Hello everyone, I hope that you're all doing well.

This week, we have three long stories in store for you.

I just know that you're going to enjoy them.

Let us begin as we drift further into Mr. Creve's mind.

I'm camping with a group of friends.

Someone has been messing with our campsite.

Written by Decorative Gentlemen.

Her locket is small, slippery, a thin chain-like sewing thread and a clasp for nimble patient fingers.

I could never hope to open any part of it now.

My hands shake, my scrub, delicate little filigree, an anatomical heart, golden copper,

and blood. Inside there's a picture of her, May, opposite

a picture of us, all smiling, all happy, all alive. For a while, I thought that I had

survivors' guilt. I read about it searching for someone else's tidy words for how I felt.

PTSD, with one measure of empathy and another of overthinking.

A vestige of these horrible acts originally.

I should have and why didn't I at their most insidious? But I don't feel guilty, not really.

I feel lonely and I feel afraid.

I still feel afraid.

I did blame myself for what happened at one point.

I had been drinking a lot. Maybe if I hadn't been, I would

have noticed something, taking the signs more seriously. But I guess that we had all been drinking.

We felt safe. Three friends camping. Normal.

...