Chained to a radiator. Hostage to the worst of the worst, the devil’s armpit’s bottom of evil doers. I could have tried hacksawing my way out of there, but there were too many men on the stairs.

“Are you going to kill me?” I asked, fearing the reply.

One man looked sympathetic. “Write!” he said. “And make sure it’s Fantasy. I prefer that. If it’s any good, I’ll let you go.”

He threw me a tablet. It smashed on the floor. He passed me a second, a much better stratagem for delivering electronic devices. I cursed, but got to work.

For months I laboured, in between charges. Until at last I handed the tablet back to the man. He took it interestedly, obviously intrigued by the pain I had experienced in the formation of the words and sentences.

And he smiled.

Now, I am a free man, the only evidence of my incarceration, this novella:


All proceeds go to the kidnappers (who published the thing), so please do not buy it. Just know that all things are possible, even in the direst predicament.

S. P. Stevens