"Thrashing. That''s how I started my morning. The blanket had twisted its way around my neck-- the pristine, cold sheets must''ve escaped the mattress and decided my death was their next immediate goal. As my body hit the cold, wooden floor, I was happily blessed with the fact that I didn''t have a roommate to witness this godforsaken tragedy.


    Hello! I''m Sherri Lovelace, but I prefer Shay. (I feel like a kindergartner saying this.) Until very recently, I was a well-known and respected author. I''m currently in the middle of Small Town Fuckville to see an uncanny, burnt down lighthouse I can write about. We all know that a lighthouse is a lovely setting for a thriller. I hope this helps me think up some ideas.


    Now. I know speaking about every strange happening I come across in a similar manner to a starving Victorian child is a very Lynchian thing to do. However, consider the following: we can probably sell this. The imaginary crowd cheers! (The crowd is me. I am cheering.)


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    And now, as I speak into this two-bit tape recorder, I hope you envy me. I hope you never taste sea air on your tongue. I hope you know that every transaction we have from now on is entirely business related.


    I hope you know you''re never coming back, Delilah. I hope you know you''ll never feel the warmth emanating from my life again.


    ...can we omit this one?"


    A click, then silence. The morning light settled into puddles on the floor, refracting off of cracked glass and wooden floorboards. Eye-like knots stared from the wood-- what were they trying to say? Those grooves and swirls seemed judgemental. Observing.


    Shay sighed, placing the brick-like tape recorder on her twisted bed. She had just arrived-- what a journey! Flickers of lightning and seemingly endless dark clouds marked her journey here. Turns out, she could''ve just driven. What a way to make things difficult. A road trip! Instead of getting rained on!


    Whatever. This was her fault. She was here, now. The curtains rustled in nonexistent wind, a specter ruffling their lacy edges to mess with her. The water-stained popcorn ceiling seemed to be falling apart, ready to burst if looked at wrong. This place was her home, for now, murderous blankets and all.


    I miss Chicago.