Free Write 12/31/09

And it all just collapses down to little moments, little glimpses, when you look and you KNOW. When you know his arms are open, but it's over and he isn't right for you and dammit, you never loved her and were barely even curious. And the contrast through the camera makes you giggle just a little as the music plays and you dream of a not-so-faceless lover at your back platonically. (There's something just a little scary about the irony of all these wounds "healing" so close together.)

Why did you ever bother with all these wastes of time? You always knew each and every one for what they were, but would delude yourself quite happily and while away for countless hours. (An eighteen month fling.)

I've tried my best, given things shots - how frustrating when I haven't so much as passed out. My kaleidoscope greetings are rushing about in my head, and I'm getting tired of being asked about the same damn things. But I guess that's part of living. So I'll deal with it, since I am very much a fan of my heartbeat's pitter-patter.

And after awhile, even gold will lose its shine if it's not looked after with shininess in mind. Happiness is a conscious decision, and it takes maintenance. And no, it's not always easy. Hell, it's downright difficult drudgery, but it can always be done and the gold can always be shiny.

I like the smell of leaves in summer, and the sound of water in a creek. I love whitewater most of all. Raw power - to break and to propel into flight. You'd just better hope you're in the boat as it crests the waves on the rocks you guide around.

Social situations are a lot like white water. To the untrained eye, the current moves too quickly for anything to be seen, but to the river guide, every rock is laid bare beforehand. Each bit can be used to make the ride as wild or as tame as the rider wants. What am I up for? How is my white water today?

I think a declaration of love is a class three rapid. It could give someone inexperienced a broken nose, but anyone worth their salt will weather it nicely. A rock here. Another there. A third at a sixty degree angle. Easy enough to see coming. I wouldn't want to play in that hole, personally. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, like chocolate swallowed only a few minutes past. Unrequited. The only recourse the dreaded LJBF speech that we all love and hate so much with its damning and saving qualities.

Honesty. I'll never go so far as to swear off lying (I recognize the value in it) but I detest liars. (How is that for a wee grain of hypocrisy?) As such, I've grown accustomed to an odd, bold form of speech. (I actually say what I mean!) I rather like it.

And now I'm drifting farther back into the land of headachy powerlessness. It's twelve weeks today, did you know? (Well, duh. Otherwise I wouldn't be telling/asking you.) These past few weeks have been so difficult; I can barely think. And my thoughts are so scattered when present, and useless! (Exhibit A.)

I only want all this to end, and my life to go back to normal.

Deia/Zane (As Yet Untitled) Clip Two Draft Two

Some human beings are born as angels. Most aren't, mind you, and are simply human, with greed and darkness and depravity as much a part of them as their smile. But others, while being far from perfect, just seem as though such distasteful qualities cannot touch them. They radiate light, happiness, and enthusiasm from their very bodies. It's in their voices, their postures, their personalities.

I didn't believe in angels for a long time. I couldn't bring myself to. All the world had ever been to me was dark and I thought that something so brilliantly light as an angel would be obvious.

They must not exist if I couldn't see them.

But I didn't recognize her as one when I met her. Not for a long time was I able to figure out what was so different about her.

I had just been transferred to yet another home, another town, another high school, and I wasn't in the best of mental places. I knew that this one would end just the same as all the others. My only hope was to stick it out for seven months, until I turned eighteen. Then I could get myself an apartment, finish my education.

But it seemed unlikely.

It was on my second day at the new school that I ran into her. Literally.

She wasn't watching where she was going, reading while she was walking. And, well, I was staring at her.

She was in a couple of my classes, and even on the second day of school, it was obvious that she was the Smart Girl. All the other students always looked to her to give the answers and all the teachers had her sitting front and center. Besides, the girl was walking while reading a book! She definitely had her geek on.

But that wasn't why I was staring at her, walking down the hall during lunch break. No, I was staring because she was a sexy little thing.

She was on the short side, maybe about 5'2", but she had a great rack, just a little bit large on her frame. Her ass was excellent, too, a tight number that wasn't huge, but wasn't tiny either. The girl had curves to go with her geek, and that combination was a definite turn on.

She wasn't rough on the eyes in other places, either. She was pale, but not unhealthily so, with dark brown hair that was just shy of black and fell in waves down her back. She had large turquoise blue eyes in a heart-shaped face. Her lips had a perfect cupid's bow. I can still remember exactly how they felt on me.... But that is for later.

She held herself high, seeming to bounce and sway as she walked. This was the first time I had ever seen her without a smile. She vibrated with life, and seemed always to be doing something or other.

I was fascinated.

So, of course, I walked right into her.

"Ow!" she yelped, dropping her book to grab onto her wrist.

Oops....

"I'm sorry," I hastened to apologize then cover my tracks, bending down to pick up the book she had dropped. "It would appear that neither one of us was watching where we were going." Lie, lie, liiiiieee....

Curious, I glanced at the book she had been reading. It was a Signet Classics edition of Shakespeare's "As You Like It". I gave her props for reading the Bard, but "As You Like It"?

Ew, girly Shakespeare.

I glanced up, about to hand it back to her, only to find her staring at me. I froze, fighting the urge to tense up. I knew what she would see, and I didn't like the idea that she was just soaking it all in, like so much poison that she must inevitably expel from her system.

I was a hard guy with a harder past, and I looked it in my shabby jeans and t-shirt. My hair was towards the long side and my nose had been broken a couple of times. I had scars on my fingers and my abdomen, though she couldn't see the latter. It didn't matter. I knew they were there.

Why was she still staring?

I couldn't take it.

"If you're done staring, you can have your Shakespeare back," I said, brandishing the play at her, my voice perhaps a little colder and harsher than necessary. But I didn't want her eyes on me, judging me. This was defense.

"By the way," I continued callously, "'As You Like It' is just sappy. 'Macbeth' is much better." I felt satisfaction as her face creased with temper and she snatched the book from me. That had distracted her from what she'd seen.

"Thanks for the information," her voice cut at me, "But I like that 'As You Like It' is rather sappy. 'Macbeth' has its merits, like a truly beautiful portrayal of a psychopath," her glare tightened on me for a moment before she continued. "But it was a little grim for my mood when I woke up this morning."

Well, that put me in my place. You just have to respect a girl with an eloquent temper.

"But was he a psychopath or just your standard person?" I asked, eager to see what else she had.

She didn't disappoint.

Deia/Zane (As Yet Untitled) Clip One Draft Two

Sometimes you can see the darkness in a person's eyes. It's a shadow, right behind the irises, and it seems to spill out and over his or her entire face, etching it with hard lines before seeping down into the throat where it roughens and flattens the voice.

I always wondered what could be so bad in a person's brain that it couldn't deal with that negativity, somehow convert it to hope. Being a bit of a Pollyanna myself, maybe I don't really want to know, despite the curiosity.

After all, that shadow behind the irises is a damned scary thing to behold.

Zane had them, I remember. I had just turned seventeen when I first met him, and he wasn't much older than that. We were in the same grade in high school, but he was a transfer, so when he bumped into me at lunch, I didn't know him.

"Ow!" I protested, grabbing my wrist where he'd jammed it.

He blushed as he bent to pick my book off the floor, the color staining the back of his neck before he stood to face me.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was low, rough, deep, flat, beautiful. "It would appear that neither one of us was watching where we were going."

I sucked in my breath as I got a look at him. I was used to attractive guys, but I usually found them to have a certain irresponsible levity to them, or a deplorably whiny angst. This one was just... dark.

I was too naive to be scared back then.

He had golden-bronze blond hair, an equally golden complexion and deep green eyes that seemed to see everything. His cheekbones where sharp and high, his lips full and sensuous, the bottom lip just a little bit more lush than the top. His neck was long and corded with muscle that continued into his broad shoulders, but was hidden by his t-shirt. His chest was wide, tapering down into his worn, grey-washed jeans. His arms were muscular, and his hands proportionately large and disproportionately sensitive as one wrapped almost completely around my book.

"If you're done staring," his voice drew me back to his unsmiling visage, "then you can have your Shakespeare back." He shoved the book toward me. "By the way, 'As You Like It' is just sappy. 'Macbeth' is much better."

I accepted the book, irritation wrinkling my brow. He was questioning my taste in literature!

"Thanks for the information," I said dryly, "But I like that 'As You Like It' is rather sappy. 'Macbeth' has its merits, like a truly beautiful portrayal of a psychopath, but it was a little grim for my mood when I woke up this morning."

His eyebrows arched in silent surprise. He was a lit snob, I just knew it. The type that didn't think a story was literature unless it portrayed the dark side of human nature or society. Hmph. He was severely limiting his world view, provided that was the case.

"But is he a psychopath or just your standard person?" he asked, confirming my theory. "After all, his wife masterminds Duncan's murder."

"Yes," I shot back, "But she cannot bring herself to perform the actual act, and the guilt of it all eventually destroys her. Macbeth experiences no such remorse."

He looked impressed now, nodding slowly, upper lip stiff.

"My name is Zane," he offered, thumbs in his pockets, fingers framing his zipper. "I didn't expect to meet anyone literature minded in this town."

I pointedly held my hand out for a shake.

"Don't let the small town atmosphere fool you. Our library selection may suck balls in a painful way, but that doesn't say anything about what we appreciate."

I looked from my hand to his face to his hands, which hadn't moved from his pockets, back to my hand.

Nothing.

"However, we do appreciate good manners. At least, I do," I finally prompted.

"Oh!" He blushed again and hastily placed his hand in mine to shake.

He had a nice handshake, straight up and down, confidently firm without being crushing.

"I'm Deia Cohls," I introduced myself, repressing an 'mm-mm!' for his handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Zane...?"

"Astonse," he provided.

"Astonse," I finished, before getting wicked. "Well, after the initial nearly breaking my wrist part."

He smiled.

I wish I had known enough to keep my distance from such broken cheer.

Nobody - Nobody Special Draft Three

He came upon her at a party. She was dressed forgettably, her makeup done blandly, and her accessories were commonplace. Her hair was a background shoulder-length brown, neither remarkably long, nor remarkably short. She was of average height, standing at his chest (he was rather tall), and of average posture. If there was anything distinctive about her at all, it was in her utter lack of distinctiveness.

And yet, he was pulled to her. She was standing in the midst of a rather large crowd, smiling politely, making small talk. She was decidedly part of the conversation although no one seemed to address her directly.

She was a mystery, he concluded. A bland mystery in a little black cotton cocktail dress. He became determined to solve her.

He sidled up to her, tapping her lightly on one peach shaded shoulder.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I don't believe I know you," he stated, tilting his head politely.

She started, her smile slipping, replaced by a fleeting surprise. But then she smiled again, and he wondered if he had imagined that expression leaving.

"Of course you know me," she replied, her voice of a medium timbre, indistinctive, like the rest of her. "I'm here, at your party, aren't I?"

He admitted to himself that she had a point, and then was confused that such a point could be made. There was a guest list! He had not put a single person on it that he did not know, and no one else had been told of the party; such had been his express instructions to his guests. He had even had his security guards double and triple check all the party goers to ensure that his list was held to. How could she have a point?

She smiled wider, as though she knew the thoughts that flashed wild fire quick through his head. She extended her hand, unpainted nails glinting in the dim mood lighting.

"I'm Nobody - Nobody Special."

He took her hand, shook, now only further perplexed. She was joking, of course. Nobody named their child, well, Nobody.

"Of course...." he demurred, choosing not to voice his ruminations or laugh aloud. "I'm Somebody Important."

"No, you're not," she replied promptly, hand still in his. "You're a somebody important. There are many of you."

He held her gray gaze, entranced by her mystical averageness.

"I see...."

"You do not believe me," she stated. "I do not blame you. Few people do.... Fewer people ask."

"Ask what?"

"Anything."

He resolved that she was playing with him; it was the only explanation. So he would play with her.

"Of course. I suppose they find it hard to swallow that Nobody Special is so... personable."

For she was. She was charismatic in her classic invisibility, magnetic in her flattering subservience. Besides that, she was intriguing, with all this talk of Nobody and somebodies.

But she was unmoved by his statement, accepting it with the air of one who has heard it all many times before and has grown bored with the inevitability of hearing it again. Instead, she tugged her palm from his fingers (for somehow he was still holding it) and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

"Odd, isn't it? But that's the point of me, you see. I must be personable, else all you somebody importants wouldn't bother with me at all."

He stared at her, a strange breeze on his tongue as his jaw hung open.

"Huh?"

"Well," she explained, "You all know me. You talk about me often. That's the paradox of my existence. You know me, but you have forgotten me."

He nodded, having managed to manipulate his teeth and lips back into a barrier against flies.

Seeming to take that as encouragement, she continued.

"I am the background, the backdrop. I am in each and every life, and you do not appreciate me, but were I gone, I'd be sorely missed. " She smiled again, eyes holding his without trepidation, as though she were speaking of the weather rather than a complex system of insanity. "Imagine, if you had to interact with one somebody important after another, no break, just importance after importance after importance."

He twisted his head to the side eyeing her from that angle in the hopes that the new perspective would produce more sense.

"You'd die of stress. That's where I come in. I am there when you get tired of somebody important. Some people prefer my company more than that of others, actually. More people spend time with me." She was matter-of-fact, as though these were conclusions that could be reached through languid twitches of common sense. "So why shouldn't I be personable, despite the fact that I am not a person?"

"Of... course...." he drew out, not sure of his voice.

She glanced around the room, seeming, for the first time since he had approached her, aware of existences other than their own.

"I'd best be going. A somebody important wants to talk to you," she whispered confidentially. "It wouldn't be kosher for me to stay."

And with that, she turned and walked away.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to look. Immediately he smiled, pleased by the sight that greeted him.

"Who was that?" his girlfriend asked, looking after the average woman, although she'd already disappeared, swallowed by the crowd.

"Oh, Nobody - Nobody Special." He plucked an appetizer off a passing tray. "Mushroom? They're very good tonight."

Arsenicia's Story (As Yet Untitled) Clip One Draft Two

I'm one of those students whose names teachers dread seeing on his or her role. Not because I'm a trouble-maker, or anything. In fact, I'm at the top of my class, though I have been accused of possessing a wee bit of an attitude problem. But that's not the issue. No, teachers don't like to have my name on their roles because they can't pronounce it correctly to save their lives.

'So?' you must be thinking. 'Lots of kids have names that are difficult to pronounce. It's no big deal. Just use a nick-name.' But that's the thing. All possible nicknames are worse than the actual name. It's Arsenicia Malwrenataie Kilburn.

I tried to get people to call me Ann for awhile, but it just didn't stick. Instead, I get called Arsenic, Arson if peeps are feeling particularly lazy. When I asked one of my adopted brothers why Ann hadn't taken, I was told it was because my personality is toxic, and Ann sounded too sweet.

Joy, huh?

My parents must have hated me.

I'll never know for sure, though. They rather died when I was young, think infant. No one knows who they were, where they were from.... Really, no one knows anything about them, except that they were in a car, going somewhere, with me in a bassinet in the back-seat with a birth certificate with only my name and date of birth filled out, when they swerved suddenly and hit a light pole. They died, and I was put up for adoption, after some wonder at the convenience and mystery of my birth certificate.

The irony is that I was adopted by completely normal people with completely normal names. Seriously. The parents' names are John and Susan. Their two sons are popular, athletic, and go by James and Michael, respectively. Their daughter is a cheerleader; pretty, perfect, and well-liked. Her name is Hannah.

Bland, bland, bland. You might as well bottle it and call it 'American.'

I don't stick out like a stripper's hips, nuh-uh.

And it's not just my name, either. I mean, I'm WEIRD. My peers constantly point it out to each other. (You'd think that after this long, it could just go unsaid, but no.) Where the people I live with are annoyingly bubbly and effusive, I'm stony and reserved. I have all the personality of... well, arsenic. The family is the most influential in Great Hills and the contrast only ups my odd quotient.

When it's written out, it doesn't seem like I'm so strange. But, you'll see. I can't explain everything. Some information you'll have to pick up on yourself, and how truly out of place I am is one of them.

God, I can ramble. I believe that process has supplied enough background for you. I'll write down the actual story now. Or, at least, the narrative of it.

NOTE: This portion of the story may ultimately end up being excluded entirely. I would like feedback to help me make the call.

Who We Have Become Clip One Draft One

Hesta lounged in Her chair, watching the people pass before her. They amused her, with their constant interplay of emotions and desires.

They made her jealous sometimes, too.

But that wasn't important. Really.

She sipped her coffee and eyed a young man as he hurried past, glancing at his watch. Now he was delicious. Shaggy, caramel colored hair, muscles shaping his suit jacket, and fine, worn jeans.... Mmm.

-~-

Cander could have kicked himself. How had he possibly forgotten this meeting? He never forgot things, let alone important conferences that determined the success of his current business ventures.

Where was the office anyways? Argh!

Boo-dum da daah da dum...

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, still hurrying through the mall.

"Alexander Charday speaking. How may I help you?"

"Cander!" A feminine voice squealed. "Sweetie pie! I gotsa question for you."

He just barely restrained himself from groaning aloud.

"Not now, Avalonlea." He finally spotted a discreet sign pointing to the office. He'd only be right on time, but at least he wouldn't be late.

"Are you mad at me?" The phone whined.

"No, I'm not mad, I'm busy. I'll talk to you later. Buh-bye." He clicked the phone shut and strode up to the receptionist.

"M. Charday," she acknowledged coolly. "M. Augustin will see you now."

He smiled at her as he pushed through the door next to her desk.

"Thank you, Claire. You look gorgeous today, by the way."

He heard her giggle as he turned to face his potential business partner.

"Ah, M. Charday," the frenchman greeted him, proffering his hand to shake.

"M. Augustin. Comment allez-vous? (How are you?)" Cander responded, minding his manners.

"Très bien. Et vous? (Very well. And you?)"

"Le méme chose. (The same.)"

Cander settled in a chair opposite the mall owner.

"Let's talk."

"Indeed." Cander produced a file folder from his briefcase, placing it on the desk. "Here is my proposal. You give me three hundred square feet and I will open a magick shop, bringing the wizarding community into your mall, along with traffic from other dimensions, galaxies, and magickal communities, along with your standard pagans. The shop should preferably be located nowhere near the food court, but not in a corner of the mall, either."

"Why's that?" Augustin asked.

"Because we want it to be in such a location that our customers don't have to spend forever hunting us down, but out of the way of the ignorant masses who may be offended."

The older man nodded sagely, stroking his chin.

"How will this possible offense benefit my mall?"

"The new customers my shop will be bringing in are generally wealthy people who don't mind spending the money they make on quality items. The labels you offer will appeal to them, and they will buy a lot. This increase in profits will, in turn, attract a wider variety of upscale brands to your mall."

The man hmmed and flipped open the folder, studying the products that Cander had decided to offer.

"Nothing for satanists?"

"None! Of course not!" The wizard didn't bother to keep the affront out of his tone.

"Hmm...."

"You will, of course," the young man continued, calm restored, "have to consider my offer carefully. I would be delighted were you to accept, as I chose your mall for the venture because of your fine reputation for class along with your proximity to several large non-magickal cities with large magickal populations. However, yours is not the only such establishment in this country."

"He'll take your deal, of course," a new voice answered, cold and feminine.

Cander stood, and turned slowly to face her.

"Three thousand dollars a month for space 6B. It's three spaces down from the Starbucks, and well away from either Hot Topic or Hollister. You have three months to remodel as it pleases you," the woman continued, unabashed by the businessman's scrutiny. "That is at your own expense, of course. Then the store opens. What will you call it?"

"Honest Magick," he replied, unable to take his eyes off her.

"Try Honest Living instead," she commanded. "That better captures the store's relevance to the every-day."

He nodded.

She was gorgeous, with honey for skin, tiger's eye gems for irises, and spun maple for hair. She was tall and leggy, sharp-boned and sharp-tongued. She could easily compose either nightmares or dreams.

"Merci, Hesta," Augustin's voice punctured his reverie, the testy tones sharp to the ear. "Je peux parler pour moi. (I can speak for myself.)"

"De rien. (You're welcome.)" She didn't even glance from the young Charday's gaze.

"Merci, Mlle. Augustin, M. Augustin." Cander finally spoke. "I look forward to our continued business relationship." He picked up his briefcase, shook hands with the father and then the daughter. Her hand was cold but strong in his. "Au revoir."

He left, not entirely sure what had just occurred.

-~-

Hesta watched him go, and she smiled. He was an interesting one. Observing him on a day to day basis would be a treat.

"Tu as fait ça parce que... (You did this because...)" her father supplied, resignation coloring the tone. He had long ago given up any attempt to control the woman, though it still rankled when she interfered with his business affairs.

"J'ai fait ça parce qu'il a un bon idée (I did it because he had a good idea)," she mocked, turning to face him. "And father..." she perched in the chair the visitor had just vacated. "It's okay to speak English in America."

"It's vulgar!" He snapped, tugging his beard for emphasis. "C'est impoli et penible! Mais... si vous désirez, ma fille. (It's rude and tiresome! But... if you desire, my daughter.)"

She drummed her fingers on her knee.

"What made your business instinct kick in, Danielle?" He sighed. "I mean, Hesta."

The golden girl's lips curled, though whether the resulting expression was a smile or a smirk was debatable.

"He has connections, Father. Did you see the briefcase? Corlondi leather, made and sold exclusively in Glorbixon. It's ridiculously expensive and Corlondi will only sell to the upper crust of city society. Our boy, Monsieur...?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"Charday. M. Alexander Charday," the man supplied cautiously.

"Right." That smile-smirk again. "M. Charday has a briefcase made of Corlondi leather, which I should point out is near impossible to counterfeit convincingly. That makes him a member of one of Glorbixon's key families." Hesta settled back in the chair.

"Whoooo...." Augustin whistled. "Merci beaucoup. Tu es très brilliante, ma belle fille. Brilliante."

She tossed her hair, and the smile was finally obvious.

"De rien."

Quality Friends

"I'm not cynical!"

The three of them cast me a Look.

"I'm not!"

"We didn't say you were," Megs soothed. "We said you resembled your characters to a large extent."

"Like it's not the same thing!" I threw my hands up, exasperated.

"It's not." Karen rolled her eyes.

"Like hell, it isn't! My characters are poisonous vampires who lack tact!"

Ziggi chose that moment to make her opinion known.

"Which isn't cynical. It's poisonous and blunt."

"GAH!"

Megs eyes twinkled as she rolled her lips in between her teeth.

"It's not a bad thing. We can always count on you to be honest," Ziggi continued, patting my shoulder. "How many people in this day and age of humanity can say that about their friends?"

I glared.

They smiled back at me.

The X Factor of Attraction

There was something so incredibly sexy about men who could banter with her, but Marin could never quite put her finger on what the exact quality was that charmed her so....

Oh, that was bullshit.

It was that refusal to submit to her own verbal abuse, that streak of dominance that inspired certain men to spar with her.

Usually, it also inspired them to be aggressive in bed. Or on table. Or against tree. Whatever the appropriate or inappropriate place may be.

Marin sighed and drummed her burgundy painted nails on the table.

This guy just kept apologizing to her. Repeatedly. Over and over. And again.

As if he was the one being a bitch.

"So, David, you're whining pretty much full time now, huh?" she asked him when he paused in his ramble. "Since you're obviously not doing anything to convince your boss that you're not the lazy over-accommodator she thinks you are?"

The blond sitting across from her blushed, clashing horribly with the green upholstery of the booth.

"I'msorry," he mumbled. "Idintmeantocomplainsomuch. 'Sadrag. I'msorry."

Marin leaned forward across the table, seizing the opportunity to see where the waitress was with her check.

"What was that?" she asked, cupping one hand around an ear. If one was an astute observer, one would notice that her nails and her hair were exactly the same color. "I can't hear you over your tongue."

"Sorry," he said again, eyes down on the cheap formica.

Marin's eyes fluttered closed. She would not strangle the unconfident incompetent fool, she would NOT strangle her friend's favorite employee, not even a little TINY bit.

Even if doing so might actually force him to speak up and enunciate for at least one word of his life.

Nadea SO needed to send him to learn some speech skills. It would probably help him at work, too.

Why had she let her best friend set her up with this joker?

Marin desperately searched the room for their waitress.

Oh, thank the Summerland and all the lazy souls who resided in it.

"Here you go," the young woman chirped as she slid each of them a little leather book with their respective credit cards and a pen.

One pen.

"I'm afraid you'll have to share the writing utensil, but then you can get out of here." She smiled sympathetically at Marin before resuming her impartial facade. "Y'all heading anywhere in particular?"

"I was thinkin'-" he began.

"Nowhere!" Marin interrupted, voice high and too fast. "I'm going to my house and he's going to his."

Bless the poor child, he looked shocked and confused.

Oh, well.

Marin snatched the pen before he could, scribbling out a signature and a far too generous tip.

"Thank you, Karen," she said to the waitress. "I had a nice time tonight."

"Oh, me too, sweetheart," the young woman replied, hugging Marin as she stood to leave. "Drive safe and straight home."

"Yes ma'am!" Marin saluted as she backed out the door.

Hell, there was something sexy about anyone who could banter with her.

Road Trip Story (as Yet Untitled) Clip Chapter Two Draft One

Kali was playing TapTap when I slid back into the car, grooving in her seat as her thumbs danced across the touch screen. The girl had many vices, and TapTap was by far the least destructive of them.

Hands shaking, I started the car, my own iPod blaring to life.

Kali glanced up, the song ended, and frowned, slender fingers pulling her earbuds out.

"Where's the food? I am hungry, and I thought you said you were grabbing." Her mouth tugged to one side. "I NEED food." Her gaze fell to my hands where they were trembling a tattoo on the steering wheel. "You obviously need it, too."

I reversed out of the spot, then tore way too fast around the parking lot.

"Hey!" She protested, her nail polish stark against the beige OS handle.

"We'll get food, Kali," I reassured her. "Somewhere without a church busload of Jesus nuts." I glared at the offending vehicle as we passed it.

"Oh..." my friend grimaced in understanding. "They gotcha again, huh?"

"Cornered me in the bathroom like a little black sheep with fangs," I agreed, fighting a shudder as I looked for a more agreeable fast food place.

"In the bathroom? While you were taking a piss?!"

"No, thank God," I said, rather ironically. "I was washing my hands."

Kali stifled a laugh, and I glared at her as I pulled into a McDonald's, sliding into the drive through queue .

"I'm sorry," she giggled. "but it's just funny how the crazies seem to find you. It's like they know you're not Christian and too nice to tell them to fuck themselves."

She grinned evilly as she flicked a strand of fire-truck red hair over her shoulder.

"And don't tell me that you didn't want to tell them where they could stuff it."

The grin widened, showing that she had recently glued blue rhinestones to her canine teeth.

"Or better yet-"

"No!" I slapped my hand over her mouth. "If you disrespect their religion, you're as bad as they are! Ow!"

I jerked my hand away to look at the teeth marks. She hadn't broken the skin this time.

"You think way too much, Davide," she informed me. "As a result, you can be way to goddamn nice when people get in your way. Knowing why they are there does not remove them as obstacles."

I sighed, knowing she was both right and wrong, but unwilling to argue the point. Besides, now we were drawing even with the speaker and I WAS hungry.

"Hello welcome to McDonald's how may I help you?" A flat female voice ran out.

"Good afternoon!" I exclaimed, smiling widely, knowing that it would carry through my voice. "May I please order a six piece chicken nugget, a small fry, and a large sized caramel mocha frappucino?

"What sauce with the nuggets?" She asked, slightly more inflated this time.

"No sauce, please," I replied. "But it would be excellent if I could get lots of extra ketchup thrown in the bag. Say, six or seven packets?"

"Sure, we can do that," I heard the smile in her voice. Success! "Will that be all?"

There was suddenly a hard body across my lap and I had to spit out a strand of green hair.

"No, woman!" Kali called into the microphone. "Get me a large fry, a double cheeseburger, and a large triple-thick chocolate, and throw in even more ketchup to add to what excesso-woman asked for. That's it!"

"That will be $10.23." Her voice was now cold and angry and I had to resist the urge to slap Kali as she settled back in her seat.

"Thank you very much, ma'am," I chirped before driving forward.

Catching my discontent, Kali shrugged.

"What?"

I merely sighed and shook my head.

Road Trip Story (As Yet Untitled) Clip Chapter One Draft One

They told me the world was ending.

I didn't believe them, obviously, but then I never believe what crazies tell me. Something about the zeal in their eyes while they're blithering on.

I edged slowly towards the door, trying not to take my eyes off any of them. I didn't want to know what they'd do at my back.

"Uh-huh. Yeah... That's called entropy," I explained. "Bit of a proven fact, since there's no such thing as perpetual motion."

Their eyes seized upon me, opening wide as though to control me with their gazes.

"It is God," one declared, brandishing her gospel tract for emphasis.

"If you are among the saved, you will survive!" another chimed in, oblivious to the woman who was trying to get around her to use the sink.

My shoulder hit the hand dryer and I winced, but kept moving, inch by inch. That was going to bruise.

The third one held the cross around her neck with a trembling hand.

"Repent, sinner," she whispered. "You are dirty!" Her voice rose steadily, until she murmured hoarsely. "I can smell the damnation on you!"

My hand found the door knob, and I sighed in relief.

"No, sweetie, that's just the incense," and I let the door to the women's restroom swing shut behind me as I made my way back into the dining area of the fast food joint.

I hated evangelists.

TO ANDREW

“Oh, Andrew, Andrew – Thine eyes art too blue-“

“Your poetry’s lousy,” I said, without glancing up from the book I was reading. “Not everything has to rhyme, you know. And I thought his eyes were brown?”

A long silence answered, and I sighed. Leave it to Cara to sulk in response to constructive criticism.

I looked up to find her worrying her lip as she gazed into the fire, the scrap of paper with her latest ode to pre-teen crushes crumpled in her hand.

“Do you really think so?” she asked, chin trembling.

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean that you aren’t a good writer – you just try too hard sometimes, and it sounds stilted.”

She blinked.

“No, I mean, do you really think his eyes are brown?”

Well, she certainly knew her priorities.

I lowered my eyes back to my reading, the firelight dancing solemnly over the words. 
“I don’t know. He’s your soul-mate thingy,” I muttered.

“One can never know everything about one’s beloved!” She declared grandly as she flung herself on the couch, bouncing the tome to the carpet with a distinct crumpling of delicate pages. “That’s the charm of true and long-lasting love!”

I glared at the girl, her cheeks rosy with youthful exuberance, her grin wide with naïveté, and I felt a twinge of some strong emotion.

Annoyance.

“Cara…” I growled. “Are you aware that this boy doesn’t even know you exist?”

“Well, they didn’t know Nobody Special existed either, until they tried the magic mushrooms, now, did they?” She retorted, her jaw gone obstinate.

“That’s just a story!” I protested. “A philosophical musing that has no application whatsoever to real life, apart from reassuring mousy women that they are charming in their own ways! Besides,” I sniffed, plucking the text off the floor, “the mushrooms serve only to cast doubt on the reality of the situation – it is never explicitly said that seeing Nobody Special can be contributed to their effects. What, will you feed your Andrew hallucinogenic fungi until he notices you, and follows you as the dagger on the way to murder his sleep?”

“I can do that?” She asked, eyes lighting up. “Cool!”

She bounded up heading towards the kitchen before I grabbed her wrist, nearly falling off the couch.

The volume landed on the floor again.

“No!”

Cara pouted.

“But you said-“

“It in a sarcastic tone,” I finished. “By no means do I approve of you drugging some boy you like so that he has delusions that prevent him from sleeping at night.”

The determined indignance in her eyes did not lessen.

“Besides, they would probably be hallucinations of Pamela Anderson rather than of you.”

“Oh…” She looked down at her own undeveloped chest. “I guess that’s not such a great idea, then.”

I sighed in relief, releasing her to pick up my book, settling back into the comfort of the couch and the fire before flipping to the right page.

“I'll just write a really good poem, then. And I’ll give it to him and he’ll love me forever!” She burbled, spirits revived.

“Every fool in love will learn to dance…” I murmured, coming to the author biography and nearly swooning at the sight of my idol’s picture. “And every one in love is a fool.”

TO ANDREW FROM CARA

I am true-

I am no illusion,

Conceived in fantasy and raised in fiction,

Gone by morning’s light,

The intangible dagger that cuts away at your slumber.

I am real,

Perfect in my flaws,

Sewn of softer stuff than even dreams are made of.

Be solitary no more, my love,

For I will pad your sleep with satisfaction,

And still be solid and smiling for you in the morning.

Will you please proofread this for me?

-Cara ©

I set the poem back down on my desk beside my morning coffee and granted that some fools learned to dance well.

Musings on Forever

Forever is a really awfully damn long time. Or, so I've been told. There's actually no way to be sure, because once forever is a tangible possibility, I can't imagine that time would continue to matter. After all, I never know the days of the week when I have nowhere to be. They all blur into one long, stretched out, abstract painting.

I guess forever would still be long then.

Just hazy.

That would have to be amazingly frustrating. The lack of detail, of purpose, of little intimate webs to get caught up in... Forever would be so blurred, it couldn't be anything but boring. A study in apathy.

Perhaps if one could make every day count, pack it full of purpose and activity, then forever would be a manageable prospect. But then, one would be bound by time. One would have to know where to be and when and why and bother.

That's damn stressful.

And isn't the point of forever not to be tethered to time, to not be forced to rush to get everything in?

Forever is a really awfully damn long time.

And I shall never see it.

The Point

She was too comfortable in his arms, that was all she knew. The play had already started, but that was not the point. His fingers drew shapes on her neck, and she exposed her throat. That was not the point either. She wasn't sure what was. She mused on it as she lay across him and experienced a flash of annoyance when he dared to interrupt by trying to kiss her. One finger pushed him away, silence still in her brain. That was not the point at all. But, what... She glanced towards the sky and found it dark and upholstered. That wasn't right, somehow.... His lips were soft on her ear, but his teeth were sharp, and his breath, coming fast, was warm. Perhaps... She trailed her thumb up his thigh, stopping just short of scandal. His moan was deep, sensual, and brought satisfaction to her smile. The play had already started, but that was not the point. Not the having started already bit, at least.

Realism

The world is not worthy of respect. But perhaps because that is the case, you should respect the world all the more. After all, we're part of it. (Are we not?)

There are no exceptions from the rule of being flawed. So let us instead admire virtues, and be reassured that we have some of our own. (Do we not?)

Instinct

It is far too late for me to still be awake, but I'm wired. My head aches with sleep loss, but my body hums with dance, the restless energy of the artistic. I was born sexy, I know, a destiny I slowly learned to fulfill. A conscience? Not so sure on that one, sweetie.

And when did I start using 'sweetie' anyways? Darling and doll were so much sassier. But my brain is far from full capacity right now. My body fights for control and comes close to winning. Surprising, considering how cerebral I've always been.

Have I always used him this way? Warm body, warm thoughts, safe feelings, and sexual arousal? I look back and see that was always my intention. At least initially. It was his arm around my neck that finally convinced me. And he hasn't done it since. It's only fair to him to end it. And I've known it all along. Always.

Why is it that the most lucid thoughts occur during the greatest insanities, so that they might be discounted as part of the crazy? Perhaps it's because during insanity, we're not hampered by trying to convince ourselves with logic. We revert to instinct, to what we've always known best - who we are.

Introductions (Draft 6)

Okay, ya'll. This is it. The thing I've been working on for months. This is not a final. Let me know if you have any feedback. PLEASE have feedback!!!

"Gurl, I've gots someone you hafta meet!"

I slowed my hip circle when I heard her, the smile melting slowly off my face. I'd know that slangy, officious voice anywhere, even in this din. Perhaps if I ignored the woman, kept on dancing, she'd go away, and I'd be spared her meddling for the night.

Uh-huh. Maybe once the world ended.

Rather than obliging me, my roommate grabbed my shoulder, her touch stiffening my spine with cold, and spun me around to face her looming visage.

"Serzisly, Carmen! Yuh've gotsta meet this dude! He's perfect sex made incahrnit, and he's curious about YOU!" She grinned wickedly. "He just about swooned on backwards when I told him I could gitz him a face-to-face!"

I didn't bother to suppress a groan. She wouldn't hear it over the music, anyways.

"ANOTHER fiddler on the roof, Anna?" I shook my head, irritated that she'd interrupted my dancing for this, though aware that she wouldn't be able to see the motion down in the shadows of the crowd. "I'm so not interested in meeting another one of your so-called 'sex-made-incarnates'."

She tugged impatiently at my arm, already scoping a path.

"This one's different. He's PUHFECT sex made incarnate. Now, come on!"

It would be easier to just do as she wished, though we must have made a comical sight, me taking three steps to every one of hers. We two have always been utterly mismatched.

"Heah my shahty is!" Anna stopped suddenly, and my nose met her second rib with a silent but painful protest. "Carmen Betty, pohtent, provackative, and purrrfect."

I grimaced, massaging my nose. Owww.... I still didn't know who I was being introduced to, but I was fairly sure it didn't really matter. After all, Anna was always pushing me at someone or something.

"It's nice to meet you," a pleasantly masculine voice rumbled as a hand glided into my field of vision.

I froze, my hand still attempting to comfort abused cartilage.

It was quite a nice hand, actually, with a callused palm and a hitchhiker's thumb, the type of hand that makes a girl's body itchingly curious. It was attached to a bare arm with just the hint of the curves that muscles make. My eyes seemed helpless but to follow those curves up to the shadowed line of a t-shirt sleeve, then to his face.

Woah. That level of public sexiness had to be illegal in at least three states.

"I'm Vieil et Nouveau," he said, smiling at me, wreaking havoc with my internal organs, and then proffering his hand again.

My mouth was doubtless hanging open as my hand drifted down into his grasp. It took every strenuous effort to pull myself from the fantasies he was inciting and to bully my lips into forming recognizable words.

"Um,uh... Do... Do you go to the University?" I managed, aware that I sounded high pitched, breathy, little better than a seventh grader with a crush.

Vieil smiled at me again, cocking his head to the side. My mouth went dry and I licked my lips.

"Yes, actually," he replied, voice smooth and deep - charming. "I'm a junior, a biology major." He winked. "I'm also a regular at this club, where I often admire your dancing. You're quite good, you know."

A happy heat rushed to my cheeks, a welcome change from where it had been heading. Vieil had noticed my dancing? Vieil had thought I was good at dancing?

Oh, Goddess. All heat drained away. He'd noticed my dancing. I didn't think anyone noticed my dancing. I loved to dance - it made me feel sexy, wild, free - but I knew I danced like a stripper. If Vieil wanted to meet me based off that, then he probably just wanted in my pants. Oh, I didn't think anyone noticed-

"Hey, don't panic." His hand slid up my arm to my shoulder, so pleasantly warm, the only thing I could really feel right then, his palm spanning over my right collarbone. "I'm not stalking you, or anything like that."

But he had seen my dancing, he had admired my dancing, he had noticed. It was only a matter of time before he told people about me, and then word would spread, and soon everyone would know. They'd whisper about me then, loud and laughing, and I'd be back in high school, my name scribbled in bathroom stalls. "Carmen Betty is a whore", even though I'd never done anything but love to dance, too afraid they were right.

And the next time my parents came to visit, maybe someone would say something to them, or they'd see, and then they would know that I was still the same; I hadn't changed. They'd be ashamed of me again, look at me sadly and condemn me for what I was. Oh, I had told them I had changed!

"Carmen?" Concern now, in Vieil's voice, concern for the girl with too many curves and too risque moves. And she didn't deserve anything of his, not his time, not his attention, certainly not his concern, the filthy ho, not even a little itty teeny tiny bit, because she'd been imagining what that hand her shoulder might be able to do in other places. "Are you okay?"

But I wasn't okay, I've NEVER been okay, not since the day I started dancing and found out what I really was.

"It's nice to meet you," I ran out, twisting to get away from him, from the temptation, "but I have to go."

"But Carmen," Anna protested, "you hasta MEET-"

But I was already moving, running, going somewhere, anywhere, away from the situation, falling in time with the music without thinking, Hedley's "Street Fight".

"Buy me a notion, take me anywhere but here..."

The bathroom. As I dashed through the door, the bartender came out.

"Careful," she cautioned. "The mirror's broken."

It didn't matter. I locked the door behind me and curled over the sink, my tears making the little shards heaped there glisten and seem to cry themselves. Oh, I had to be damned, always a slut and always loving it until I realized it, no matter how I struggled to be respectable, to be someone my parents could approve of. I cried harder as the weight of judgement crushed my stomach and the taste of bile flooded through my mouth. It tasted so horrible, so bitter, so natural. Like I'd always had that taste there, like I'd always been dancing, like I'd always been lost.

I cried myself out.

When I was done, able to see again, I stared down into the sink. It was clogged with glass, trying to slip down into the drain and not quite succeeding, my tears mixing in. Floating bits of mirror winked at me, all showing broken reflections of my face, cut off at the jagged edges.

"Carmen!" Anna's voice. "There's still someone you've agotta meet!"

I took and deep breath and let that push me up straight. There was a hole above the sink, slate gray metal, rusting over, empty where the mirror obviously used to be. It was a dull, depressing sight, but it seemed to whisper to me, telling me something forbidden.

"Carmen?" Anna again. "Come on out!"

I didn't know how she was going to say it to me, but I knew the message, always a contradiction and always the same - always wrong.

And I knew it.

And I wasn't the only one who knew it either. The broken images in the sink, trickling away with my tears, knew it was wrong, the rusting empty frame knew it was wrong, the sink itself groaning in its pipes, knew it was wrong, the buzzing fluorescent light illuminating it all knew it was wrong.

There was no one else I needed to meet, because I now stood, exhausted and exalted, face-to-face with myself.

4:15 Fantasy

I am a fantasy.

I have known this for a long time now - sometimes with certainty, and other times... Well, I am not always so secure in my knowledge.

But now is a time of bold certainty, as I lay on my bed, scribing this to you with fingers cramped from reading. Odd, that this should be a good time, a knowledgeable time. I am sweaty, muscles sore, bruises slowly coming into bloom, face scrubbed, hair wild. It is much too late for me to be alive like this, much too early for awareness to have even sparked into my eyes.

Nevertheless, I am restless, the soft music that I barely noticed previously now plucking at my abused limbs. I ache to have motion - kisses, fights, or dances. My body cares not which, as long as the fantasy is expressed, as long as the music works through my veins and I move in ageless ways.

The urge is made worse by the fact that even if I do give up, let the fantasy out and the music in, I will do so alone. Had I the choice I would not be, but I have that not. Sometimes there are constraints beyond human will upon our potential - constraints like human consequences. But I suppose that traces back to human will power the same.

Either way, I would still move alone, fantasy, music, will and all.

It is too warm and too cold simultaneously. I curl beneath the blankets, aware that all too shortly, I will kick them aside. Dreaming, wet-waking-restless, of possibilities and promises, keys and fetters, and the fantasy it all comes back to. That fantasy, all alone and singing softly, who, for all her will, is not a fairy - is not free.

But then, I suppose she is all she ever thinks to be.

I find it interesting that the words I write grow quickly more abstract, even as they become more vague and ever increasingly personal. I am straight with others but circular with myself. Circular with that lonely third-person fantasy, caught up in chains and music and her own will or lack thereof to do anything about any of the above.

But which is it?

Well, I don't know. All I can say is that I am a fantasy, somedays certain, somedays not, my fingers cramped with writing, but not nearly so restless as I was before.

Smiles

I am truly beginning to revel in smiles. The little ones, the huge grins... They all mean the same thing. Happiness. And I can make people smile.

It's truly wonderful. In the process of being happy, I spread that miraculous contagion to others. In the process of making others happy, I can't help but to grin myself.

I would highly advise that you try to get someone to smile today. Flirt with them, compliment them, joke with them, dance with them, ask them how their day is going. Do something to brighten their faces, to lighten their load, if just for a moment.

It's worth it - both altruistically and egocentrically.

Refusal

You know what? I pulled out this notebook to rant. I'm not gonna do it. I refuse to be unhappy. I've got a good life, great friends, and an awesome smile.

Why should I be unhappy, or let the little things keep me down?

How Could You?

I thought I loved you. And because of that, I trusted you. I trusted that you loved me, that you'd never hurt me, that you'd pay attention when I said no - when I just wanted to sleep on the couch.

Yeah, I was dressed sexy - I like to look sexy, it feels nice. Especially since I've been so sick - something that doesn't usually lend itself to sexy. And I was still sick - and you knew that! You were holding back my hair while I leaned over a toilet, for God's sake! No, you came over with one thing in mind.

I just wanted to lay on the couch with you and watch the movie. I wouldn't even kiss you at first. I'd told you from the first that if your hand ventured beneath my skirt, I was gonna slap it. That was one of the first things you did, as if I'd dared rather than forbidden.

You took the tie of my halter top between your teeth, and I told you 'no', and you pulled anyways. I retied it quickly.

You kept working at me, though. You pinned me down and undid my bra, pulled down my top and bit my breast. Yes, I was kissing you - I knew what you wanted. Maybe if I gave a little, you'd be satisfied.

Then I put my bra back on. All I wanted was still to lay there with you.

You reached toward my lap, I told you 'no.' You pinned me down again, undid my bra the same way. Then you scooted down. ("So resistant to pleasure.")

I froze. When you tried to take my underwear off, I closed my legs, said 'no' again, but you didn't stop even then.

You got your way, though. You went down on me and I orgasmed. After, you handed me my underwear and bra, and I got myself decent again.

But I felt so violated. I was like a toy to you - something you wanted to play with, and thus did so, regardless of my wishes.

I left a part out. Before you got my underwear off, you asked for a condom. I said 'no.' But what if you'd had a condom? What would you have done?

I left another part out. You kept asking if we could move to somewhere more private. You kept asking, and asking, and I kept saying 'no'. You asked why. I told you I just wanted to watch the movie.

And afterwards, when I curled up tight and gazed emptily around, then you noticed. ("That wasn't what you wanted, was it?")

You apologized, and apologized, and I let you hold me 'cause I needed any sort of comfort that I could get.

And now that you've left, this whole thing is all about you. You love me so much, you would never hurt me... You feel so bad I'm ignoring you, please don't ignore you, just listen to what you have to say... You're not gonna just give up. I do feel differently about you, don't I? Oh, no....

Guess what? Right now, I don't care about you. I have just been violated by someone I thought I loved and I am now very confused. I don't know what to do. I don't know who to turn to. I asked you to leave me alone, and you didn't, and you didn't listen, and you didn't notice.

How could you think I wanted that? How could you? How could you?!

I trusted you with my body, and you abused that trust. And what if you had had that condom? What if?

And you've made me feel this way before - I just never wanted to admit it. You always try to do things when I'm not in the mood. You always try to do more than what I want.

I shouldn't have trusted you. I can't trust you.

How could you?

My PostSecret

I am sick of guys who see my strength and only want it for themselves. I long for a guy who will see my strength and recognize that I need it for myself, and who will have enough strength of his own to respect that.

(Because I will always give as much as is asked of me.)

Marks

People don't realize all the marks they leave on other people's lives. It can be as innocent as a crush in the first grade - a small smile and a faint blushing memory. Or it can be something as ominous as an absent misery - a friend that you couldn't win or a bully that was playing a game that you had no chance of winning - no clue of even the rules.

In both cases, the person doesn't even know.

Isn't that remarkable?

An Accident of Wyrd

She was still beautiful, no matter the years that had passed. Her slightly rounded stomach had compacted into a hard stretch of abdomen that she almost absently bared to the world, and her hair was now a gleaming auburn, the red highlights that I remembered having stared at in class now dominant over plain brown strands. But those were the only obvious differences. Apart from that, all I could discern was a sort of glitter to her that hadn’t been there before.

Perhaps I stand corrected. She wasn’t beautiful anymore. She was gorgeous, my own personal fantasy, both then and now, sashaying past me in a restaurant, led by the salivating host to the booth in front of mine.

“Thank you, sir,” she drawled flirtatiously as she slid into the seat opposite me, nothing but two tables and two low slung benches between us. Her voice was more like singing than speaking, tinged with the magnolia trees that stood in her yard back when I knew her. It went straight to my groin.

The poor host flushed, as affected as I was, and stammered out that her waiter would be with her shortly - and then walked away kicking himself for missing such an opportunity.

I was staring at her, I knew. I couldn’t seem to help it. I watched as she gave a precursory glance to the menu and then pulled a book out of her purse. I smiled at that. Guys might stare at her now, but still she read. I squinted at the title: Social Intelligence, by Daniel Goleman. Interesting; the last time I’d seen her, her thing had been espionage. But that was so long ago….

“James!” A shrill female voice slapped me across the face. “James Sheridan! Are you listening to me?”

I saw her glance up, startled, before I dragged my attention back to my date, a girl who had seemed enormously attractive only minutes before.

Katherine glared back at me, her lower lip pushed out in a pout.

“Would you stop staring at that barely dressed whore?” she demanded, not losing any volume despite her subject’s proximity. “She WANTS you to stare at her trailer trash self!” She snorted. “Probably has, like, SO many STD’s!”

My mouth dropped open to defend that magical girl whom I’d known so long ago. How dare this poor excuse for a woman deride her!

“Pardon me.” A caress of a voice sounded, and we both turned to see her standing at the end of our table, her strained smile directed more at Katherine than at me. “Since you’ve caught me out as a whore, I feel I might as well proposition your date directly.” She nodded poison-sweetly before turning to me.

“How ‘bout it, darling? Want to go somewhere for dessert?”

I bit back shock. She was outrageous, utterly inappropriate…. My sense of propriety shuddered while my libido cheered.

It was rather wonderful.

But I’d only just managed to build up my social standing to the point where I was generally accepted. And Katherine was one of the popular set. If I ditched her to talk to this vision from my past, I’d be screwed over socially; All those years of hard work would be lost.

Then she winked at me, and I thought of all the fun we’d had when we were younger. I thought of her in a modest one-piece bathing suit by my pool, of her reading the eulogy when my first guinea pig died, of her making carbless brownies since she knew I was on the Atkins Diet, of her chilling on my bed as I played the Sims, of her perched in a magnolia tree, her underwear showing beneath her skirt.

And then I looked up and saw her as she was now, her legs long beneath tight denim jeans, sophisticated in high heels and a hand-sewn crop top, her hair that classy auburn, and a funky pair of earrings dangling from her lobes.

“No…” I said almost as if outside myself. “I’m sorry.”

Her lips parted in surprise, but I had to continue on; the words wanted saying.

“I’m sorry for not saying yes the first time you asked. I’m sorry for running away - from you, from me. I’m sorry for not returning your calls. I’m sorry for not telling the truth.” I paused, surprised by my honesty, and the final phrase in my head. “I’m sorry for growing old before you.”

I looked back up and she was staring at me, brows knit together, head tilted to the side. And then, slowly, she nodded.

“I never forgot you, you know?” she said, all bold joking and innuendos gone. “I’ve been looking for you, really, every time I come to this town.”

I inclined my head in return.

“I never forgot either,” I admitted softly.

“The past is over though, huh?” she said, smiling wryly, sadly. “You never wonder what if?”

“All the time.”

She looked perplexed at that.

“Then why…?”

I shrugged. I didn’t really have an answer, not logically.

“Neither one of us is the same person we were back then. That 'what if' can’t be answered.”

She nodded again, now understanding, turning back to her booth and grabbing her purse.

“Goodbye, James,” she murmured, leaning down and kissing me, moving away before I was quite sure what had happened.

I watched her backside as she left, gliding out the restaurant doors, easy and confident, not looking back.

“What the hell?!” Katherine’s confused and angry inquiry broke me from the reverie. “Who was that?!”

I smiled at her, drinking in the sight of the most popular girl in school sitting across from me.

“Oh, just someone I used to know. No one important.”

She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Well, that was super weird.” Her brows knit. “How’d you get associated with HER?”

“Accident of wyrd,” I picked up my silverware as our waiter set our food down, winking jovially. “You’re on purpose.”

A Brush With Forever

This feels like a brush with forever, as I gaze at the rose you handed me when you first walked in the side door. It smells amazing, like your hoodie, the one I'm wearing and the one my parents are rolling their eyes at, just relieved it's not Clemson. (Where is Dooblin, anyways?)

I can feel our hearts beating together, and it is breathtaking, earth-shattering, a revelation. We really could, we really might be... How dangerous a thought to have, how unfortunate a fantasy to fantasize. (You, me, a cat, and a family, but neither one of us works at the button factory.)

But I have the thought, I fantasize the fantasy, and it is sweetly tantalizing.

This feels like a brush with forever.

(I'm in love with you.)

Complaints for No Reason

When was the last time I took to the sky, just for the sheer possibility-thrill of it? You know, I can't quite recall what that was, let alone when. (These days I'm all work and no play, because play gets punished.)

There's always something I've got to do. Work on my pirouettes, start that new diet, do my homework, practice my clarinet, burn that CD, create that mix, cook dinner, read a book, answer questions, spend time with my boyfriend, more time with my friends. Oh, yes... And be happy while doing it. (I think I can manage all but that last one.)

But, all that said, I'm pretty cheerful. I'm busy, my grades are good, I have lots of energy in between falling asleep standing up, I'm surrounded by people I love and care about, and I always have something to do.

I don't know why I was complaining.

I Refuse to Say "Horrible"

I am so frustrated. I don't even have the words for it. It's either write or cry, since between myself and the sub, I've been screwed over. And there's still an interminable stretch from now to freedom. (I seem to have a small fixation on clocks.)

I probably should have stayed in bed this morning. I debated it for a good nine minutes, I'll admit. I felt all skewed, off balance, nauseated. But I got up, got dressed, popped my pill, and came here. (I have the dumbest ideas sometimes.)

Now I'm hungry, revolted by the egg-cheese mutant thing that the cafeteria attempted to pass off as food and lost in negativity. (Yes, this entry is an indulgence.) I tried meditating to calm myself down, but that damn sub had to decide I was sleeping. I could do the homework I passed over last night, but I don't have the accursed accepted values, so I'm stranded there.

Oh, bollucks. I left my algebra book at Academic Team practice. I can't get edible food AND the book.

I picture banging my head against my desk.

It's going to be a long, long, day. I refuse to say horrible.

(Just yet.)

The Turnaround

Words may sting or words may soothe, sticks might bruise or gladly be used, and stones can help or harm you.

(There are two edges to every sword.)

Seduction/Challenge/Fill in the Blank

The young man hesitated, his fingers long around the doorknob.

"There's one thing you should know before you go in to see her," he cautioned, his words slow as he considered the wisdom of this warning. "I like you. You seem..." he searched for a moment. "Completely arrogant, yes, but... maybe you've got something."

I inclined my head in acknowledgement of the compliment, not sure what he was going to tell me, but impatient to get to the task set before me.

He nibbled at his lip, staining it white for a few brief moments before it faded back to a bloody pink.

"She'll do everything she can to shake you," he finally rushed out, his eyes flicking nervously down the hall. "And she's good. She's got toys, outfits, dance routines... but most importantly, she has herself. That's what's gotten all the others killed."

The man sagged then, the words, the warning that he'd been longing to give finally drawn out from the shallows of his conscience.

"Thanks...." I murmured. What he was involved in was madness; I did not blame him for needing to assuage his sense of guilt.

My gaze roamed over him again, and I paused. He wasn't bad looking; a tall, muscular build, emphasized by the de rigeur tuxedo, with curling blond hair and classic features. He held himself strong, and I wondered....

"Why not go for her yourself?"

He shuddered, fingers unconsciously tightening on the doorknob.

"God, no! She's beautiful, but I'm not dumb enough to think I could win at the obscene games she plays. The death she promises for losing..." His eyes clenched closed. "I've seen their bodies," he whispered.

I nodded. He would have seen horrible things in her service, undoubtedly, and that was enough to cheat anyone out of their courage.

Fortunately, I was not in his situation.

"You've done well," I told him, envisioning my victory, "but my body won't be the next you'll see."

I smiled at the door.

"Let's get on with it."

He admitted me to her chambers.

Change in Modus Operandi

Random clips from stories will now be posted alongside the usual poetic ramblings. Be inspired and enjoy.

(NOTE: Everything is copyrighted. Just to remind you.)

Forgotten Biology Homework

That SO figures.

*disgruntled face*

*glareage*

Let's throw daggers, toss down some pills, have a shotgun something, and be done with the whole damned affair.

(It does us no good to continually punish ourselves for things we can't change.)

To Stephen

Fucking catstring theory! That's exactly it.

And, yeah, I lied. I'm angry about what you're doing. Even if I understand why. I'm just so sick of hurting like this, and it's all your fault.

You poor, poor bastard.

Love is much too close to hate.

(Even if I know I'm only afraid and that I don't hate you.)