I've already climbed four flights of stairs,

And I've four more to go.

Three of the elevators are out,

As usual.

I'm used to this darkness,

This daily traipsing up eight floors, then back down.

I suppose it's better than nine or ten.

Many of the other girls are walking with me this morning.

Several only speak Yiddish or Slovene,

But I feel better with company.

I reach the eighth-floor entry and there are girls busy sewing.

I need to hurry; the sun is already beginning to rise.

My companions nod to me and hurry further upstairs.

My heels click rapidly into the main room.

In a rush, I sit at my station

And reach for a pile of colored fabrics,

But the general manager scolds me for being late.

I look at my shoes and nod, knowing better than to argue.

I pick up my scissors and begin.

You would'nt know that it's a March afternoon

By the wetness on our foreheads

or the stink in the air.

Sweat is indistinguishable from cigarette stench.

Smoking isn't allowed

But this manager often sneaks drags too.

Some of the girls are bolder today,

Sewing with a Pall Mall in between their fingers.

We continue working

And I continue cutting,

Counting down the minutes to break.

It's nearly five

We can feel it, though the clocks are all broken.

Many of the girls are joking to one another,

Making small talk about their families,

And the manager even turns on the radio.

Whether it's excitement that soon we'll be free

Or the exhaustion from eleven hours of the same task,

There is a tangible change in the air.

Suddenly there is a piercing scream

And heads swivel:

"Fire! There's a fire!"

The manager runs to the nearby fire hose,

Then bellows "Stay calm, girls!"

There is a plan for this.

He begins cranking the knob or tries to.

His voice cracks.

"This damn thing is rusted shut!"

In the time he's taken, flecks of paper have flared

And now drift around the room, starting smaller flames

That soon catch the scrap piles and ignite.

Girls are leaping up, running and screaming now.

Tables are knocked over; chairs are shoved away.

The radio clatters to the floor and cuts out abruptly.

I jump up and run too, but the door is so far away.

By the time I reach the eighth-floor entry,

The word Fire has spread more quickly than the flames.

The upper floors have already begun fleeing,

And there is no room in the narrow staircase.

Girls are pushing and shrieking and cursing and praying.

I force my way into the hall

And struggle towards the last functioning elevator,

But it's already failing from the heat.

Someone has pried the doors open

And girls are leaping down the shaft.

Others scramble back to the stairs and try to flee,

But the manager stays put.

He stares blankly ahead and murmurs "The doors don't unlock 'til five."

After a moment, his meaning dawns on me.

We're trapped up here.

The flames have engulfed the eighth-floor now;

There is only white heat and screaming.

Those still stuck here hurry further upstairs,

"The fire escape!"

We have only this hope, so we climb.

The ninth floor of the factory isn't engulfed yet.

We climb over tables and garment scraps,

Half-finished shirts and still running sewing machines.

We run to the window where

Girls frantically rush through the opening

And begin to clamber down.

The air here isn't filled with smoke, which gives us energy.

Fire engines sound alarms below,

But their ladders are too short to reach us.

Just as I near the window

A sickening creak occurs outside,

Then a crack,

Followed by more screaming that fades.

The ladder has broken

And the girls have fallen to the Manhattan street below.

We become a hysteric mob of young women,

Too young to have even thought of death

Or know the smell of charred flesh.

Those left of us run back to the stairwell

And climb to the roof in one last attempt.

The flames grow taller and the smoke billows higher.

In a daze, I walk to the edge of the roof and look down:

Girls are jumping, choosing to go on their terms.

Firemen are holding nets, but

The nets are tearing as the bodies hit.

What else can we do?

The frenzy of the crowd on the roof gradually settles,

And the building beneath us groans

As we look at one another on the edge.

To my left is one of the girls who climbed with me

This morning. A lifetime ago.

She smiles at me, sadly, and extends her hand

And I try to smile back and take it.

She says something to me, and though I don't speak her language

I feel her meaning:

Until we meet again.

We both turn to the street below us

And jump.

 

   It all started one night after a few too many shots. I was celebrating at my very own pity party, with my go-to friend, alcohol. It was my birthday and as usual everyone in the kingdom and their grandmother had gone overboard to try and please me. Though after twenty years I should be used to the fuss everyone made for the crowned jewel of the kingdom on her big day. My mother and father had given me the exact opposite of what I asked for, which had become a tradition. Mother tried to justify the present with the fact that princesses do not get electric guitars or wolves as pets, though the name of the kingdom meant wolf of blood. Instead, they bought me a harp and a new saddle for my horse. I was tempted to hang myself from the strings.

&lnbsp; After the party, I had at age seven, which had provided me with less entertainment than the funerals of dignitaries I had been forced to attend, I decided to make a tradition I would enjoy. Every year after the day I most dreaded was over I would have my cousin keep watch while I raided the kitchen of all the junk food I could fit into my little arms. I would take it back to my quarters and we would eat until we fell asleep. After a while, my parents and aunt got used to the food coma my cousin and I would be in the day after my birthday. The sweets turned to alcohol at age nineteen though, Elijah stopped joining me then as he was three years younger and my family did not approve of underage drinking.

  It was on the night I had successfully outlived my teenage years that everything had begun to go downhill.

  The first thing I noticed that morning was the word DANGER written in black ink. When I had finally regained the ability to open my bloodshot, gray eyes and comprehend what I was seeing I noticed it was a book, covered in blood red fabric and stitched together with barbed wire. The front had peculiar markings that I had seen before but could not remember the name of. I was sure the book did not belong in my room, though after last night everything had become foggy. My own name was swimming in and out of my memory. I swore that morning I would never drink again, though I was sure that like all my previous birthdays by the next one that oath would be broken. The book looked like it belonged in my aunt’s workshop and I could only hope that I had not broken in there while drunk last night. She would slaughter me then hang my head on her door as a warning towards others. With that image planted firmly in my mind, I decided it would be best to return the book before my aunt Cassia woke up, though it was already past dawn.

 %nbsp;When I got out of my bed and set my bare feet on my floor they came back sticky. For some reason, unknown to my hungover self, there was blood on the floor. This would lead most to scream or hide, maybe even both though I had grown accustomed to the shady tasks I did while drunk. I checked my arms to see if the blood was mine and found a deep cut in my palm that had luckily stopped bleeding. I checked my long goldilocks curls. “No blood in my hair, a good sign.” Mother would kill me if I got blood on the silk sheets. I reached for the book on my nightstand but I managed to knock it down onto the floor. It fell open to a page that had a shape identical to the one drawn on my floor, in my blood. I grabbed the book and read the caption underneath the image, ‘The pentagram must be drawn on a full moon using the blood of a virgin.’ The rest of the writing was in Latin, a lesson I often slept through; though my aunt or someone had scribbled that note underneath. One word caught my eye though; daemon translated to demon. I had been participating in some questionable activities last night.

&lnbsp; It was about that time that an attractive, scratch that understatement, gorgeous man decided to come strolling out of my bathroom in nothing but a towel. So, I obviously did what any hungover and slightly crazy girl would in that situation, I threw the book at his head. This did nothing to faze him. He looked at me, then the back, then back to me. He calmly moved across the room and grabbed my arm in one hand while holding his towel in the other. “Christ Doll Face that’s quite a greeting.”

  “Who the Hell are you and what are you doing I my room?” Though I was completely unstable I managed to keep my voice below screaming. I was, however, ready to throw him to the ground if he tried anything strange. He would have been black and blue if he did not have my dominant hand in his grasp.

&nbsp “You must’ve really been out of it last night. I guess I’ll have to introduce myself again then. I’m Lucifer, first fallen angel, King of Hell, so on and so forth. You summoned me last night, right before you passed out.”

&lnbsp;“You mean to tell me that I summoned Lucifer, the Devil, while I was drunk?”

  “Oh for Fu…”

  “No swearing in my room. I do not care if you are God himself. You do not swear here.” He looked towards the ceiling.

  “I know you don’t like me man, but c’mon even I know this is too far. If you send me back right now I’ll stop trying to recreate Vegas. Hell, I might even pray, please just send me back.” He stopped and after nothing happened he gave up and turned to me.

  “Well Doll Face, time to bring back your memories.” He laid a hand on my forehead and I was reliving last night though I was watching it happen through the eyes of my drunk self.

  Last night I had managed to get to the cellar and claimed all the booze I could carry. I did take one too many swigs along the way though and as a result, got lost trying to get back to my room. Somehow, I got lost in the wing my parents shared with my aunt, the best healer in the kingdom, on the opposite side of the castle.

  I started opening doors at some point and kept doing this until I reached my aunt’s workroom. Pages covered the walls, some with handwritten notes, others were worn with corners that had been burnt, torn, or curled. Most were recipes for healing potions bit some were spells and others had origins even I did not know. The bookcase in the corner caught my attention. It was filled from floor to ceiling with all sorts of book. I’d never been much of a reader but magic, especially spell books intrigued me.

  I grew especially interested amongst the leather or other skin-bound books in one that was covered with fabric the color of blood and held together with barbed wire. The side had DANGER written in sloppy ink. The front had markings, I believe they were called runes. I did not think twice about taking it in my drunken state. I placed it under one arm and held my alcohol with the other.

  I managed to find my room somehow. I sat on the floor with the book in front of me and the alcohol to my right. The book was locked, though I’m not sure how I realized it, and there was no way I could it without breaking the stupid thing. It was a magic book and I decided a keyword was the way to get it open. I could not think with the alcohol clouding my thoughts so I resorted to yelling at it after I got a headache. “I wish you would just open already.”

  The lock was undone and the book was open to a random page. I began reading the pages. I know now the pages were written in Latin but I am still unsure how I read them last night. It described the ritual needed to summon a higher-level demon. With no hesitation, I decided to try it. Again, while drunk I did many shady things. The items I would need were: the blood of a virgin which explained the cut on my palm, the tears of a father, and night-lock. My aunt’s workroom contained a greenhouse with almost any plant known to man.

  I wrapped the night-lock in the skirt of my dress and slit my hand once I was back in my room. I let the blood run until it had filled half of a chalice. I felt a tad bit dizzier afterward. I grabbed the letter I had received when grandma died and tore off the part that had been stained with the tears from my dad when he read it. I threw it in the chalice.

  The book instructed me to draw a pentagram with the blood and tears then hold the burning night-lock in the center while chanting the incantation. I copied the pentagram on the cover of the book. I lit the plant afterward and began chanting. Somehow it appeared I had become fluid in Latin.

  Te ab inferis ad terras. Quacumque die invocavero te. Vocavi te in conspectu meo. Ego instigo vos.

  I repeated this six times. When I finished the sixth time the night-lock burst into a flame which resulted in me dropping it moments before it went out. Smoke began to float up from the plant. It was swirling into a form. I ran from the pentagram and hid behind my bed. Only then realizing how bad an idea that was. I heard someone cough but grew paralyzed and I was too scared to move from my position.

  Eventually, I saw a shadow slither across the room; it was reflecting the shape moving towards me. I saw the face of a stranger looking back at me. He was a handsome stranger. His face had a gothic beauty, tragic and haunting yet heavenly at the same time. He appeared almost angelic. His brown hair and eyes were so dark they were almost black. His pupils almost seemed to swallow his iris. He held out and without being able to protest, without control, I took.

  “Now Doll Face,” he placed a finger under my chin, “what’s your name?”

  “Mary.” I had whispered it without being able to stop myself. This stranger had me in a trance I was not sure I could get out of. I was not sure I wanted to. He started laughing then pointed at the ceiling.

  “Oh, I’ll give you points for this one old man that is a good one.”

  “What is your name?” My curiosity managed to make its way through the trance and to my voice.

  “Oh, darling surely you know who I am.” He answered with a smirk. I swore the temperature rose ten degrees.

  “Well if I did I would not be asking, would I?” The anger had replaced the curiosity and the trance was wearing off. I pulled my hand from his.

  “I suppose since you saved from the most boring meeting in the worse place in existence you have a right to know. I’m Lucifer Doll Face.” He took my hand again and kissed it.

  “Lucifer, as in the Devil?” I squeaked while yanking my hand away.

  “The one and only.” His smile was the thing nightmares are made of. Suddenly I was pulled back into my mostly sober body.

 

She stood in front of the mirror, watching as the wave of sadness engulfed her. This was a new daily occurrence for her. Waves of sadness came and went as they pleased. When they came, they crashed hard. When they went, they left slowly. She could never trust them because she knew they would be back. The waves of sadness would forever come back, but the person who caused this mess wouldn’t. That’s what hurt the most.

She saw quivering lips where there once was a big, beautiful smile. Not just any smile, but a smile that reached her eyes. It was gone. She couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever come back and replace her heavy, aching heart. The mascara running down her face told her otherwise.

Usually, it would drive her crazy if her mascara wasn’t perfect, but that was the least of her worries. She couldn’t grasp the thought of living without him. He became her comfort and happiness, and now she felt empty and alone. Desperate to stop crying, she told herself she didn’t need him, and it would be okay.

It was almost 1 am by the time she calmed down and crawled into bed. She couldn’t help but notice how lonely she felt. He wasn’t next to her and the bed felt bigger than usual. She tried to ignore the loneliness by closing her eyes, but all she pictured was her and him being happy together.

Morning came, and she wasn’t sure if she ever fell asleep. She hoped this was all a dream but deep down she knew it wasn’t. She got up and took a shower with hopes of washing away the loneliness. However, it didn’t work, it only brought more. The shower felt like something was missing because he wasn’t there to sing in the shower with her. Everything she did reminded her of him. But she continued with her day because she had to. He wasn’t coming back. 

Three months later, she woke up and didn’t feel the pain quite as much anymore. She thought she couldn’t live without him. But she had for the last six months and she was okay. This time, she looked in the mirror and saw hope in her eyes. Her big, beautiful smile was almost back. She didn’t cry as much as she used to. She appreciated all the heartache she went through, because without it she wouldn’t have found strength within herself. She didn’t need him all along. She needed herself.

 

I walk up the stairs from the basement to the living room at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday and saw three people doing what they always did on the weekend. The TV was on, and Lifetime Movie Network was playing some guilty pleasure about murder, sex, and betrayal. They were loving every minute of it.

"This budget Leonardo DiCaprio is doing it for me. I want to be in front of him, or underneath him. Basically anything he wants," said Diana, my older sister, as she sipped on her third mimosa of the day.

"To tell you the truth, I'd rather be watching Thor, but I'm sucked in. She's just vicious, and he doesn't know." said Mom sucking on a wine cooler.

"I can't do it again this weekend," said Dad as he left the living room for the backyard, beer in hand.

"Morning, Bud. Come sit with us; it's getting good." said Mom

"Nah, I just don't hate myself enough to watch that shit today. Rain check," I said while walking to the garage door across the living room.

"Bud, you can't leave. There's murder!" said Mom.

"Nah." I said. I went to indulge in America's favorite pastime: pretending to eat healthy. I went to the Green Bean Coffee Shop and order a wrap with bacon. Emily Card was making it, and I was sitting at a table three feet away from her kitchen prep station.

"How does it feel to graduate early?" I said.

"It sucks. It burns." she said.

"What are you gonna do now? Grad school?"

"I think I'm just gonna be a broke bitch for the time being."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I'm going to rent a room in a trailer park, stock up on forties, and let 2016 pass me by."

"Didn't you want to be an accountant?"

"Yeah, but I'm just so fucking tired. I think I lost my motivation sometime in the fourteenth grade. Wish I could just fly away."

"Yeah, Chadron's grinding me down too."

"Here's your wrap. Want spit for 50 cents more?"

"Ha."

After eating the wrap, I decide to wash my car. I was scraping off all the insect entrails with a foam-dispensing brush, and then hosing it off when the foam dried. It works pretty well, but spending $5 in change was a pain. I went back home to do some homework. I park the car in the garage and walk in the house. Diana was attempting to make margaritas. I've only been gone for two hours.

"Mom. Mom! Why won't this fucking blender work!?" said Diana.

"Did you check to see if it’s plugged in!?" yells Mom from the rear bedroom just down the hall from the kitchen.

Diana looks at the power cord, starting from where it connected to the blender, and follows it to the prongs hanging off the edge of the kitchen island.

"Oh! Thanks!" said Diana.

I walk down the stairs to my bedroom and turn on my laptop. I was looking for some lectures on Russian Formalism when my phone rang. I could see it was Kendra, my little sister. The thing is: I don't answer my phone, so she went to voicemail after five rings. Twenty seconds later, my phone dings with a text: "Pls talk to me" followed with a picture of sad Puss in Boots from Shrek. Fine.

"Whaddya want?" I said.

"Geez, what's your problem?" said Kendra.

"You called me."

"Ok."

"So?"

"I need some things sent to me."

"Such as?"

"My study pants and my fuzzy boots and my pink bag."

"Ok, I know those."

"My bf is such a ducking loser."

"Why?"

"He just smokes pot and plays Call of Duty all day while I work to support us. I don't think he's going to be a doctor."

"Well, you picked him."

"I only picked him because when I met him, he had a job, and he was easy on my eyes."

"Now you're realizing that's not worth as much."

"Yes."

"I'll get a package together soon. Can't mail it 'till Monday. Don't get any ideas from Snapped."

"It’s almost worth it at this point.

"Bye."

"Bye."

I kept up on my research until 3:00PM until I'm exhausted with literariness. I close the laptop shut and start putting together an outfit for the evening. An old flame from high school got in touch and asked me to accompany her to the band concert tonight. I said yes at the time because I could always back out later if I had to, but I was simply enraptured at the fact that she came back to me, not vice versa. I couldn't just cross my shoulders in front of my chest and say no. I stuff the suit into a black garment bag and head out.

The State University Music Department spares no expense for their elite musicians, so they put Lana Gibson up in the Iron Ridge Estates, complete with a balcony and living room fireplace. These apartments aren't like the 1970s lemon-yellow pastel buildings I'm accustomed to seeing in Belle Fourche, so I feel out of my element, looking like a hood in a neighborhood. I head up to third floor and knock, bearing a bottle of Smirnoff, a six-pack of Hershey's chocolate bars, and my flat bag of clothes. The door was answered by who was once the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world. She was 5'5" with long brown hair, wearing only a blue bathrobe and a sparkly silver heart pendant. She had a cinnamon tan complexion with a curvy body. What can you say meaningfully after so many years? I just act naturally.

"Hi Christian."

"Hi Lana. I come bearing gifts," I said as I held up the brown paper bag and the chocolates.

"Oh, you shouldn't have. Please, come in."

I step in and I'm taken away with the smell of lemon Pledge and hair burnt by a curling iron. The kitchen looked barely lived in, and the living room was a void with leather furniture just waiting to be lounged in. I just kept smirking and thinking that this is nothing like home.

"Bathroom's yours if you want to get changed. I'm gonna smoke on the balcony." she said. I walk out five minutes later in all black, save for a gray tie. I meet her out on the balcony.

"Whose funeral are we attending, Johnny Cash?" she said.

"You're funny." I said.

She went back inside, and I stayed outside, smoking from the pack of Marlboro Golds she left outside. I stare out into the vastness of wavy, grassy plains and rolling midwestern hills while contemplating the mysteries of my choices while inhaling the mellow tobacco smoke. An hour later, she emerged from the fog of hairspray and perfume to me, and we set off for the State University campus. After the performance, we sat on the living room couch, watching some trash on Netflix, passing Oreos and Smirnoff back and forth to each other. She was gulping down shots and clearing few Oreos while I was halfheartedly sipping and becoming the Cookie Monster with each bite. My mouth feels like chocolate-covered razor blades. I excused myself to the balcony for a cigarette and thought nothing of everything I've seen.