by Thomas J. Misuraca

Footsteps upstairs. Reminding me of my old apartment living days.

The upstairs residence switched renters quicker than the leases allowed. No matter how well I knew my upstairs neighbors, I heard them more than I saw them. 

Edna, the little old French lady, woke up with the sun every morning and stomped over my head as if she were a charging rhino. She dropped things constantly, scaring the life out of me with the sudden crashing on my head.

Gil, the large Latino, had a softer step. Most days I heard nothing of him, but at night, he paced the floor endlessly. 

The one guy I never met was a night owl. I heard him running around his bedroom as I was about to fall asleep. Then a second set of footsteps joined him until they transformed into bed springs squeaking. 

Footsteps upstairs. A whole other life I could only imagine from their sound. 
​
Footsteps upstairs. I counted the days until I no longer had to hear them.

As I awake in my new home to the sound of thunderous footsteps, I remember…

Nobody lives above me. 

* * *

​Tom Misuraca has had over 150 short stories and two novels published. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. He’s also a multi-award winning playwright with over 150 short plays and 13 full-lengths produced globally.

by Gabbi Grey

​She leads me down a dark alley. The smell of urine overwhelms, but I’m focused on her. She squeezes my hand, undoubtedly sensing my apprehension. I’ve never been to this side of town.

Rumors abound about it. Stories are shared. Whispered.

The door says Employees Only, but she pounds. The sound reverberates off the walls.

I cringe. I trust her with my life. But will this venture cost me that life? The promise, though. The lure of salvation. Of redemption. Too powerful to resist.

As the door swings open, a little man is revealed, his white pasty skin a direct contrast to my dark.

I hesitate, but she pushes me inside to follow the creature of the night. I straddle the chair he points to. My breasts squish against the cold padding.

She sits next to me, pressing a kiss to my temple.

I bare my back and the man fires up the ink gun. The pain is excruciating, but less than the fire that caused the burns. She whispers in my ear. How she loves me. How brave I am. How she doesn’t care about the scars.

I’d bear a thousand more to hear those words from her. I’d enter a thousand more burning buildings to save a wretched and ungrateful feline if she would hold me.

Magic ink.

A promise I didn’t believe.

The pain is transforming. The ink is taking hold. Tightened skin loosens. I feel my scars disappearing. Fading into nothing, replaced by beautiful ink. Healing ink.

For her I will do anything. To bask in her love, I will endure anything. And this particular anything is working. Is curative. Is transmuting.

The gun is silenced, and he wipes off drops of my blood.

She tilts my head and kisses me deeply.

Passionately.
​
Promising an eternity.

***

Gabbi Grey, a USA Today Bestselling author from British Columbia, dedicates herself to her fur babies and manages a government job while writing LGBTQ-focused contemporary romances. She also writes m/f romances as Gabbi Black and Gabbi Powell.