Alysse Aallyn

Category: Crime

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 11 – The Perfect Alibi

    Over breakfast I peppered him

    With questions.

    “If Mirabel was a scout for porn –

    What does that mean

     She actually did?”

    Verne moaned.  

    “I tried so hard to make her quit,”

    He writhed and sighed pointedly –

    Reminding me who’s

    The victim here.

    “Set dressing. That’s what they call it.

    Pretty young girls who want to

    Get ahead.

    Sometimes she found investors at

    Openings and parties.”

    Was that what she did

    To me? Threw me at

    Verne as a distracting toy?

    Ignoring me –

    Living alone in his world was HIS 

    Superpower, I’d

    Decided;

    Angry and increasingly incensed,

    He worked himself up.

    She took something he needed

    That much was plain.

    Pushed his plate of tempting food away.

    “Is that how she found you?” was

    The question he refused to answer,

    Playing with his fork

    As if he’d stab me.

    I summoned up my calmest adult voice.

    “Let’s call the police. I think it’s time.”

    A shudder ran through him

    As though I’d suggested

    Daylight to a vampire.

    “Too humiliating.

    They’ll only say she’s

    An adult whose feet are cold.

    They don’t know her well enough

    To find her. We do.”

    I felt just the opposite. The police look

    For the actual person; Verne 

    Only wanted certain Mirabels – others

    He needed to stay gone.

    On a sudden inspiration –

    “The trash!” he raced to collar

    Overflowing baskets and

    Upend them on the counter.

    Good idea, I must admit.

    We attacked the problem

    Like an archaeological dig

    Separating

    Paper here and garbage there.

    But I realized – if you want to know a human

    You need her phone –

    Phones are more intimate than

    Bodies. As Verne sorted through her

    Discards, I considered ways

    To break into her account.

    Still, he levered intriguing items; a

    “Welcome new members” card for

    “Bioceutically Renewed Day Spa” and a crumpled pack

    Of ginger parsley tea. I knew the tea

    Through schoolgirl gossip –

    Never tried it myself;

    Supposed to cue overdue menstruation.

    Surprise! Mirabel bothered

    With menstruation: tiny as she was?

    It perhaps had other uses.

    Levered out the members’ card – 

    No need to mention the tea – and tidied up the mess.

    Verne’s shoulders curled in

    Frustration. “There’s nothing here.”

    I waved the card.

    He was rude. “Where’s that get us?”

    He was tough to help

    And something about that made me mad.

    But if my school teaches anything it’s

    Disguise your feelings.

    I said coldly,

    “We should check her phone.”

    “How can we – if she’s taken it with her?”

    “There might be a way if you pay the bill.”

    He rolled his eyes.  “I pay everything. 

    Where’s my laptop?”

    Really, the man was helpless.

    “I think I saw it beside the sofa.”

    He blocked me from retrieving it.

    “You finish breakfast. I’ll get it.”

    I couldn’t eat with him typing 

    In the other room. 

    “What are you finding?”

    “Nothing.” He turned away.

    “There’s nothing there. 

    She dumped it somewhere.”

    Are we playing 

    “Baffle the Virgin”?

    “Mislead the Virgin?” But

    I had to hand it to Lord Verne

    Realer than Mirabel, so honest about

    His needs while she vanished

    Into legend. Now I cultivated 

    New ideas. Everyone knows

    The leading cause of death for

    Girls is Men. Let’s say

    You wanted to kill a person

    But create a perfect alibi.

    It would help to have the person

    Seem to disappear all on their own.

    Could the Mirabel I’d met

    Be an impostor who’d somehow

    Managed to greet me with Mirabel’s

    Special look? I discarded that

    Impossible theory. But it was attractive;

    Suggesting why her new self

    Was tried out on me and not

    The folks. Thinking of my parents caused

    My phone to buzz.

    Damn, they’re psychic too. Pressed

    “Ignore” but knew that wouldn’t

    Work for long.

    Verne, suddenly hardboiled American –

    Snapped his laptop shut.

    “Does she have “find my phone?”

     “You see location on a map.”

    This man was a death-ray.

    “We don’t want it. It’s just a piece

    Of junk.”  I’d like to believe

    Verne grew values, honoring

    The spirit rather than the object

    But I know he saw himself

    As the sole animating force.

    I contemplated ways

    To escape this echo chamber.

    “At least we’ve got Bioceutically Renewed to try.

    But first I need to report to Mom and Dad.”

    The blood washed out of him

    Never was a swain so 

    Fearful to confront the folks.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter Ten – Is Lord Verne In the Epstein Files? 

    Cycling through museums of dream –

    Christine, threatened forever by

    Her hideous Phantom, Daphne

    Sprouting as a laurel tree;

    Philomela without her tongue.

    Was that what Verne meant by

    Classics? In the night’s dark heart 

    I woke and thought I saw him standing there or

    Was it Mirabel – reaching out through a gold-framed

    Mirror to beckon me closer

    Or warn me away?

    Somehow I became convinced

    Mirabel was dead – murdered by

    Lord Verne – he must have done it because

    I was his perfect alibi, covering up

    His appearance in the Epstein files

    Of life, where old roués

    Tarnish up the young.

    If I stayed here

    I’d be Mirabel forever – so I

    Fled through shattered French windows where

    Sheer white curtains blew across my face

    Impeding me; supplicating

    Me to dance, daring my embrace.

    Where was I? Was this the ruined castle

    Where the wraiths were tourists

    Gazing at destruction paid for

    With the lifeblood of the country?

    The stone terrace beneath my feet

    Was littered with the broken glass

    Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way

    Between the broken statues – horny Pan 

    Whose face had split, cupids gaping with

    Their fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing

    Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.

    Pursued by something

    Too disgusting to confront

    I saw his shadow –

    A leering man with antlers.

    At least the distant view

    Was comforting – pond encircling island

    Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned 

    By snowy mountains. 

    Surely he could not pursue me there.

    Something amiss about this lighting –

    Bleached too white – bad weather or

    Apocalypse; eclipse of the sun or

    The end of the world?  I revert to

    The “helpless bystander” dilemma of childhood –

    This was too horrible: I forced myself awake. 

    Dreams multiplied enigmas –

    I could not abandon Mirabel

    Prance on home

    And declare she’d

    “Done it yet again.”

    Either she was in danger or

    I was. And all my life

    I’d been preparing for this moment.

    In the mirror I saw

    Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –

    Sunlight exacerbating a hangover

    Not from overdrinking but

    From over-dreaming.

    Verne’s door was closed –

    It would be awkward if I’d killed him

    But I refused to check. Men

    Should not be so dangerous.

    I took control of the empty kitchen.

    Some bad person – probably me –

    Left out the cake – stiff and

    Ruined now – only cardboard sugar

    Which I guess it’s always been.

     Tossed it,

    Put the last espresso in the

    Microwave and

    Opened cabinets sadly.

    Here’s finally a place where guests could

    Unpack their clothes –

    Empty, empty, empty.

    The front door unclicked –

    I jumped so hard

    I banged my head.

    “Ow!”

    And Verne cried

    “Breakfast!”

    I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems 

    I’m the one who overslept.

    “I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was

    That stuff?” he 

    Eyed my mug with disapproval.

    “You can’t drink yesterday’s.”

    I’ve heard it said their lordships

    Can’t comprehend the hoi polloi.

    “I brought everything.” He went on,

    Impossibly cheerful

    Considering yesterday.

    Waffles, eggs, fruit.

    Coffee. No milk?

    “It’s OK,” I said to his 

    Self-recriminating face

    “I noticed you have ice cream.”

    Vanilla works as well or

    Even better.

    “Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.

    “She says it makes cowbones

    And soy makes man-boobs.”

    She would say that.

    Charming Mirabel.

    I could one-up and list the

    Plant-based milks I willingly absorb but –

     “Ice cream is better.”

    Hard to one-up when one is

    Drooling. Visibly. 

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 9 – Shock the Virgin

    He opened the door on baited

    Breath as if Mirabel waited but

    Of course she did not.

    Did he long for her or

    Fear her? I could not figure them out.

    In their world, the blow is

    Desired; not in mine. I am determined 

    Not just to resist

    But to understand.

    The rooms embraced us into its

     Darkness, blandness.  Silence. I should be

    Exhausted, yet I new

    If I closed my eyes she would appear

    No stranger but 

    A part of me, both future

    Avatar and past life

    Alter. Her perfume

    Teased us with its sexy cloud

    As if from somewhere she was

    Watching. Teasing. Listening. Laughing.

    “I’m terminal,” yawned Verne.

    Now there’s an odd expression.

    “I could sleep.” I scanned the two

    Bedrooms, yoked by unlockable

    Double doors. 

    At least my bathroom

    Had a lock.

    Was it rude to remind him

    He was supposed to have rented

    A hotel room?

    But if I sought politeness

    He did not.

     “Sorry there’s no telly,”

    He casually insulted me.

    Ignoring the fact I have a phone.

    He lifted a hand – where would

    It drop? I watched with

    Frozen fascination as he dumped it heavily

    On my shoulder.

    Stumbled words – 

    “This has been a horrid homecoming

    Holiday for you.”

    Homecoming? No more a

    Homecoming than a holiday.

    Luckily, I’d never considered this mission 

    A vacation. “No worries,”

    I tossed off lightly,

    “I’ve got plenty for my end-of break-essay.”

    His hand tightened painfully.

    I tried to shake him off but he clenched harder.

    “You can’t write this!”

    I am NEVER ready for this reaction

    Though God knows I should be –

    Parents and school seem equally aghast

    By my take on things

    Refusing to grant me 

    The power to call them out –

    That I was born with. It’s my

    Superpower – NEVER

    Reject a superpower.

    Took both hands to de-clench

    His grip. This would

    Leave a mark.

    I’d no wish to rile him but

    How could he silence me?

    “It’s all grist,” I quoted, lightly,

    “You know, sweet mystery of life.”

    Literally he spat with rage. 

     “That’s so American!”

    (His deadliest insult.)

    “Maundering on about all the details

    Of your tiny lives, as if

    Gossip is the better part of

    Being!” 

    I backed away, trying to control my face.

    They hate it if they think you’re laughing.

    “It’s a mystery to be solved,”

    I reassured, “Use all

    The tools we’ve got:

    Hypothesis, antithesis and

    Synthesis. Occam’s 

    Razor. Refine

    Possibility into

    Probability.”

    He snorted. “This is what comes

    “Of not teaching Classics!

    Confession substitutes for mastery!”

    In my short experience

    Those who try to “master” Truth

    Will never understand it;

    Won’t get that ultimate reward –

    Uncovering the deepest questions –

    Invisible to us now.

    Playing politician by

    Managing me, or

    Controlling truth won’t locate Mirabel.

    I threw him a bone. It worked –

    It usually had before.

    “Poetry’s my specialty,”

    I taxed him.

    People back away.

    He seemed relieved.

    “You mean like – metaphors?

    An allegory?”

    This man wouldn’t know a poem

    If it gobsmacked him.

    Poor Mirabel!

    Of course she had to leave!

    He cleared it up in

    Just that second; guaranteeing me

    Needed rest.

    “Good night,” He told me as he closed the door.

    Manners abound with

    Strange expressions: this night

    Was anything but good.

    I chewed my lip.

    It’s a bad habit of mine. Let’s hope

    He doesn’t sleepwalk.

    Mother wants me to unpack first –

    No hope of that – these

    Drawers and closets were jammed

    With gaudy accoutrement

    Complete with price tags.

    Because what’s the good of

    Acquisition sans

    Provenance? 

    My clothes would have to stay

    Jumbled together in their

    Carpetbag.

    I should really film all this –

    Make a video –

    But where to share it?

    And that’s the trouble with

    My school – they’re never interested in

    What excites me. And what

    Excites me? Just the things

    I cannot know. I’ll always be

    In the process of

    Finding out.

    Behind the locked bathroom door

    I soaked myself in

    Dead sea salt. Washed

    My hair in watermelon mint &

    Rubbed myself with Mirabel’s

    Mango chutney cream – never approximating 

    Her clingy floral scent.

    Pulling on my jammies I

    Welcomed this new self of mine –

    Solving grownup disasters by

     Avoiding the reasoning

    That caused them in the first place.

    There was a knock at my bedroom door –

    I said nothing but it opened slightly

    Verne’s face poked in.

    “Ok if I sleep in here?  I just

    Can’t be alone tonight.”

    “No,” I told him firmly. “I wouldn’t sleep 

    A wink.” The nerve of him!

    “Afraid of rape? You wouldn’t be

    The first fourteen year old I’ve had.”

    I concealed my shock.

    “You’re not having this one. Leave.”

    “You’re ignorant of sex. It’s

    Life’s mightiest comfort.”

    “No thanks. Are you leaving or am I?”

    “Oh, all right.”

    He sighed.

    “Can I leave this door open?

    Just until I fall asleep?”

    Was he a rapist or a baby?

    Why did I feel this was some 

    Miserable recap of his many nights

    With Mirabel?

    “I have some pills to knock you out.” I

    Double-dosed him with Benedryl.

    Closed the door and

    Disappointed myself by falling 

    Asleep before I could sort my

    Jumbled thoughts.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Mirabel’s been hard to pin down lately. 

    Then suddenly she changed. This marriage idea.”

    Did he blush or blanch?  I couldn’t

    See clearly in the darkening light but

    His throat trembled raw

    With pent emotion.

    My face must have betrayed 

    My distaste

    Because he hurried to explain.

    “She’s been trying to

    Talk me into seeing her family. 

    A wedding to erase her

    Great Silence. I thought we were 

    Two avatars alone. I imagined 

    A woman to stand with me against the world.”

    How rich, I thought, literally, 

    For a man with a title based on family 

    To disown that very concept.

    But to quarrel seemed

    Perfidious, and once again,

    The youngest person in the room

    I was silenced and shamed.

    He leaned back in his chair

    As beef wellington arrived.

    “I’m amazed you existed, frankly.

    I thought the little sister

    Was another of her stories.

    Kudos to your parents.”

    I stared nauseated

    At beef wellington –

    Perhaps I’m vegan after all.

    This party made me gag.

    “I’m so glad you’re you,

     Just like her but so

    Unspoiled.”

    Never had a compliment

    Felt more like an insult.

    What kind of talk was this from

    A prospective groom?

    And any idea that my parents “made” me

    Is creepy and revolting.

    “Mirabel and I are opposites,” I stressed

    Too angrily before I considered.

    “How can THAT be?”

    He was smug. Superior.

    I schooled him.

    “She cares what others think and

    I just don’t.”

    That should have stopped him but –

    It didn’t. He smiled

    Indulgently.

    “Sisterhood is powerful.

    I see she’s got “the drop”

    On me,” he emphasized the slang

    Like any English lord raised on 

    American movies.

    Unable to be me;

    Unable to read him,

    Know him, change him.

    Is this the dawning of

    Despair? It makes me hate

    The grown-up world. 

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    What could excite the most

    Boring of Mothers?

    Lacking hypothesis –

    Unshouldered my headphones–

    Grateful because

    Geometry’s a notorious paralytic –

    Playing the

    More interesting

    Guessing game.

    “We won Powerball?”

    “Your sister! Your

    sister’s coming home!

    To get MARRIED!”

    Invisible Mirabel –

    ten years my elder 

    Unseen lo these

    Eight years at least.

    I barely remember her.

    Lifetimes ago. 

    “Why?”

    Mom – never invited in –

    Unable to break my force-field 

    Leaned against my door.

    Thin edge of the wedge

    Is an article of her religion. 

    “It’s all forgiven.

    Making up for the past.”

    Who can make up for the past?

    Especially when they’re so busy making UP

    The past.

    Mirabel just wants a free wedding.

    Mirabel was ALWAYS

    Always always always

    About the money.

    That much I DO remember.

    “Who’s she marrying?”

    “I think his name  –

    Something like Rupert Golden.” Said mother –

    “I couldn’t ask her to wait while I got a pen.

    Said she’d send details. She’s so fussy about

    Snoopers.”

    Everyone loathes snoopers, I thought because

    Everyone loves to snoop.

    It’s addictive.

    People usually won’t

    Reveal themselves without help. What

    Mirabel really hates is

    Accountability.

    I know it – 

    We’re all that way at first till 

    Forced to grow out of it –

    Taking our medicine; 

    Surviving

    Tongue-lashings

    Dressings-down,

    Bad grades –

    Teachers who hate you

    Disappointing boyfriends 

    Etc. etc. etc. 

    Most of us move on.

     “Rupert Golden sounds so unreal,” was my

    Only contribution.

    Mom gave me her

    “Like you’re the expert” face.

    But fourteen year olds DO

    Know everything.

    Then we start to forget because

    We’re distractible.

    Mother sighed gustily –

    Almost obscene – I 

    Looked away, politely

    Embarrassed for her. She said; 

    “We’ll be a whole family again

    First time in – ages.”

    Just so Mirabel can leave us 

    One final time, I thought –

    Cynical me.

    It’s all coming back to me.

    Attuning to Mirabel – she’s the one 

    Who made me so cynical –

    Looking for groupies –

    “Murble”

    I called her

    When learning to speak, 

    She was my dazzlement,

    Goddess of my

    Dappled infancy.

    Parents may be incomprehensible and

    Downright nonsensical.

    Caring only for appearances –

    Pretense

    Our manse is

    Copacetic.

    That’s why we – the

    Ungratefully sane –

    Greet their

    Lectures on truth-telling with

    Stink-eye and sour-mouth.

    “When’s this happening

    Happening?”  I asked a fair question.

    “Unsettled,” says Mom.

    “She wants your help buying The Dress.”

    “Me?” Here’s something unexpected.

    Amazing adventure, in fact.

    Up to that second I’d  been a

    Peeper, a commentator, a satirist 

    Unthankable critic of

    Our Family Drama.

    Now I’m  color coordinator?

    Was there a choice buried in this?

    “You’re her only bridesmaid so your

    Dresses must match,” 

    Mother pronounced –

    Completely unrealizing

    What idiocy she spoke.

    Mirabel had certainly

    Not sacrificed

    Edge.

    “You travel tomorrow 

    and both come back Sunday.”

    These plans were

    Gobsmacking.

    How had she been inveigled

    Into agreeing to this

    By a kid on the outs

    Unseen in eight years.

    I could see she wasn’t quite  happy.

    Something was niggling.

    Probably the fear that

    White slavers will get me

    It’s usually that.

    “Unless… maybe I should drive you?”

    I alerted like a drug dog.

    Time to finish Mirabel’s work.

    This was nothing less than

    A prison break.

    There’s a first time for everything

    Grab it when you see it.

    “I’ve taken trains before,”

    I said maturely, suppressing my

     Own edge; announcing –

    In case she’d forgotten –

     “I’m fourteen years old!”

    “But it’s the city,” wailed my Mother

    Both of us panicking 

    For different reasons.

    “I’ve been to the city,” I said,

    Blessing disgusting school field trips

    I’s tried to get out of.

    “I know where things are.”

     “She’ll meet the five o’clock.”

    Mom’s face was a study –

    Obviously wondering

    In what hell had she agreed to this?

    Some strange woman

    Calls up my Mom 

    Securing more freedom 

    Than I’d ever managed?

    It’s a gift.

    Keep the horse’s teeth out of it.

    “It won’t even be dark,”

    I said blithely,

    Knowing that, after white slavers,

    Parents dread darkness. 

    “So that’s where she lives?  In the city?”

    Rumors of international travel reached us

    when Mirabel’s modeling died.

    (I recall her yelling that fashion 

    Is shit.) And

    All this time she’s been

    Twenty miles away?

    Mom still seemed unhappy,

    Realizing how few facts she’d extracted.

     “Maybe it’s where Rupert lives.

    I’ll trust your good sense.”

    First time for everything!

    Who trusts Mirabel,

    Under what misbegotten star?  

    Someone needs to commit 

    To some serious snooping –

    And I’m the right person with my

    Fierce curiosity to

    Ferret out truth.

    That very night a person

    Calling himself

    Philip Valerian

    Accosted me on Instagram.

    But I was well-trained

    Media savvy –

    I shut him right down.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Why would a bride vanish after pushing her fourteen year old sister into the spotlight?

    Chapter 1 – Surprise Wedding

    I’m Richenda

    Fourteen; I

    Thought myself bored.

    Winter break’s glacial dullness

    Broke just recently –

    Right before dinner, when

    Mom

    Harried as usual 

    Put her head around my door :

    “You won’t believe what has happened!”

  • Sleeping Orchid – Creative Boot Camp for Sensitives & Empaths with Alysse Aallyn

    The Statue – Law

    If This Archetype Chooses You – You have a legal issue. Is there some illegality in your secret life? Are you stepping over lines in public or private? Remember, lawbreakers break themselves.

    Do You Dream of Judges? Lawyers? Court? Are you obsessed with TV programs about justice? When justice is delayed or denied, do you obsess about that? Are you feeling unjustly punished? Do you envy or rage against those who have “gotten away with something”?

    Creative’s Desire for Justice is Hardwired – Do you envy or rage against those who have “gotten away with something”? “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.” In my view, the mere concept of Complete Justice is heaven enough. We are repeatedly warned that it won’t ever match our earthly ideologies, that we are children scrapping in a sandbox who haven’t noticed, much less comprehended, the real issues.

    What Is Our Armor? – What laws resonate with you? Do you believe in karma? How would you define it? What laws make you angry? Which laws would you modify? What is your attitude towards the police – protectors of order or agents of mayhem? Dick Nixon was famous for talking endlessly about “restoring law and order” until just before he was forced to resign because of his multiple crimes. Many Trump followers insist everything Trump has done is “justified because Democrats are worse.” Is this a race to the bottom? Where’s the off-ramp?

    Creative Danger – “Judge not lest ye be judged” is a scary proposition. How would we come off if our standards were used against us? Come to think of it, what are our standards? Are they fluid? Flexible? Jesus also said the “letter” i.e. “written rule” KILLS. That it’s the “spirit that gives life.”

    Law Is Our Armor – Creatives dream of a “spirit-filled” Law. Maybe you wanted to go to Law School but life intervened. It’s never too late to study any subject that’s close to our heart. We become creatives because we wish for heroes; I think that’s the sole reason for the wild popularity of the Marvel movie series.

    Do You Admire Heroes Because They Break the Rules, or because they uphold them? We acknowledge the need for rules, but how can we make sure they’re “spirit-filled”? In what areas of your life are you too rigid? In which are you too flexible? Imagine yourself speaking in court, making a case for yourself. What arguments would you give? Ask your dreams to start imagining a Justice World. How would it look?

    Models & Mentors – “Law is not law if it violates the principles of eternal justice” – Lydia Maria Child

    “The only stable state is one where all are equal before the law” – Aristotle

    “Law is the public conscience” – Thomas Hobbes

    ‘Able in argument, accurate in analysis, strict in study, candid with clients and honest with adversaries, today I shall not, to win a point, lose my soul” – St. Thomas More

    “If we desire respect for the law, we must make law respectable” – Louis D. Brandeis

    #Haiku: Karma

    Come round –
    Go round.
    Love reaps love
    Law reaps
    Justice
    Violence reaps
    Whirlwind.

  • Rough Sleep – a play by Alysse Aallyn

    (BEX appears in a spot on the TOWER LIFT, holding a pair of binoculars and a shotgun.  Scans the stage)

    CHASE

    (Holding JAZZ close)

    You’re making me feel incredibly powerful 

    (They kiss with increasing urgency. BEX appears to focus on them. He racks his gun angrily, climbs down, his spot dissolving.  JAZZ and CHASE’s “shadows” explode hugely against the back wall, seeming to rise up in the air)

    JAZZ

    Feel that?

    CHASE

    I do. Don’t fight it.

    JAZZ

    Who’s fighting it?  You’re the one fighting it.

    SCENE X – SWAP MEET. (When the lights come up the curtain has fallen and JAZZ and CHASEstand outside it, hand in hand, staring into the audience.)

    JAZZ

    Where are we?

    CHASE

    Looks like a swap meet. But all they’re selling is Christmas stuff.

    JAZZ

    That’s weird.

    CHASE

    Especially since I hate Christmas.

    JAZZ

    Who could possibly hate Christmas?

    CHASE

    It never lives up to its billing.

    (RAD appears, pushing a shopping cart. Sets up a table and starts laying out junk)

    RAD

    Hi, guys! Long time no see. You in the market for a knickknack?  Ganja? Electronics?  Jewelry? 

    CHASE

    Is this your gig?

    RAD

    Gotta have a side hustle – gotta get the scratch. You’d be amazed what some people just throw away. How about a nice Christmas cactus? I did have a shotgun but I sold it.

    CHASE

    You sold a shotgun? Who to?

    RAD

    Biker dude from out of town. He said if it didn’t work he would come looking for me.

    JAZZ

    Does it work?

    RAD

    Let’s hope so. Just passing on whatever I find.

    CHASE

    We don’t want anything.

    JAZZ

    Speak for yourself. I’d love a Christmas cactus. 

    (RAD reaches into the depths of his cart and produces an unflowering – apparently dead plant – JAZZ takes it)

    CHASE

    Great. It’s dead.

    JAZZ

    It is not. It only blooms once a year.  Says here, this one’s going to have three blossoms.

    RAD

    Can’t go to the party without a present.

    CHASE

    What party?

    RAD

    Isn’t life a party?

    JAZZ

    So far. 

    CHASE

    More like a bribe for the deadboat captain. So we poor ghosts don’t get shoved into steerage.

    RAD

    That’ll be a hundred bucks.

    CHASE

    A hundred bucks!

    RAD

    This is a rare, one time offer. Not shown on TV. I’ve got bills.

    JAZZ

    Blood money, remember?

    CHASE

    If that’s what you want. You got giftwrap?

    (RAD  produces pink foil and a massive ribbon)

    JAZZ

    Wow. This says “Happy Birthday.” Do we know anybody born in December?

    CHASE

    My mom.

    JAZZ

    Oh, my God! Hide!

    (She drags CHASE down the stage steps to cower behind the stairs. BEX appears with a shotgun, racking the slide. RAD hastily packs up. Both exit offstage)

    JAZZ

    See that?

    CHASE

    He’s gone now. Let’s find the party.

    JAZZ

    Anything to get away from here.

  • Rough Sleep – a play by Alysse Aallyn

    (At Hadleigh Hall, a body lies under a tarp)

    SOLIZ

    They’re not letting anyone in. Do you know who lives in Room 824?

    JAZZ

    Actually, I live there.

    SOLIZ

    Oh, you do, do you? Well, some guy fell out your window.

    JAZZ

    Just like your dream!

    SOLIZ

    (threateningly)

    I don’t know what you’re talking about.

    CHASE

    Some guy? Who?

    SOLIZ

    Unidentified.  You can’t see him, he’s under a tent.

    CHASE

    Can’t Jazz collect her stuff?

    SOLIZ

    Come back later. It’s chaos over there.

    (SOLIZ frees them from tape; JAZZ and CHASE lurch off downstage)

    JAZZ

    This is Soliz’s dream. I remember if she doesn’t.

                               CHASE

    Except this was a guy.

    JAZZ

    Let’s hope it was Bex.

    CHASE

    So now you’re pro-violence?

    JAZZ

    Who’s saying I pushed him? It would be so unlike me.

    CHASE

    So, no going home for you.

    JAZZ

    Hadleigh was never my home.

    CHASE

    Well, you can camp out at my place while we figure out what to do with this new corpse.

    JAZZ

    Makes me harder for Bex to find. On the other hand when he does, he’ll just get madder.

    CHASE

    We’ve got enough problems without worrying about satisfying his unsatisfiable psyche. We’ve got three dead bodies!

    JAZZ

    And God knows how many crime scenes. Explain exactly why soulmating requires detective work?

    CHASE

    Maybe nature is one big crime scene. Red of tooth and claw.

    JAZZ

    You and your classical education.

                               CHASE

    Voilã! Here we are at my place.  

    SCENE VIII – Lights go up on CHASE’S APT – disheveled male bedroom/kitchenette

    JAZZ

    This is definitely a crime scene.

    (Throws herself into a low-slung chair)

    CHASE

    (Sitting close)

    You expected harp music? Hey, you admitted your life was a crime scene too. 

    JAZZ

    I guess I thought the point of soulmates is all the hard work would be magically be done.

    CHASE

    So no going over the past trying to understand and explain the mess? Wouldn’t that be nice!

    JAZZ

    Why can’t we just escape the mess?  The mess would no longer matter. We could rise above the mess.

    CHASE

    Your fantasy forgets about the demons. If we’ve unleashed demons –

    JAZZ

    Who’s to say we unleashed them?  I’m not responsible for Bex.

    CHASE

    Yet he’s out there, rampaging. At least I know I’m responsible for Corso.

    JAZZ

    But Corso’s using your involvement to keep his rampage going. Oh. Touché. I see what you mean.

    CHASE

    We’re dissociating. Living each other’s nightmares.

    JAZZ

    At least we’re braving hell together.

    (they touch hands) 

    CHASE

    If it’s purgatory, graduation’s a possibility.

    JAZZ

    We’re on a multiple universe scavenger hunt! 

    CHASE

    A time and space jigsaw puzzle!

    JAZZ

    We need to get to the crime scene before the crime happens.

    CHASE

    How would we know it was a crime scene?

    JAZZ

    Tell me what you know. What Corso did to you.

    CHASE

    God! You know I don’t want to talk about it.

                               JAZZ

    What specifically are you afraid will happen if you talk about it?

    CHASE

    That this whole thing would shatter right in front of me. I would wreck – whatever this is happening between us.

    JAZZ

    Maybe we’re meant to reveal, not repair, each other’s real selves.

    CHASE

    Let’s talk about your fears and malfeasance. That’s more fun for me.

    JAZZ

    Somebody increased power by sucking out ours. We’re going to reclaim it. Tell your soulmate what Dr. Corso did to you. 

    CHASE

    If you know, aren’t you ruined too? How can I stay with someone who knows this disgusting thing about me?

    JAZZ

    I guess we’ll just have to see.  We need to free ourselves to be with each other. 

    CHASE

    But there’s the difference, right there – you left Bex,  I pursued Corso. I came after him. 

    JAZZ

    You are so competitive. If you need to be “worst”, prove it.

    CHASE

    He was a teacher at my choir school. Latin, of all things. We spent an eternity on the Aeneid. God, I hate talking about this. I haven’t talked about it since I was fifteen, with the lawyers and judges.

    JAZZ

    He molested you?

    CHASE

    Between my ninth and thirteenth years. He had a way of making us compete to be “the favorite”. If you could just get on that easy street, life became golden. Finally I saw what a prisoner I was. Mustered up the courage to get the hell out of there.

    JAZZ

    Jesus.

    CHASE

    Great pillow talk, huh?  And that’s not the worst of it.

    JAZZ

    How could it get worse?

    CHASE

    I brought him other boys.  Whatever he wanted.

    JAZZ

    You were a kid.  None of this could possibly be your fault.

    CHASE

    Yet here I am. Still a slave.

    JAZZ

    But you found your soulmate.

    (They hug)

    How did it end?

    CHASE

    It hasn’t ended. I mean, the sex thing ended when Corso met my sister – my twin sister – and decided he was ready to branch out. He was like, deliver her or else.  That woke me up. I went home and refused to go back to school.  I finally told my parents.

    JAZZ

    And?

    CHASE

    They pretty much behaved the worst they possibly could.  First, they didn’t believe me. My dad has always been a total bastard making fun of me for singing in a high voice and wearing a lace collar and Mom was sort of a “the church can do no wrong” nut. You know, like, who are you going to believe, a priest or your own lying eyes?  They just couldn’t take it in.  But then a kid at school hanged himself and things started to snowball. Corso got kicked out. People started suing. My dad smelled a payday. The other families accepted settlements not to squeal. Everybody settled except my father. He was holding out for the Big Money that was going to make all his dreams come true.

    JAZZ

    Then what?

    CHASE

    What always happens with my Dad.  He was having such a good  time holding the whip, he waited too long. The minute I turned sixteen, I got legally emancipated. I could prove that Dad was hitting me – I had the sense to record him – so the judge refused to give Dad the cash. Dad declared bankruptcy and I finished high school on my own. Living at the Y.

    (Restless pacing)

    So on top of everything else, I’m singlehandedly responsible for the destruction of my family.

    JAZZ

    Scapegoating. People need someone to blame, it’s another form of hostage-taking. This isn’t your fault.  Time to forgive yourself.

    CHASE

    Oh, that’ll be easy. Walk in the park.

    JAZZ

    I’m still here.

  • Trials Inspire Fiction – by Alysse Aallyn

    GREAT TRIALS INSPIRE FICTION

    A trial is a cutaway of its time and place, a look not just into mores and modalities but secrets and sewage. Two of the most interesting trials I have seen – and I watched every day – were Beth Carpenter’s trial in New London, CT and Michael Peterson’s in Raleigh, N.C. (both 2002, both for first degree murder.)

    Each trial exposed the inner workings of a family (two families in the Carpenter case) and were so enormously influential for me that I wrote fiction about them.

    Both trials revealed levels of shocking hypocrisy so deep we could have been in Victorian London; these accused would do anything to get what they wanted while maintaining social appearances.

    At the time of his wife’s death Michael Peterson was gay sexting on hotmilitarystud.com; and although he insisted his wife knew about his affairs her daughter (who lived with them) did not think so. But the real shock in this case was that an identical death was exhumed from his past – another woman who died on bloody staircase. Both skulls revealed seven blows to the top of the head.

    The first woman’s daughters – whom Peterson acquired along with her assets – thought she had died of an aneurysm. What would it feel like to see their mother’s real skull revealed in court for all the world to see? That was the genesis of Depraved Heart, though I changed everything else to create my own world.

    In the Carpenter case, Beth came from a family of strivers who felt soiled and humiliated by their other daughter’s marriage to a part time stripper tow truck driver. Beth was accustomed to ordering her boyfriends around – two of them testified that she took over their cars and bank accounts as soon as they showed interest. Her boss, Hayman Clein, a successful Connecticut real estate attorney, fell for her attractions and became her virtual slave. When she asked him to find her a hit man, he offered up his coke dealer – and the three of them went down for the crime. That this simple ask keeping her own hands clean made Beth a murderer too is something she should have known – she also was a lawyer.

    I used aspects of her overpowering character to create my Queen of Swords.

    It’s a truism that real life needs to be toned down for fiction: no one would believe it.