And a curious thing happens—
The top of the forest moves.
The air is solid and heavy, no wind to cut it, but the forest’s canopies sway. It reminds me of insect antennae. All of my other thoughts are emptied out, a rush of blood to my head, and it feels like
Zelda!
A familiar voice I can’t quite place, speaking my name.
Zelda. Zelda.
You’ve forgotten.
Gilda seizes my hand and raises it with a celebratory “Two hundred and fifty dollars going once, going twice, sold to Morgan Angelopoulos.”
The mystery voice halts at once. What on earth was that?
I descend the steps, and there he is. His right eye squints against a burst of sunlight through the treetops, painting his cheek with gold dust. His left eye is a brilliant, shining brown, regarding me with an eager, speculative appreciation.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “This could not have gone better than if I’d planned it all myself.”
“I’m here! Don’t start without me,” someone exclaims, breaking between shoulders. It’s Dylan, glasses askew, shirt half-tucked into his jeans. “I couldn’t find my shoes. Then my tire had a flat, and once I got on the road, rain started pouring down so thick I couldn’t see.”
Morgan beams at me. “Guess what?” he tells Dylan without bothering to glance at him. “You’re too late.”
Five
Spirits of those who die alone in the woods are called brays, and they move with the storms.
Local Legends and Superstitions,
Tempest Family Grimoire
Re: New Idea
Hi, Zelda! Hope you’re doing well. I had the opportunity to read over your proposal, and while CATASTROPHICAL sounds fun, there’s a lot going on here that perhaps needs to be pared back. I also worry that a vampire main character might not be enough of a departure from Henriette. While you know I LOVE Henriette, I think we can both agree that it’s time for something new. Should we schedule a phone chat?
All best,
Abigail
Editor (she, her)
Sara Spright Books | Wuthering Press
Self-doubt is a sickness. As I examine myself, I can almost see it spreading down my arms, pooling in the creases of my fingers. It colors the space between my ears with monochrome fuzz.
I don’t have any good new ideas. I’m a one-off.
My phone rings.
I jump in my seat; I’d begun to slouch sideways, eyes glazed on the email from my editor. The computer screen falls asleep, and now all I see is myself, blank-faced and utterly failing at this core part of my identity that I am supposed to love.
I scramble upright. “Hello?” I’ve accepted the call without checking the name. “Who’s this?”
“Morgan. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at all.” I’m instantly bright-eyed. “What is it?”
