by Sarah Williamson

She sits at her desk intent on a small flickering flame perched atop a column of paraffin. Slowly she draws in breath and blows a steady stream of air at the helpless fire.  Watching with mirth as the newborn flame dwindles down to almost nothing, then allowing it to live at the last moment.  As the relieved little flame returns to its full size she begins again.  She makes it dance, makes it bend to hear whim, and nearly ends its short life with her dangerous game.  “This must be what God feels like,” she thought as her mind began to drift.

Hazy images of nights gone by fill her eyes; still frames moving so quickly they form a slow-motion film.  She is the flame he is trying to extinguish; a knee in her chest a hand at her throat.  With hands helplessly pinned to her cheap vinyl floor she is more surprised that her life is ending here and now than she is afraid of her imminent death.  He watches with mirth as her eyes grow wide and she fades away, then at the last moment he allows her to live, although pieces of her had already died in his hands.  “This must be what God feels like,” he thought before disappearing into the night. 


Sarah Williamson spends her life wandering between lucid nightmares and clouded reality.  She calls herself Faux Real but to her disappointment everyone else just calls her “Sarah.”
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