DESIRED PYROTECHNICS Chapter One--Limbo and the Moon

Artwork by Felicien Rop

When I awakened, I'd arrived at the train station in Barcelona. With my small, black 

overnight case, I navigated my way through the human zoo known as Estacio Sants. Being tall 

and lanky, with long, black hair, tanned olive skin, and wearing a short, black, slip dress, I 

turned a couple of heads. Spotting the queue of people waiting for cabs outside, I groaned – the 

day was hotter than hell and I was already sweating like a pig. In the near distance, one of the 

buildings sported a giant sign that read 'Mutual Cyclops'. Laughing out loud, I imagined some 

terrible all-seeing eye that bought and sold profit shares – or perhaps fancy monocles. To my 

relief, the line went quickly with everyone waiting their turn. In the States, or England, it would 

have been a free-for-all. My driver was an older gentleman in a tweed cap with gold front teeth. 

He spoke Spanish to me which I kind of understood and I nodded my head, grinning at him with 

satisfaction. It was proof I was no longer American. No trace of the former Mid-western girl 

existed. She'd been completely erased by the many years of bohemianism living in Spain. 

My friend Paulo had been right – his place was only ten minutes away. Crowds of 

tourists and hip Spanish teenagers gathered at the bars and small cafés of El Barri Gotic as I 

made my way up the avenue toward his apartment building. I loved that part of town. It was so 

vibrant, and yet, old and edgy, and never seemed to go to sleep. As I dug through my purse for 

the scrap of paper with Paulo's building code on it, someone opened the front gate for me. I 

walked into the spacious courtyard. Running towards me, across an expanse of brick and 

mosaic tiles, was Paulo. His sandy brown hair stuck up in all directions and his face glistened 

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with sweat. For some insane reason he wore a dark green, two-tone, vintage suit, and black- 

and-white wing tips. 

He flew to a halt, kissing me on both cheeks. 

“Anabelle. Your timing is perfect. Sit down and stay right here. I'll be back in five 

minutes.” 

“All right...?” I answered. 

“Cool.” And he was off. 

Sitting in the shade by the edge of a fountain, I rolled a cigarette as I watched him jump 

into a waiting car across the street and drive off. Before I finished the cigarette, he was back. 

“Did you just make a deal?” I asked. 

“Yes,” he answered “ And this is really good shit. C'mon, let's go.” He grabbed my 

suitcase and we took the red velvet lined elevator up to his penthouse apartment. I'd stayed 

there numerous times, but the view from the top floor was always a surprise to me. 

While chitchatting about my journey, Paulo laid out a couple of lines on a large mirror. “I 

have some Molly too,” he said, “but we can take it later.” Rolling up a bill, I smiled. Barcelona 

was always insane, out of control - and I loved it. After the first line any fatigue I felt from the 

train journey vanished. I didn't do drugs a lot. In fact, in the aldea near Beceite, where I'd lived 

for many years, I hadn’t done them at all. But if they were laid in front of me, and I had no other 

obligations, then I would indulge. 

After a couple of glasses of wine, and a couple of more lines, I decided we should check 

in with the Arts Expo, and make our presence known, even though I wasn't actually showing 

anything new – or anything at all that year. 

Paulo handed me a helmet and we jumped onto the elevator to the parking garage. 

Riding coked up with Paulo on the back of his scooter through the streets of Barcelona was a 

new experience for me. The buildings zoomed by like gorgeous Art Deco sentinels as we wove 

in and out of traffic. Glancing at the reflective surface of a storefront while stopped at a red light, 

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I could see the mirrored image of the two of us. My slip had ridden high on my thighs and I left it 

like that. It wasn't that I was lacking for attention it was only sometimes I couldn't help myself – I 

was wired that way. 

The Arts Expo was a vast network of gallery spaces, cinemas, and even a concert hall. 

Riding the escalator to the main floor entrance, I asked Paulo check my nose for any suspicious 

residue. I knew my eyes were glittering, and my smile was too bright, but I didn't care. Our 

crowd had a reputation for being creative and deviant, and it was one well deserved. 

A security guard stood at the base of the red-carpeted stairs. I breezed by him without a 

glance as I marched toward the media office. Paulo, who had stopped at the guard, rushed to 

catch up with me. 

“I love going places with you,” he said. “No one ever questions you.” 

“It's all in the attitude,” I replied. “If you act like you were supposed to be somewhere, 

generally, the people in charge will treat you accordingly. That's their job – and, for the most 

part, people want to be good at their jobs. Or else they're bored, and could care less.” 

After collecting our all-access passes, we grabbed a schedule for one of the nearby 

cinemas, deciding to catch a film later in the evening. 

We left to meet up with a group of Paulo's girlfriends for an early dinner at a café about a 

block away. On the way there, I lost my footing on a wet patch of sidewalk, falling on my butt. 

My slip dress went up to my waist and, of course, I wasn't wearing any underwear. 

Cracking up, Paulo deadpanned, “stop trying to get into my pants, Anabelle” 

“You wish,” I retorted, laughing my ass off as I reached for his hand to pull me up. That 

was one of the reasons Paulo and I were such good friends – there was no chemistry between 

us so we could get completely obliterated without the other stuff getting in the way. 

Dinner was interesting. Women in Barcelona have such style and class that I find them 

fascinating, but daunting. Even though we were all in our early thirties, I'd spent little time 

around groups of women over the last few years, and found it difficult to join in their 

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conversation. I'd been living in the wild like an untamed heathen, snapping photos, and making 

terrifying and ethereal images. 

Noticing I hadn't said much, Paulo handed me a small baggie of MDMA, which I had 

never taken before. 

“What's it gonna do?” I asked suspiciously. 

“Just take it. You'll be fine,” he promised. 

“Last time I saw you... you dosed me with a microdot which you said was 'going to be 

just fine', and I had to catch a plane while tripping balls.” 

“Did I?” he asked, giving me an impish grin. “I bet it was fun.” 

Smiling back, I admitted, “Yeah – it was kind of.” Palming the Molly, I swallowed it with a 

sip of wine realizing it was going to be one of those nights and I'd need to buckle up for the ride. 

As soon as the food arrived the drug began to kick in. Even though I was starving my 

stomach ached so badly I couldn't eat. After pushing some green beans around my plate, I gave 

up on the meal, opting to smoke instead – and gulp more wine. 

“Your still being very quiet, Anabelle. What's wrong?” asked Paulo. 

“The MDMA is making me feel sick,” I answered. 

“It will pass. Why don't you take the coke?” 

“Why didn't you just give it to me in the first place?!” 

Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “I don't know. I'm a crackhead, remember?” 

“But somehow a highly successful one.” 

“True. Who would have guessed, no?” 

There was nothing I could say to that. The cigarette settled my stomach but the train 

journey and the sleepless night were catching up to me. Besides, I wasn't exactly a teenager 

even if I had the tendency to act like one. 

On the walk back to the Arts Expo, I stumbled as the avenue elongated in front of me. It 

was like careening through a vat of thick, black jell-o. Paulo grabbed my arm, tucking it through 

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his, which helped steady me. Upon reaching the escalator that went to the cinema, I 

contemplated throwing up in a nearby potted plant, but decided to take a couple of deep breaths 

to pull my shit together. Somehow, I made it into the theater, and once the sick stage wore off, I 

was perfectly content, and no longer tired. In fact, the cinema was positively womb-like in the 

darkness as I watched a terrible American horror film. 

Afterward, we went for a drink at another café. The Spanish women talked about how 

much they loved the movie because it had been so bizarre. 

“It wasn't bizarre,” I told them. “It was really bad. Terrible.” 

But they just laughed and kept on talking about it. That was something I never 

understood about the Europeans. They had the best of everything, yet they loved terrible 

American cinema – the cheesier, the better. 

Making our goodbyes, we decided it would be wise to leave the scooter behind and cab 

it back to Paulo's place. Back at his apartment, we snorted more coke, and messed around with 

his recording equipment. At first we tried to record a song, but as the night wore on, and more 

wine and drugs were consumed, it degenerated into shitty karaoke. Paulo picked the titles and I 

made up new lyrics. He gave me the Sisters of Mercy, 'This Corrosion' which had a chorus that 

went “Sing this corrosion to me...” and I changed it to “suck my corroded penis...” 

Laughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath, Paulo's face turned bright red as he 

clutched his sides. Falling to the ground, he managed to spit out, “you... you...you...” before 

cracking up again. Finally, he caught his breath and said, “no one would ever believe little miss 

creative crazy person has the humor of a thirteen-year-old boy.” 

Planting my butt on the couch by the window, I grinned at him for a long moment. I didn't 

think anyone had ever summed me up quite so succinctly before. Out of the corner of my eye I 

noticed it was light outside. “What time is it?” I asked. 

Paulo rummaged around the coffee table searching for his long forgotten phone. Finding 

it, he announced, “Nine-thirty.” 

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“Shit!” 

“Don't worry. I'll go get more wine. Then we'll be able to sleep.” 

“Shit,” I muttered. Sleep was the furthest thing from my mind. 

I sat smoking furiously as Paulo stumbled out the door. I couldn't decide whether to stay 

up and brave the hangover, or possibly sleep a couple of hours. Either way, the hangover was 

inevitable. Gazing out over the endless expanse of rooftops, and the cathedral spires glistening 

in the distance, I opened one of the windows to catch the breeze. Instead, I was bombarded by 

the street noise from below. Realizing I was beyond the point of pure exhaustion and pure 

fucked upness, I reflected on why I felt the need to do such a thing to myself. Why could I not be 

happy with the white picket fence and the two kids like other women were? Why did I always 

push things to such an extreme? Although far from normal, I liked my life. It had been full of 

adventure and there were experiences I'd had that I wouldn't change for anything. 

Paulo arrived with another bottle of wine and a couple of angel-haired emsaimadas. 

Realizing I was ravenous I took one, but before I could take a bite, Paulo grabbed it out of my 

hands and chucked it through the open window. 

“They were terrible,” he said. “Wretched. This is Barcelona. What were they thinking?” 

Staring at him, I wondered if the wheel-shaped pastry hadn't pegged some poor 

pedestrian on the street below. 

Uncorking the bottle, he poured me a large glass. “Drink,” he ordered. “Don't think about 

it and drink it all.” 

I did as requested. The wine hit my empty stomach like a time bomb. Spots danced in 

front of my eyes. I was done. Cooked. Finished. Kaput. 

“You can take my room,” offered Paulo. 

Getting up, I stumbled toward it, waving a hand at him good night. Thankfully, the room 

was pitch black. Taking off my slip, I threw it on the floor, and crawled into bed. 

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I awoke out of a dreamless oblivion to pounding on the door. 

“Anabelle. Anabelle. Wake up! Someone keeps calling you on the Skypescraper.” 

Flipping on the light, I picked up my slip and put it on. Dazedly, I stumbled out the door. 

Paulo was drinking coffee and looking quite chipper. 

Glancing at the fresh lines cut on the mirror, I said, “you are a crazy motherfucker.” 

“Good morning, sunshine,” he answered. “Would you like a coffee?” 

“I take it back. You're an angel.” 

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room, I was impressed my makeup 

was still intact. My laptop was open on the coffee table and the Skype icon bounced up and 

down on the screen. Checking it, there were five messages from the guest coordinator of the 

Arts Expo that stated we needed to be at the venue by five. I looked at the computer clock – 

4:30pm. “Fuck!” I yelled. 

“We're already late?” asked Paulo, bringing me a coffee. 

“No. We have half an hour to get there,” I explained. 

Paulo glanced at the mirror sitting on the other table. 

Following his gaze, I asked, “do you have any beer?” 

“Of course,” he answered. “Why?” 

“Breakfast of scorpions, my friend.” 

Raising an eyebrow, he handed me a cold bottle from the mini-fridge. 

“It's a Detroit thing,” I continued. 

“So then it's super cool.” 

Giggling at his use of the term, I replied, “yeah... It's super cool.” Snorting a line, I 

downed the beer. Then, looked at my nearly forgotten coffee. “Don't you have any milk?” I 

asked. 

“Milk? Pff... Milk is for babies,” he answered. 

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I chugged the coffee black even though it made me gag. “Can I use your shower?” I 

asked. 

“Of course, but the clock is ticking.” 

Running into the bathroom, I jumped into the hot water. My muscles ached like I had run 

a goddamned marathon. There was no time for hair and makeup so I did a patch job. Lucky for 

me, I could get away with the 'just been fucked' or 'haven't slept in 48 hours' look pretty well. 

European glamor would remain beyond my remit. 

After catching a cab, we high-tailed it to the Arts Expo. Once there, many familiar, and 

some not-so-familiar faces, came up and said hello, kissing me on both cheeks, telling me how 

well I looked, and asking what I was currently working on. We went to the upstairs bar and 

ordered a beer. Sitting with Paulo at a table, I glanced over the railing to see my partner, 

Haiden, otherwise jokingly known as 'his satanic highness', entering the gallery. He was a 

magnetic presence with long, straight, golden hair, loosely pulled back from his face, a 

pronounced widow's peak, high flat cheekbones, and dark hazel eyes. When I'd first 

encountered him on a street in Prague many years ago, standing reading a book, in fact, the 

same book I'd been reading at the time, my heart had dropped to my knees. When he looked up 

and caught my gaze, I had known it was more than a chance meeting. To say I fell hard for him 

would have been an understatement. I loved him like the sun at one time, and we made for a 

good match both intellectually and creatively. We shared a similar worldview and a nose for the 

uncanny. On paper it was perfect, but our relationship had become confusing as of late. Fantasy 

and reality had become so blended together in our daily existence it had become hard to tell 

one from the other – and sometimes, there was no difference. 

A conflict of emotions bombarded me as I watched Haiden greet his fans, putting on a 

benevolent face while he gave each one his undivided attention. I was still annoyed at the way 

he had treated me before leaving for Berlin, but there was a part of me relieved, as well. He'd 

become such a part of my orbit I felt a sense of security in his presence. Someone whispered in 

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his ear and he glanced up at me. I could see he was pissed off. The look flashed in his eyes for 

a split second, but I'd caught it. Great. What the fuck is it this time, I wondered. There was an 

eternal war between the two of us for reasons I'd given up trying to fathom. Conflict was the one 

thing I knew we could rely upon, and drama, its distant cousin. I'd grown so used to them I 

scarcely reacted anymore. 

Haiden made his way up the stairs with a couple of our artist friends from Barcelona and 

I felt a wave of happiness at seeing them again. Being a creative soul can be a tedious and 

lonely business and you build a bond with those people who go through the same process. We 

were all loners and outcasts who, in some strange turn of alchemy, used the medium of imagery 

to infiltrate our discontent, and to make the world bigger and brighter than what it sometimes 

seemed. 

Pulling me toward him, Haiden wrapped his arms around me. “So glad we finally found 

you,” he said, like he'd been worried. 

“I told you I'd be here,” I replied, as I scanned his face still detecting a dark current. 

“We almost didn't make it,” chimed Paulo, bringing me another beer. 

“Really?” 

I shot Paulo a look that he totally ignored. 

“We were very bad last night,” he continued. “Very bad,” 

Haiden stood back, appraising me. I knew he could tell I was high. 

“Did you get any sleep?” he asked. 

“Sleep? Pfff... Sleep is for babies,” answered Paulo. 

A ripple of laughter ran through the small posse of friends and all eyes turned on me. If 

it had been Haiden who had been up all night partying it would have been expected, but I had 

broken some unspoken rule by doing it without him. Sitting there, with an enigmatic smile on my 

face, which said neither yes, nor no, I could see the wheels turning in each of their minds. The 

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truth was I was not exactly an angel and most of my sins arose from never realizing how to act 

like a lady. I could try, but it was inevitable I would fail. 

We were ushered into the exposition and Haiden got ready to introduce his new exhibit 

of paintings. I stood by myself, not bothering to mingle. Paulo came and kept me company. 

“His satanic highness is pleased?” he asked. 

“I guess,” I answered. “Who knows?” 

“Does he need a line?” 

“Probably. I doubt he would say no.” 

Paulo grabbed Haiden as he walked off the stage, and they left for the bathroom. 

Looking around the crowded room, I wished I could be anywhere else. I'd seen the exhibition 

already, but to leave would have been heresy on my part. I wanted to meander the streets and 

watch the crowds. I wanted to soak up the atmosphere and see what trouble I could run into. I 

wanted to wander until I was good and lost, and then figure my way back home. Nighttime had 

always been like that for me, whether traversing the ancient canyons around our home, or some 

other exotic locale in Europe. Even as a teenager in Detroit, I'd roamed the lonesome industrial 

neighborhoods under the cover of night, preferring to be on the outside looking in. Give me an 

abandoned factory, or forgotten mystery, and I was enthralled. Day-to-day reality and 

mundaneness were the things I could not readily engage with. There'd been a point in my life 

when I'd attempted to be normal and after a couple years that ended in tears. Freaky shit 

happened all the time around me and it scared people. But not Haiden, he reveled in it. That 

was the strongest bond between us. He understood reality is not fixed, and magic has a 

currency, and when you tap into it, life is never the same again. For me, there never was a 

choice. 

After the exhibition ended Haiden, myself, and a couple of artist friends grabbed a taxi 

back to Paulo's place. Sitting on Haiden's lap, I tried not to ask him about Berlin because I knew 

it would make him mad. But, of course, I couldn't help myself. 

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“You didn't miss much,” Haiden snapped. “It wasn't worth all the drama.” 

“Okay,” I answered. 

“You were obviously having a much better time.” 

“What did you expect me to do?” I asked, throwing my hands in the air. “Sit around at 

home and talk to the walls some more?” 

He pressed his lips together. 

I knew he wouldn't yell at me in front of other people. Behind my back, or their backs, 

that he would do, but he wouldn't dare damage our carefully constructed facade in public. 

“There's always work to be done,” he said. “You could have used the time more 

constructively.” 

“We work seven days a week,” I complained. “So I took a day off to hang out and relax.” 

The words sounded hollow in my ears. Maybe there'd been a part of me that knew he'd be 

pissed off I'd taken matters into my own hands without his approval. There was definitely a part 

of me, which wanted to enjoy Barcelona without everything being about him. 

The night went pretty much as expected. Our friends left sometime after three in the 

morning. By the end only Haiden, Paulo and myself remained, all bombed on MDMA as I 

puzzled out new obscene lyrics while Paulo zoomed around recording me with a camera. 

Haiden was uncharacteristically affectionate and for the first time in ages he held my hand and 

told me he loved me. At first, I thought it was the drugs talking. But as we all sat together on the 

couch, laughing at stupid jokes, he kept pushing me into Paulo, and it dawned on me what 

Haiden was angling towards. He wanted me to have sex with the both of them and it wasn't 

going to happen. Sure, we'd experimented with other partners before so that wasn't the issue, 

but Paulo and I were not that kind of friends. It hadn't occurred to me the reason he thought I'd 

come to Barcelona early was to sleep with Paulo. Haiden should have known better and I 

dreaded the thought of him power playing me into something I didn't want to do. 

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Paulo got up to use the bathroom. Turning toward me, Haiden was sweating and there 

was a feverish look to him. I feared what would come next. 

“Do you want to swordfight?” he asked. “Or do you want me to take you into the 

bedroom and lick you all over?” 

“I'll take the latter,” I replied, relieved at having been given the choice. 

Walking to the bedroom, I shouted to Paulo through the bathroom door we were going to 

crash. 

Once the door closed, I took off my slip dress and crawled onto the bed. Haiden rolled 

onto his side with his back toward me. I reached out to him, but he shook me off. 

“Is something the matter?” I asked. 

“I wish it was like it was the old days,” he answered. 

“The old days?” I queried, but I knew exactly he meant. 

“Yeah. When life wasn't so boring,” he sighed heavily. “This is boring.” 

I laid there naked – ready to go – and he was bored. I couldn't help but think there were 

other men who wouldn't have been so bored in his position. 

“I wish it was more like when I was with Marie,” he continued. “She would have done it. 

She loved to sword fight.” 

His verbal arrow didn't pierce me. There had been a time when it would have crushed 

me and I would have done anything to compete, but those days were long gone. I knew his 

relationship with her wasn't all he cracked it up to be, and that he used it as a compare and 

contrast technique whenever ticked off at me. 

“So would anything please you?” I asked. 

“Don't even bother,” he answered. 

So I didn't. Instead, I switched off the light and went to sleep. 

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Both of us were barely functioning the next afternoon when we boarded the train back to 

Beceite. From the moment he'd woken up, Haiden acted distant, complaining about everything. 

I'd done my level best to ignore him. 

My thoughts wandered as I stared out the window. There was a large crack across the 

surface that distorted the moving scenery in a beautiful way, especially with the sun setting in 

the distance. 

“Well that was another disastrous event,” Haiden announced. 

Snapping out of my reverie, I asked, “what?” 

“When it come to fun,” he said, “you never take advantage of these things. You always 

fuck them up.” 

Determined not to respond, I kept gazing out the window, but I was hungover and 

beyond tired, and the argument was nothing new. “You do not have the right to decide who I 

sleep with. Only I have that fucking right.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop 

them. I turned, as rage descended upon Haiden, and he began to shake. 

“You Americans,” he snarled at me. “With your sanctimonious ideals and vanilla sex.” 

The other passengers stared at us. I had no idea how many understood English. 

“I'm too tired for this,” I replied. “I don't want to fight with you.” 

“Fuck you! You evil, rotten, self-righteous bitch!” he shouted, before getting up and 

stalking off to another section of the train. 

Turning back to the window, I leaned my head against it as a tear slid down my cheek. 

Closing my eyes, I didn't wake again until our stop. 

Things went from bad to worse at home the next day. I felt like death. Actually, I felt 

worse than death. No one bothered to tell me MDMA deletes all the dopamine in your system so 

you have to sleep the aftereffects off. Spiraling downwards through a never-ending black well of 

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despair, I cried so much it scared me. Nothing made me feel better. Haiden was getting ready to 

leave for Buenos Aires for a week and my depression was the last thing he wanted to deal with. 

Later that night, he snapped at me, “What the fuck is wrong with you! Why won't you 

give it a rest?” 

I tried to explain how I felt, but the words fell on deaf ears. The more I talked, the angrier 

he became. Finally, he accused me of trying to sabotage him before storming off upstairs. 

Curling up on one of the green velvet wing-backed chairs in the living room, I stayed there for 

the night. 

In the wee hours of the morning I had a vivid nightmare. Set in some sort of prison, or 

detention center, with white, sterile walls, I was trapped in the center of a maze. Haiden was 

there, as well, the Minotaur in this labyrinth. As he gazed at me, I watched him change into 

some sort of wolf-like, beast. He started to chase me and I ran through the winding corridors. 

His claws swiped at me, narrowly missing, leaving tracks on the walls above my head, but I 

managed to escape him each time. A part of me knew he could never get to me. I woke up with 

my heart pounding, or at least I thought I had awoken. Haiden sat in the identical wing-backed 

chair across the room typing on his laptop. He looked up me, gaping in horror. I tried to walk 

over to him, but there was a huge, metal, box-like cage around my head, and my movements 

had become mechanical. “Can you hear me?” I kept saying. Only it wasn't my voice, but an 

electronic version of my voice, as I crawled across the floor. He backed against the wall next to 

the bookcase with a look of disgust on his face. 

Then, I woke up for real. Sunlight streamed through the windows as I got up and walked 

around, touching the other furniture to make certain I was really awake. Grabbing my notebook, 

I wrote it all down. I didn't need to be an analyst to see the significance of the dreams, which felt 

more like hallucinations to me. Trouble was brewing and I knew it. 

Later on, I drove Haiden down the winding plateau to the station. He was taking the train 

to Barcelona to catch a plane to Brazil from there. He promised me he would check in with me 

15 

every day because I still wasn't feeling like myself and would be alone for a week and then 

some. Our house was so isolated it was not uncommon not to see another living soul for weeks 

on end. I gave up on hearing from him after the first couple of days and spent my time gathering 

the end of the season herbs from the garden for drying, and working on the finishing touches on 

a couple of new prints. But I was hurt – I don't know why I thought he would give a fuck. 

At the end of the week our friends from the village below, Katia and Mateo, came to 

check on me. They took me for a beer at the local café down the hill. Sitting in the warm 

sunshine on the patio, partially shaded by a large, white umbrella, they asked me about 

Haiden. Staring at the sweat forming on my cold pint glass, I told them I hadn't heard from him. 

They shuffled in their seats and mumbled something about it 'not being right' and that 'he wasn't 

being a good man'. Their words made me feel better because in a sane world it was normal to 

check on one's partners and to make certain everything was okay at home. It wasn't an 

unreasonable request. 

The only other person I heard from that week was our eccentric friend Luciano who lived 

quite a bit further away. He'd gone so far off the grid, his closest neighbor might have been a 

mountain goat. He was an old hermit with a heart the size of the Titanic, only sometimes his 

neurons didn't fire correctly and he became paranoid. He'd had an altercation with another 

marginal who camped out across the big river. Normally, they hung around together in the 

summers. I didn't know the particulars of their falling out, but from what I could decode by his 

cryptic utterances on the voice mail, the other hermit had been dabbling in dark sorcery in an 

attempt to raise a 'moonchild', and I'd been his first choice as a host. Somehow, the not-yet-born 

child told the marginal 'my womb was a tomb', and to find another candidate. That was fine by 

me because I've never wanted to birth the child of the apocalypse. I'd always read the stories of 

Jack Parsons’ and Marjorie Cameron's dealings on the subject as an example of what 

happened when one messed with such dire forces—namely, death and destruction. Luciano 

also warned me he'd checked my astrological chart and there was a vampire moon coming my 

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way the next full moon which would potentially destroy me. All of it served to make me feel even 

more depressed. His predictions weren't always on the money, but he wasn't always wrong, 

either. 

Per Luciano's instructions to ease the gloomy atmosphere, I burned a candle in the 

fireplace on the morning of the new moon. The candle was a votive with a picture of the black 

Virgin on it. He was convinced it was carrying bad psychic energy. After submerging the candle 

in sea salt all night, I threw it into the fireplace at dawn. Slamming the safety doors shut, it went 

off like a bomb. Watching the plastic melt through the dirty glass doors, I thought, this is my life; 

a powerful, yet asshole partner, friends who look worried all the time, and a neurotic hermit who 

predicted my doom. No wonder I was depressed.

Desired Pyrotechnics--copyright: Scarlett Amaris, 2020