Mao Mao Apothecary Diaries の小説・ストーリー

I wandered over to where a lady was behind an almost rectangular table with a hole in the inside. "Hey there, sweetie, what can I get for you?" Me? "What would you recommend? I've had a nightmare week and just want to forget all my problems." "I got ya. I'll make you the house special. It's called the Hazy Day. It's got rum, vodka and strawberry malt liquor."

Mia's POV I lock up the door of this old, abandoned house. Running for days because of the zombie outbreak. I find a room with bars on the windows. It looks safe, but then I hear a noise. Zeke stumbles in from the closet. He was bitten last week. His skin is gray and peeling; pus leaks from sores on his arms. He smells of rotten meat and shit. His eyes are milky white. He groans low. I retreat backward, holding my heart because it's pounding. I grab my knife but he's quick.

She pushed the door open. The room was small and dense with shelves. Glass bottles of every size lined the walls, filled with liquids in shades of amber, deep green, pale grey, and colours that had no name she knew. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the low ceiling in rows, and a long wooden table in the centre of the room held tools and open notebooks covered in small, careful handwriting. In one corner, a low fire burned under a clay pot. The liquid inside it was moving in slow, heavy circles. Aurora stepped in carefully. She was drawn to the shelves — to the neat rows of bottles, to the small handwritten labels, to the drawings in the notebooks that showed plants and their parts broken dow

I reached the last page and read it. March 17, 2009. Maude Pharmaceuticals' attempt to acquire Wolfe Holdings. Maude Pharmaceuticals? I’ve heard that name before. I heard a loud sound from outside the library. I immediately stood up, hiding the folder between some books on the shelf. My heart pounded against my chest as I made my way to the door. My shaky hands pulled it open and checked outside. Nothing. No one was here. I stepped out, looking around the library to see what made the noise.

My first memoir in a new diary. My old diary was filled with stories and stories of girls I've fucked and turned but after this incident that happened on 23/4/2027 I had to start a new diary. So... I was angry that mum was remarrying. I really hate the thought that she couldn't keep her pussy at check after dad's death and jumped into another man's arms. However, she kept reassuring me that it's going to be fine but I hate it as hell.

David's snoring in the bed beside me, oblivious to what had happened. His arm slung over the pillow where my head should be. But I'm here, in the dim glow of my phone screen, scribbling this out in my diary, because if I don't, it'll eat me alive. Today wasn't just a slip; it was a dive, headfirst into something I've been circling for months. Or years, if I'm honest. ***** At Zephyra Art Gallery, I didn't just let it happen. I started it. Me. Poppy. The good wife, the one who packs David's lunch with snacks, fruit and love notes. What the hell is wrong with me?

It was a common thing, nobody would even be surprised, given the line of work that the madame was into. We had just murdered a well known person in society and questions would be asked. Luckily for us, I paid attention in chemistry classes and did some extra researches on my own. The answer to our problem was a mixture of sodium hydroxide with water, also known as lye. When this mixture is heated to boiling point, it dissolves tissue in a matter of hours. The body is reduced to a brownish slime, leaving only crisp bones that can be easily disposed.

"We’ll keep him secured." I was already running. The apothecary was tucked between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor. It was a cramped, dimly lit space that smelled heavily of dried sage, sulfur, and old parchment. Floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves were packed with amber glass jars, hand-labeled tins, and ceramic crocks containing rare roots and preserved organs. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, and a thick coating of dust covered everything except for a heavy brass scale on the marble counter.

I let out a slow breath and placed the heavy, soot-stained ledger into his palm. Kai Feng turned the book over. The edges were badly singed, the smell of burnt glue and old paper rising from the binding. He flipped it open to the center pages, his sharp eyes scanning the neat, archaic handwriting of his mother’s former physician. As his eyes moved down the column of daily medicinal entries, I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten until the bone looked like it might snap through his skin. He reached the bottom of the page, where a specific chemical compound—a rare root extract used to suppress wolf fevers, but lethal in high, continuous doses—was documented alongside a signature seal.

His face went still. "Ken tracked him down. Got him to confirm the sale." I pointed to the relevant lines. "Moonpetal. False root. Shadowmoss. Enough to maintain a fake pregnancy for eight months." Karson's eyes moved across the page. Reading. Absorbing. "And this." I handed him the second document. Excerpts from my mother's diary, carefully copied onto fresh paper. "My mother documented these herbs as a warning. She wrote about the symptoms they create. The swelling. The scent changes. Everything that fooled us."