Yellow Mama E zine

THE COLLECTOR

​

by G Garnet

​

        The rain hit the streets like bullets from a cheap gun, filling gutters, drowning rats, washing away yesterday's sins. I watched it from my car, a beat-up Chevy that had seen better days. Then again, so had I.

          The neon sign of the Jade Orchid Motel flickered, casting sick green shadows across my windshield. Room 12. That's where she was. That's where the money was. I checked my piece—a .38 Special, loaded and ready. Not that I planned to use it. The sight of it was usually enough.

        My name's Marcus Wade. I collect debts for Lawrence Dawson, a loan shark who preys on desperate people from his storefront operation downtown. I'm the muscle, the enforcer, the shadow that falls across your door when you're three payments behind. Been doing it five years too long.

         Tonight was just another job. Filipino girl named Anita Reyes. Borrowed eight grand, now owed fifteen with Dawson's interest. Working girl, new in town. Probably figured she'd turn a few tricks, pay it back quick. They all did. They all failed.

        I stepped out into the rain, felt it soak through my coat to my skin. Didn't matter. I was already cold inside.

          The motel smelled like stale cigarettes and bad decisions. Nobody at the front desk. Nobody cared who came or went in a place like this. I took the outdoor stairs two at a time, water sluicing off my hat brim.

         Room 12. I knocked three times. Hard.

          "Who is it?" The voice was soft but wary.

        "Collection," I said. No point pretending to be anything else.

        Silence for ten seconds. Then the click of a chain, the turn of a lock. The door opened six inches.

        She was small, maybe five-two, with eyes like obsidian and cheekbones that could cut glass. Pretty once, before the city got to her. Those eyes sized me up, took in my six-foot-two frame, my broad shoulders, my black skin gleaming wet with rain.

        "You Dawson's man?"

        "That's right." I pushed the door. She didn't resist. I stepped inside, water pooling at my feet on the threadbare carpet.

          The room was barely big enough for the sagging double bed and dresser. A half-empty bottle of cheap vodka sat on the nightstand. A cheap burner phone next to it. The place smelled of discount perfume trying to cover something else.

         "You got the money, Miss Reyes?"

         She snorted, a bitter sound. "If I had fifteen grand, you think I'd be staying in this shithole?"

          I moved further into the room, letting her see the bulge of the gun under my coat. "Mr. Dawson doesn't accept excuses."

         "I'll bet he doesn't." She sat on the edge of the bed. She wore a silk robe, probably the most expensive thing she owned. Beneath it, I could see the strap of a red dress. Working clothes.

           "I can give you three hundred," she said. "That's all I've got right now."

          "Three hundred?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That doesn't even cover this week's interest."

          "Then what do you want me to do?" Her voice rose. "Pull money out of my ass?"

            "Not my problem, lady. Mr. Dawson wants his money. Now."

            She stood suddenly, moved to the dresser. I tensed, hand going to my piece. But she just pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one with shaking hands.

          "I'm working double shifts," she said through a cloud of smoke. "Doing everything I can. Tell him I need more time."

          I'd heard it all before. The excuses, the promises, the pleas. Usually, I'd rough up the room a bit. Maybe rough up the debtor too, just enough to send a message. That's what Dawson expected.

           "More time costs more money," I said.

          Her eyes flashed. "You people are all the same. Bloodsuckers."

          "Says the woman who took eight grand she couldn't repay."

          "You don't know anything about me." She stabbed the cigarette in my direction. "You don't know what I needed it for."

         "Don't care either."

          "My mother's dying. Cancer. Back in Manila. The treatments..." She trailed off, took another drag. "Never mind. You're just the muscle, right? Just following orders."

           That stung more than it should have. Because she was right. I was just the muscle. A tool. A weapon pointed at whoever couldn't pay.

          "Look," I said, softer now. "I don't make the rules. Dawson wants his money, or he wants blood. Those are the options."

           She laughed then, a sound like breaking glass. "Then take the blood. There's nothing else left."

           I've seen desperate people before, but something in her eyes was different. There was defiance there. And beneath it, a kind of reckless courage I hadn't seen in a long time.

            "Don't be stupid," I said.

            She moved fast, grabbed the vodka bottle, smashed it against the dresser. Glass shattered, liquor splashed. She held the jagged neck out, pointed at me.

            "Get out." Her voice was steady now, cold as river ice. "Tell Dawson he can go to hell."

I drew my piece, aimed it at her heart. "Put it down."

          "Shoot me then. Do your job, tough guy." She took a step forward, broken bottle extended. "Or maybe you're not as hard as you pretend to be."

          We stood there, frozen in a tableau of violence—her with the bottle, me with the gun. Rain hammered the roof. Somewhere, a siren wailed.

          Christ, she was beautiful in that moment—not pretty-beautiful, but fierce-beautiful. The kind of beauty that came from refusing to break, even when the world was crushing down on her. In my line of work, everyone either cowered or tried to buy me off. But she was staring death in the face and daring it to blink first.

           Then I did something I'd never done before. I laughed. A real laugh. And I lowered my piece.

"You've got guts, lady. I'll give you that."

           Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. The bottle remained pointed at my gut. "What's your game?"

          "No game." I holstered the gun. "Just never had someone pull a weapon on me during a collection before."

           "First time for everything." But her arm wavered.

           "Put it down before you hurt yourself."

            After a long moment, she lowered the broken bottle. "So what happens now? You beat me up? Break my fingers?"

           I looked at her—really looked at her. The defiance in her stance. The desperation in her eyes. The way she stood her ground even when she knew she couldn't win.

           "What if there was another way?" The words came out before I could stop them.

          "What are you talking about?"

           "A way out. For both of us."

           She eyed me suspiciously. "I'm listening."

           I shouldn't have said anything. Should've done my job and left. But I was tired. Tired of being Dawson's attack dog. Tired of preying on people who had nothing left to lose.

           "Dawson thinks you owe fifteen grand. What if he thought you were dead instead?"

           Her eyes widened. "Dead?"

          "People who die don't pay debts. He writes it off, moves on."

           "And why would you help me?"

            Good question. One I didn't have a solid answer for. "Maybe I'm looking for a way out too."

            "Out of what?"

            "This life. Being what I am."

            She studied me, those obsidian eyes searching for the trap. "What's your cut?"

            Smart girl. "Fifty-fifty. Whatever cash we can scam from Dawson in the process."

            "And I'm supposed to trust you?" She laughed. "The man who came here to hurt me?"

              "No. But I'm offering you a choice. More than you had five minutes ago."

              She was quiet for a long moment, thinking it through. Then: "How would we do it?"

             And just like that, I was all in. No turning back.

             "We need blood. And a convincing scene."

 

***

             I picked up a cheap prepaid phone and a roll of gauze while I was out.

            When I got back to the motel, Anita had cleaned up the broken glass and was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

             "You're really serious about this," she said as I held up a single sterile lancet—the kind diabetics use.

              She studied it. “You want me to bleed out from a finger prick?” 

              “Not out. Just enough to leave breadcrumbs.” I tapped the nightstand where I’d laid out a plastic evidence envelope. “Your blood, one place only: the broken edge of the mirror.”

              She shook her head. "How do I know you won't just kill me for real? Take the money and run?"

            "You don't." I shrugged. "But if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead already."

              She accepted this with a small nod. "What's the plan?"

             "We stage your murder. Make it messy. I tell Dawson you fought back, things got out of hand. I collect the insurance money he has on your loan."

              "He insures his loans?"

             "The big ones. Against death, disability. Dawson doesn't like losing money."

              "How much?"

             "Forty  grand. We split it, you disappear, I quit the game."

               "And he believes you just killed me over a debt? Just like that?"

             I looked her straight in the eye. "He knows what I'm capable of."

              Something in my voice must have convinced her, because she didn't ask what I meant. Some things are better left unsaid.

              "What do you need me to do?"

              "Bleed," I said.

 

***

 

            She took the lancet, pressed it to the pad of her middle finger. A bead welled up, bright as mercury. 

            “One drop,” I said.

           She let it fall onto the carpet just inside the doorway—visible, but not staged. Then she wiped her finger along the mirror shard we’d broken earlier, leaving a thin red comma. The rest went onto a torn corner of her blouse, which we folded and left half-hidden under the dresser, as if it had been ripped off in a struggle.

           "Where did you learn this?" she asked as she smeared blood along the baseboard.

            "You pick things up," I said, not meeting her eyes.

            I snapped pictures with the prepaid phone: the blouse, the mirror, the single drop on the carpet, a faint partial footprint in the fibers. Everything else stayed clean. No splatter, no pools, no horror-movie theatrics. The Cops would walk in, see the sparse evidence, and conclude she’d been injured, panicked, fled. Enough to file the claim. Enough for Dawson to pay.

           By dawn, the room looked like a crime scene. All we needed was a body. Or rather, the absence of one.

            "I'll tell Dawson I cut you up, dumped the pieces in the bay," I explained. "He won't ask for details."

            "Will he believe you?"

            "He'll believe the blood. And that I'm capable of it."

            She looked at me then, really looked at me. "Are you? Capable of it?"

             I didn't answer. Some questions don't deserve the truth.

            "You need to disappear," I said instead. "Today. Get as far away from here as you can."

            "I need money for that."

            "I'll front you two grand from my savings. The rest when I collect from Dawson."

            "Why are you really doing this?" she asked. "It can't just be the money."

            I stared at the  room, at the scene we'd created together. "Maybe I'm tired of being the monster in other people's stories."

             She nodded like she understood. Maybe she did.

             "Where will you go?" I asked.

             "Does it matter?"

              "Guess not."

            She packed her meager belongings into a small duffel bag. I checked the room one last time, making sure we'd left the right evidence, erased the wrong traces.

            "We need a way to contact each other," I said. "For when I get the money."

            She hesitated, then nodded. "The phone you bought. I'll call it in three days."

            "Three days," I agreed. "By then, this will all be over."

             I watched her walk away in the gray morning light, disappearing down the street with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. I wondered if I'd ever see her again. Wondered if I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.

             Then I called Dawson.

 

***

 

             "She's dead." I kept my voice flat, emotionless.

             Silence on the other end of the line. Then: "What the hell happened, Wade?"

             "She pulled a weapon. Things got messy."

             "Jesus Christ." Dawson's voice was a harsh whisper. "Where's the body?"

             "You don't want to know."

           Another silence. I could almost hear him thinking, calculating the costs and benefits.

              "The money?"

             "Gone. She didn't have it."

             "Goddammit, Wade!" His voice rose. "That's fifteen grand down the drain!"

             "She had insurance," I reminded him. "You'll get your forty."

             "That's not the point! Now I've got a dead girl in my books. Heat I don't need."

             "Nobody's looking for her," I said. "She was new in town. No connections."

             "You better be right." He paused. "Clean it up. All of it. I'll get the insurance paperwork started."

              "I need my cut," I said. "Five grand."

              "For screwing up a simple collection? You're lucky I don't take it out of your hide."

              "For keeping my mouth shut. For handling the mess. For being the one with blood on his hands."

               He was quiet again, thinking it through. "Fine. Five grand. When it's done."

               "I want it tomorrow. Cash."

                "Don't push me, Wade."

                "I'm covered in a dead woman's blood because of your loan, Dawson. I think I've earned a quick payout."

                He cursed, but agreed. "Tomorrow. Noon. The usual place."

               I hung up, stared at the bloody motel room. Phase one complete. Now came the hard part.

 

***

 

               Dawson's office was above a pawn shop on Market Street. The kind of place with bars on the windows and three different locks on the door. I arrived at noon exactly, dressed in my cleanest suit, all traces of last night's "murder" washed away.

               His secretary, a hard-faced woman named Gloria, barely looked up when I entered. "He's expecting you."

             Dawson sat behind a massive oak desk, a relic from better days. He was a fat man with small, mean eyes and fingers like sausages, each one adorned with a gold ring. The room smelled of cigar smoke and cheap cologne.

            "Wade." He nodded at me. "Sit."

             I sat, keeping my face neutral. "You got my money?"

            He studied me, those piggy eyes searching for weakness. "You look tired."

             "Been a long night."

             "I bet." He opened a drawer, pulled out an envelope. "Five grand, as agreed."

             I reached for it, but he held it back. "First, I want details. What really happened?"

            "You don't want details."

             "Humor me."

              I leaned back, choosing my words carefully. "She pulled a broken bottle on me. I defended myself. She ended up with my knife in her throat."

            "And then?"

            "And then I cleaned up the mess. Like I always do."

             He nodded slowly. "And no one saw anything?"

             "No one who matters."

            He pushed the envelope across the desk. "The insurance company might ask questions."

           "They won't find anything."

             "They better not." He lit a cigar, puffed it to life. "Because if this comes back on me, it comes back on you twice as hard. Understand?"

               "Crystal clear." I pocketed the envelope. "We done here?"

             "For now." He blew smoke in my direction. "Take a few days off. Lay low."

              "Sure thing, boss."

              I stood to leave, relief flooding through me. Almost too easy.

             "Oh, and Wade?" His voice stopped me at the door. "If you ever pull something like this again, you're finished. I don't care how long you've worked for me."

             I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and walked out.

             Five grand in my pocket. Another thirty-five to come when I collected the insurance money. Then freedom. For both of us.

 

***

 

             Three days passed like molasses in January. I holed up in my apartment, counting hours, jumping at shadows. The pre-paid phone sat on my kitchen table, silent as a grave.

She was supposed to call. Three days, she'd said. It had been three days and six hours.

I paced, checked the news for reports of bodies found, arrests made. Nothing. The city had swallowed our crime without a ripple.

            At midnight, I gave up waiting and called Dawson.

            "The insurance money," I said when he answered. "Is it coming through?"

            "Patience, Wade." His voice was slurred. He'd been drinking. "These things take time."

            "How much time?"

              "Why the rush? You in some kind of trouble?"

             "Just want what's owed me."

              He chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. "Don't we all. I'll call you when it comes through."

             He hung up. I stared at the phone, a bad feeling crawling up my spine.

             Something wasn't right.

 

***

 

             On the fourth day, the prepaid phone finally rang. I snatched it up.

             "Where have you been?" I demanded.

            Silence. Then a voice—but not Anita's. A man's voice, smooth as oil.

            "Mr. Wade. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance."

             My blood turned to ice. "Who is this?"

             "Someone who's very interested in your recent activities. Particularly your collaboration with Miss Reyes."

             I said nothing, mind racing.

            "I have to admire the plan," the voice continued. "Very creative. The blood, the staged crime scene. Almost had us fooled."

            "What do you want?"

            "The same thing you do. Money." A pause. "And Miss Reyes, of course."

            "I don't know what you're talking about."

             "Please." The voice hardened. "Don't insult my intelligence. We have her, Mr. Wade. And unless you want her to experience a very real version of the death you faked, you'll bring us the money. All of it."

            "I don't have it yet."

           "Then get it. Forty thousand. Tonight."

            "That's not possible."

             "Make it possible." Another pause. "She's quite beautiful, you know. It would be a shame to mar that beauty. But we will, if necessary."

            "Let me talk to her," I demanded.

            Rustling sounds. Then her voice, tight with fear. "Marcus?"

            "Are you hurt?"

            "Not yet." Her voice broke. "I'm sorry. They were waiting when I—"

            The man's voice returned. "Enough. Midnight. The old cannery on Pier 19. Forty thousand cash."

            "How do I know you'll let her go?"

            "You don't." He laughed softly. "But what choice do you have?"

            The line went dead.

           I sat there, the phone clutched in my hand, cursing myself for a fool. I'd thought I was so clever, so desperate to escape Dawson's grip that I'd walked us both into a trap.

            I had five grand from Dawson. My life savings would give me another eight. That left twenty-seven thousand I didn't have.

             There was only one place to get that kind of money fast.

 

***

 

              Dawson kept a safe in his office. Behind the painting of racehorses on the back wall.          Combination known only to him and Gloria, his secretary. I'd seen him open it once, years ago, when he thought I wasn't looking. Three numbers. His birthday. Arrogant bastard.

           The pawn shop closed at eight. The loan office above it emptied by eight-thirty. By nine, the building was dark and quiet.

             The back door had an alarm. The windows too. But not the fire escape that led to the roof. Sloppy security, but Dawson had always relied on fear more than locks.

           I moved across the rooftop like a shadow, found the access door. Picked the lock with the skills I'd learned in another life, before I became Dawson's muscle.

            His office was bathed in the red glow of the neon sign outside. I moved to the painting, swung it aside. The safe gleamed dully in the dim light.

            I spun the dial. Eight-sixteen-fifty-three. Dawson's birthday. The lock clicked open.

Inside: stacks of cash. At least fifty grand. More than I needed. I took thirty thousand, left the rest.     No need to be greedy.

           I was closing the safe when the lights came on.

           "I knew you'd try something stupid. I smelled it you was in some kind of trouble,” Dawson stood in the doorway, a revolver in his hand. He looked almost bored, as if he'd been expecting this all along. “They saw you climbing the fire escape, so I decided to come and have a final chat with you."

           "It's not what you think," I said, straightening up slowly.

           "No? You're not robbing me blind after faking that girl's death?"

           My stomach dropped. "What are you talking about?"

           He laughed. "Please. You think I don't check up on my collectors? You think I don't know a set-up when I see one? The motel guy noticed you stayed in her room for a few hours! Faking an execution, huh? You really getting old, Wade—”

           "Dawson—"

            "Shut up." He gestured with the gun. "You disappointed me, Wade. I thought you were smarter than this."

            "They've got her," I said. "They're going to kill her if I don't bring the money."

           "Who's got her?"

            "I don't know. They called me, told me to bring forty grand to the old cannery. Tonight."

           Dawson's eyes narrowed. "And you believed them?"

           "They put her on the phone."

              He considered this, head tilted. "Interesting."

            "I need that money, Dawson. I'll pay you back."

             "With what? Your winning personality?" He shook his head. "You're done, Wade. Finished."

I took a step toward him. "She'll die."

             "Not my problem." He raised the gun higher. "Put the money back, and maybe I'll let you walk out of here alive."

               Time slowed down. I saw the coldness in his eyes, the steady aim of the revolver. I saw the bag with the money in my hand, Anita's only chance at survival.

                 I made my choice.

 

***

 

           The old cannery loomed against the night sky, a hulking skeleton of rust and broken glass. The place smelled of dead fish and saltwater. Perfect spot for an execution.

             I checked my watch. 11:58 p.m. The bag in my hand, weighted with blood money. Forty thousand dollars. Payment for a life.

             I moved through the shadows, senses alert for traps. The main floor of the cannery was empty, conveyor belts frozen in time, processing tables abandoned.

             A voice echoed from above. "Up here, Mr. Wade."

            I looked up. A catwalk stretched across the upper level. A man stood there, lean and sharp in an expensive suit. Next to him, Anita, her hands bound in front of her.

            "I've got the money," I called out.

            "Excellent. Come up and join us."

           I took the metal stairs slowly, each step ringing out in the empty space. At the top, I got a better look at the man. Young, maybe thirty. Asian, with cold eyes and a colder smile. Three thugs stood behind him, hard men with harder faces.

            "The money," he said, extending his hand.

           "Let her go first."

            He laughed. "That's not how this works."

            "Then we're at an impasse."

           His smile disappeared. "No, Mr. Wade. We're not."

           He nodded to one of his men, who grabbed Anita by the hair, pressed a knife to her throat. She didn't make a sound, but her eyes found mine, filled with fear and something else. Regret, maybe.

           "The bag" the man said again. "Now."

           I set it down, slid it across the catwalk. He picked it up, opened it. Smiled at the stacks of bills.

             "Very good. Now we can conclude our business."

           "Let her go," I said.

             "Of course." He nodded again. The thug released Anita, who stumbled toward me. I caught her arm, steadied her.

           "You okay?" I whispered.

           She nodded, eyes wide.

           "Unfortunately," the man continued, closing the bag, "there's one more loose end to tie up."

           He pulled a pistol from inside his jacket, aimed it at my chest.

            "Can't have you running to the police, can we? Bad for business."

            "Who are you?" I asked, playing for time, looking for an opening.

           "Just someone who recognized an opportunity." He smiled thinly. "Miss Reyes was quite careless, talking about your little scheme in public. The wrong ears were listening."

             Anita tensed beside me. "I didn't—"

           "Quiet." He kept the gun trained on me. "Any last words, Mr. Wade?"

            Time slowed again. I saw the finger tightening on the trigger. Saw Anita's terrified face. Saw the thugs, watching with dead eyes.

               "Just one," I said, and pulled the .38 from my waistband.

            The cannery exploded with gunfire.

 

***

 

            Pain. That's what I remember most. White-hot pain in my shoulder, my side. The taste of blood in my mouth.

            I remember firing, the .38 bucking in my hand. Remember the look of surprise on the man's face as my first bullet caught him in the chest. Remember the thugs scrambling, returning fire.

           I remember pushing Anita down, shielding her with my body. Remember the weight of her beneath me, trembling.

         After that, fragments. Crawling across the catwalk. More gunfire. Blood pooling beneath me.

Anita's voice, urgent in my ear. "Marcus! Get up! We have to go!"

            Her hands, surprisingly strong, dragging me to my feet. The bag—stuffed with cash—slid from her shoulder to her chest; she shoved it behind her back and kept pulling. The world tilting, spinning.

             Somehow, we made it down the stairs. Somehow, we stumbled out into the night. No one followed. Maybe they were dead.

            The pain was a living thing now, clawing at my insides. Each breath a struggle.

           "No hospital," I gasped.

           "No." Her voice was tight with fear. "They report gunshot wounds."

           A Black man with bullet holes shows up at the ER, cops get called. Questions get asked. Questions I couldn't answer.

          "My car," I managed. "Two blocks south."

           We staggered through deserted streets, my arm around her shoulders, her arm around my waist. Blood soaked my shirt, dripped onto the pavement.

            When we reached the Chevy, she helped me into the passenger seat. "Keys?"

            I fumbled in my pocket, handed them over with bloody fingers. She started the engine, pulled away from the curb.

            "Where are we going?" I asked, consciousness slipping.

           "Somewhere safe."

           The city lights blurred as we drove. Pain pulsed with each heartbeat. I knew I was in trouble. Bad trouble.

            I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, we were parked outside a small house on the edge of town. A doctor's house, she told me later. Someone who owed her a favor.

           He patched me up without asking questions. Two bullets, neither hitting anything vital. Lucky, he said. I didn't feel lucky.

 

***

           Dawn broke gray and cold. I lay on a stranger's couch, wrapped in bandages, drifting in and out of consciousness. Anita sat beside me, her hand cool on my forehead.

          "Why did you come for me?" she asked when she saw I was awake. "You could have run."

          "Couldn't leave you."

         "You should have."

          "Maybe."

          She was quiet for a long moment. "What happened with Dawson?"

          I closed my eyes, saw his face again. The surprise when I moved. The gun going off. The blood.

         "He won't be a problem anymore."

          She didn't ask for details. Smart girl.

            "We need to go," she said. "Both of us. As soon as you can travel."

          "Where?"

            "Does it matter?"

         I thought about it. About the blood on my hands. Dawson's. The man at the cannery. All the others over the years. Blood that would never wash away.

          "No," I said finally. "It doesn't matter."

         She nodded, squeezed my hand. "Rest now. I'll watch over you."

           I closed my eyes, let the darkness take me. In my dreams, I saw Anita standing in a field of green, far from the city, far from the blood and the pain. Smiling. Free.

           When I woke, the room was dark. Night had fallen again. I was alone, a blanket tucked around me.

           On the table beside me: a suitcase. Small, battered.

           I opened it with shaking hands. Inside: stacks of bills. Twenty thousand, maybe more. And a note:

I'm sorry. This is better for both of us. Don't look for me.

           I sat there in the gathering darkness, the suitcase open in my lap, her words burning in my brain.    Outside, rain began to fall, drumming on the roof like distant gunfire.

           Was this her plan all along? Use me to escape, then take the money and run? Or had something changed in that cannery, when the bullets started flying?

          I'd never know. She was gone, like smoke, like a dream you try to hold onto after waking.

           The money felt heavy in my hands. Blood money. Death money. My ticket out or my final damnation.

         I closed the suitcase, made my decision. The rain kept falling, washing away yesterday's sins. Tomorrow's too, maybe. If I was lucky.

           But I've never been lucky. Just alive. For now, that would have to be enough.

 

 

THE END

​

​

       George Garnet, a writer who thrives in the shadows, has seen his fiction published in esteemed publications like Mystery Tribune, Switchblade, Out of the Gutter, Mystery Weekly, Pulp Modern Flash, Yellow Mama, The Dark City, and other shadowy corners of the literary world. He calls the vibrant chaos of Melbourne home.

​

​

     Sophia Wiseman-Rose (aka Sr. Sophia Rose) is a Paramedic and an Anglican novice Franciscan nun, in the UK.  Both careers have given Sophia a great deal of exposure to the extremes in life and have provided great inspiration for her.  

     She has travelled to many countries, on medical missions and for modelling (many years ago), but has spent most of her life between the USA and the UK. She is currently residing in a rural Franciscan community and will soon be moving to London to be with a community there.  

      In addition, Sophia had a few poems and short stories in editions of Black Petals Horror/Science Fiction Magazine

 The majority of her artwork can be found on her website.

  https://www.artstation.com/sophiaw-r6