth trembling.

Carmine stares me down, a triumphant sneer curling the seam of his lips.  “Did you truly think you could get my people to turn on me?  Do you think my power over this city is so feeble?”

As he rises from his chair, I step back, feeling intimidated for the first time since I’d entered the room. Carmine is on the prowl, a lion with power rippling under his pelt and a dangerous, jagged set of fangs bared right at me.

I feel small.

“Maddie, Maddie. This is my city.  I see everything, hear everything.  I knew every move you made.  Artemi would never betray me; I own him.  I gave him blueprints to show you.  As if access to my facility would be so easy to gain; as if my security would be so pathetic. You already know Boydsten’s been mine for ages… But there is one… You had no idea.”

My hands clench. “Who?”

“Your little lover—Quinn, I believe it is.”

Something inside me shatters.

“Oh, not knowingly, of course.  Well, a little bit,” he mock-placates.  “Quinn’s been coming to my warehouse for months.  Really partial to the SEATs; excellent customer.  The late nights make a little more sense, don’t they?  The inability to kick his dependence on scotch?  His unusual, shall we say… respect for me? Perhaps healthy fear would be more accurate.”

My mouth opens, closes.

“Go home, Maddie. Go be with your fiancé.” Unconcerned, Carmine turns his back to me, ambling back behind his desk and taking his seat once more. “Maybe it will make up for not being able to save your parents. 

_________________________________________________

Exhausted, I open the door to my apartment and drag myself inside, closing and locking the door behind me. Blank is the only thing I feel; no actual emotions, just a void.

The rustling of a newspaper draws my attention to the couch.  There’s Quinn, setting down the paper, expression relieved.  “There you are—you weren’t in bed this morning when I woke up.  Thought you got cold feet,” he jokes.

I say nothing, shuffling my shoes off with my feet before padding over to him and settling myself across his hips, knees at either side of him.

“Mae?”

Hands at his shoulders, I pin him back against the couch, then begin running my hands over his chest, down to his waist.

His gaze becomes worried, but nevertheless, he jokes, “Well, I don’t know where this is going, but I think I like it.”

Unresponsive, my fingers slip into his pockets and pull them out.  Nothing.

“Mae?”

They venture up to the sport coat he’s put on for work, pulling at the lapels, and reaching into the silk inner pockets of the garment.  My heart seizes as they brush against plastic.  I pull the memory card from his jacket; an alternative.

“Mae…” His tone has changed into something more dismayed, perhaps.  Ashamed? Sorry.

Looking up at Quinn, I notice the things I should have seen ages ago: the sunken cheeks, the bruising dark circles under his eyes, a certain restlessness to his gaze, twitchiness.  Things I would have noticed if I had been less absorbed in the past—with myself.  I’m the one who ought to be ashamed. I’m sorry.

I practically fall into him, burying my face into his shoulder, letting my tears trickle into the crook of his neck.  My hands clutch tight to his shoulders as his arms band around my waist.

He begins to cry, body shaking against me, sobbing apologies into my hair.

“Shh…” I hold tighter to him. “Shh… We’re gonna fix you, baby. I’m gonna fix you—I promise I’m gonna help you.”

We comfort each other on that couch for hours, my fingers rubbing soothing circles against his trembling back.  I still have him.  I can’t save anyone from my past, but I have Quinn.

I won’t let him go.

[fen-at-work]

Work Sample #2 Sci-Fi/Post-Apocalyptic (Roleplay Excerpt)

Val stumbled slightly over her feet as she stalked through the grasses over to what looked like an old parking lot. The concrete was cracked. Her vision blurred slightly. It had been a while since she'd eaten anything and the brunette could feel the burn of dehydration in her throat. A raspy, choking cough escaped as she attempted to inhale. Finally deeming herself desperate enough, she pulled a bottle of whiskey from her knapsack. Her nose scrunched. Not ideal, but it would grease her throat up enough that she could talk. Uncapping it, she tipped the glass container back and took a swig.

Then came up choking-- "Shit--!" She spluttered, chest heaving. Her voice had returned though, and she didn't feel like she was trying to swallow sand. Some good had come of the spirit, no matter that it tasted like piss. Roughly wiping her mouth with the dirt-smeared back of her hand, Valentina idly wondered when her standards had lowered so much. Alas.

Sealing the bottle once more, she returned the whiskey to her bag. She could see little spots dancing in and out of her vision, suddenly feeling very light-- it was that dangerous feeling, the drop in your stomach when one thinks they're falling when they're really in bed.

There is no waking jolt for Val as she collapses to her knees, making only enough effort to drag herself over to the curb of the oversized lot. Her knees are scraped up in the process, but what does it matter? She was bloodied and skinned before anyway, she muses. Whether she was covered in her blood or someone else's, she had adjusted. Macabre thoughts aside, sitting in a pool of one's blood was highly unpleasant. Finally, she paid mind to her previous injury, lifting the hem of her ratty tank top. A guttural groan escaped her full lips as she peeled away dried blood along with sullied cotton to reveal a shallow knife wound. Well--

It was shallow now, at least. It had healed up quite a bit, but she'd ripped the stitches she'd made the week previous. In the process of doing the deed, Val had unfortunately lost a considerable amount of blood. Blood that her body refused to reproduce without proper nutrition, of which she had none.

A smirk quirked her lips. Perhaps, if she wasn't going to be able to heal, due to her lack of food, she should leave the wound to itself all together. Perhaps another would make use of her supplies. She wanted to live, of course, but Val was a realist. Would it be selfish to use her resources on the lost cause that was her weak body?

Would some lucky fool happen upon her rotting corpse and her knapsack of whiskey, thread, bandages, and other useful things and thank his stars because obviously, he was having a better day that the poor bitch who had decided not to stitch herself up a second time?

Val groaned. Her subconscious mind could drink a nice cold glass of shut-the-hell-up, she decided as she reached for her needle and thread.

"Fuck." Val hissed around the fabric of her tank top, held in her teeth as she sewed up the wound in her side, attempting to pinch the skin together. She swore, she would down the entire damn bottle of whiskey after this.

That’s what she told herself every time.

Pulling the thread into a tight knot, she ripped off the excess with a sharp tug. At the same time, the brunette's head whipped toward the sound of rubble hitting the side of a building. A lump rose in her throat and, despite earlier troubles, she met no complication when she inhaled in panic.

A small whimper passed her lips as she attempted to rise from her slouched position against the curb of the concrete. Too fast. Huffing at her straining stitches, she pushed herself to her feet at a slower pace, drawing a switch blade from her pocket as she ambled over to investigate. Her wrist flicked and the blade flipped open with a wicked snick of metal against metal.

Controlling her breathing had taken only a day to master in the beginning. Now Val's inhalations were small, steady, and most importantly, quiet. A subtle clicking noise filled her ears and she hoped against all hope that it wasn't one of those things she had seen around earlier. They were positively vile-- Clickers, she had heard them called.

This sound was different though; more metallic. The Clickers made more of a groaning whine, a testament to the struggle of making any sound at all. Carefully, Val padded around near where the brick of the wall she was sliding against met an alley, blocked off by wire. She couldn't see anything yet. That was good, she supposed.

Neither could whatever was there.

Her heart felt heavy in her chest and she could feel the throb of her pulse under her skin. Flicking a short strand of chestnut hair out of her face, Val inched closer.

Hands. Human hands. Holding wire cutters. Click.

Val chuckled audibly. "God bless. I thought you were one of those things." Her stance relaxed only slightly as she brought herself into view. Her last injury had been human-issued. Just because this guy wasn't a walking mushroom, didn't mean he wouldn't hurt her. She would be on her guard.

[fen-at-work]

Work Sample #1 Suspense/Subversion (My Shoes)

Pretty much by accident, I saw the couple walking out of an apartment.

I hadn’t been watching them on that particular day, although that was something that I used to do often.  I had moved onto bigger, better things. Almost immediately, however, my heart rate had picked up; I could feel it kicking wildly against my ribs, feel my pulse straining in my throat.  I was about to burst.  The rush of adrenaline forced my feet to move.  I had told myself I wasn’t going to do this anymore.  That I would get help from a professional and talk to the people who had tried to help me before.  I had a family and a life and people that cared until I got so wrapped up in this… I didn’t know what to call it. I never had.

I just knew that there was this pull in my head, in my heart, in my soul that told me to follow them and watch them.

Ihadtowantedtoneededtowantedtowanteditlikeloveneededitlikeairitwassoimportanteverythinghin  gedoniteverything—mylifeherlifehislifeourlives.

The couple was on a date.  They were dressed nicely, probably going somewhere a bit more sophisticated than I was used to by now.  He wore a suit.  She wore a black dress that clung to her hips in a way I guarantee she knew would drive a man crazy.  Regardless of whatever fabric is hugging her figure, I kinda think you can tell what a woman’s endgame is by the shoes she wears.

Anything above five inches and she probably wants you in her bed.  A shoe made of patent leather with a heel anywhere from two to four inches means she wants a committed relationship.  Flats mean she either never had or no longer has interest in you; the date is out of pity or maybe a convenient opportunity to break up.

Ratty old gym shoes?

She’s probably not into you—never has been; never will be.

This one is wearing sensible, black heels. Two inches high.  Pointed toe. Matte leather. A professional shoe.

She wants to look nice, but she’s not sure about him and she’s definitely not intending to let this guy’s hands crawl under her skirt.  

She has great legs.  I almost feel bad for the guy.

Men are a little more difficult to read, in my opinion.  Or, at least, you can’t read them by shoe.

I’ve been told there’s a look someone gives you when they’re interested.  I’ve never seen it and, to my knowledge, I’ve never made it.

I wonder if he was making it at her?

They turned into a well-lit doorway, and then disappeared behind a slab of expensive-looking oak.

I waited a bit, before following them inside through a more subtle entry point: a side door, probably only there for employees, but not well-guarded.

The place he took her to—I was right: it was pretty nice.  There were candles in blown glass seated on crisp, white linen tablecloths, and the scent of fresh cut flowers and roasted garlic lingered in the air.  With the low light from the flickering candles, it was a highly intimate setting for a date made even more so by the corner booth that the couple had seated themselves in.

A table out on the floor wasn’t for someone dressed like me however, with a dark hoodie shadowing my face and baggy jeans riding low, I was more fit for the bar.  It had a decent enough vantage point that I could see the couple’s table and there, they didn’t care so much what you looked like as long as you could pay for your drinks.  Although, the bartender did look at me funny when I asked for ice water.

I find it’s better not to order something with alcohol in it when you’re following someone—liquid bravery it may be, but sometimes bravery can make you stupid.  When you’re stupid you screw up: create an outburst or cause a scene.  Police get called.

That’s never a good thing.

I don’t like police.

What have they ever done for people like me?

As their date progressed, I continued to observe.  His hand lingered on her shoulder and knee occasionally, though she didn’t lean into his touch.  They ordered Italian food that made my mouth water and he kept plying her with glass after glass of 2007 Sassicaia.  By the time the check came, she was more than tipsy and he wasn’t too far behind.

Which, for my purposes, was excellent.

But I was patient if nothing else.

I would wait until they left to make my move.

They chatted for a while at the table as he paid the bill, then got up to leave, skipping dessert at the restaurant with the intent of indulging in another kind entirely, gathering their belongings with cheery smiles, boisterous laughs, and hooded eyes.

Not for long, if I had anything to say about it.

Sliding from my bar stool and leaving a wad of cash, I hurried out the door behind the couple into the late night air.

Once I hit the pavement, I sped up, adamant that they wouldn’t get away from me.  “Hey!” I barked.

They stopped and turned to look at me.

Heart thundering against my breast as I stepped forward, I tore the hoodie away from my face and fixed my gaze on the woman.

I could see the terror in their eyes, for two very different reasons.

I licked my dry lips, parted them:

“He raped me in college.”

Her eyes blew wide and she took a tiny, wobbling step away, confused as she looked to her date for answers.

He scrambled to respond, “No—Madeline, I’ve never seen this woman before in my life, I swear—“

“—Your name is Eric Phillips, you have a brother named Devon, you were born July ninth, you were in a frat, you’re from Rochester just like every other fucking guy at our university, which is, not-so-coincidentally, where you raped me after getting drunk four years ago.”

A deep, cleansing breath followed. “Then Mommy and Daddy paid for the best lawyer money could buy and you didn’t spend a day in a cell.”

Unpitying, refusing to back down, I glared at my rapist as his jaw clenched.

Madeline occupied herself calling a friend to come pick her up, staunchly unreceptive to Eric’s pleas that she just listen to his side of the story.

Enough people had done that during his trial.

Satisfied that I had presented the Apple of Discord neatly on a plate to the couple, I turned on my heel, leaving them to deal with Eric’s just deserts in whatever way they saw fit.

I remembered that night too clearly for my own liking.

It had made for a great, albeit useless, testimony.

I had been on a run over by the frats—late at night, because the temperature was cooler then. I’d worn leggings and a Game of Thrones t-shirt—and my ratty tennis shoes because it had just rained.  The light drizzle had left its fresh scent behind along with a few puddles, which I had inadvertently splashed through on my journey.  I remember the chilled air burning in my throat as I tried to catch my breath.

Then Eric had stumbled onto the sidewalk.  I thought he was sick, so I stopped to help.

Then he launched himself at me, attacked me, tore at my clothes, bit whatever skin he could reach, wrestled my leggings down to my ankles, and took from me.

And when it was over, he just left my bleeding, prone body like a broken toy on the concrete, and zipped up his pants.

He hadn’t even bothered to take off my tennis shoes.