Please Understand

Please understand that there's more to this than either of us will ever be able to comprehend. I'm slightly (understatement) confused and there's not a lot I wouldn't wager on you feelin' the same.

It's tough to be alone.

I guess I kinda knew that, but I never really got it until you were no longer there. And having you "back" is so intoxicating.... It's so easy to use the old patterns of behavior, and to ignore all the reasons it was good for us to be alone in the first place, to hear a small traitorous voice whisper that those reasons don't hold true anymore.

But they have to be true! Being alone is hard and (egads) lonely, but if our reasons for being alone aren't true anymore, we'd have to try. And that's fucking scary (in more ways than one). Your arms feel like safety to me, but that will only last so long as I'm in them. I leave in the morning, and you leave after that.

Being alone is hard, but being with you, far away, is not easy.

So, is it just for old times' sake that you're in my bed? It must be, else why would I talk about others there've been since then and pretend I don't see you wince? It must be, because that is at least something I can comprehend.

So, please understand: "I love you" doesn't mean there aren't still reasons I can't.

Aftermath

Today, I realized how much you had become a part of who I am. I thought about you, and I couldn't stop. I traced 'uruz' on my wrist for the first time in over a month because it suddenly started hurting again, just like I suddenly thought of you again.

I never wrote about what happened. I never put it into words. I just stopped writing about you at all, just like I stopped texting you, stopped being your friend on Facebook, and stopped seeing you. What would I have written? You screwed up. I screwed up. And maybe I'm screwing up all over again.

I think I was a little bit in love with you. Or maybe the fact that it hurts even now just fools me into thinking so. But we were years in the making, only to shatter within seconds. Unfulfilled. And it wasn't just the mythical "Us" that broke. I think it broke me a little bit, too, just like I think I was a little bit in love with you. After all, there's now this little fragment of me that was completely composed by you.

I can't seem to bring myself to hate that.

No, I never wrote about what happened. This is the closest I've come.

You're the second male to ever hurt me that way. The first listened to me later that night, seven weeks ago, as I spoke with quiet fear, and he sobbed out that he was wrong, that you were wrong, that it was never my fault. He was sorry, even if you aren't.

Between the two of you, I will never be the same in so many ways.

It's kind of terrible, really. That a woman as beautiful, confident, strong, seductive, responsible, intelligent, and no-nonsense as I am has only ever fallen in love with the two men who hurt her the worst. God. I am a melodramatic, prattling, fool.

I ignored it, both times, both men. I addressed the issue accordingly, and then went off with my life as though nothing had ever happened. I pretended that I still enjoyed being kissed with passion rather than sweetness and that I didn't want to jerk away anytime a male touched my wrists. I deluded myself that I'd always loved films and that I'd find a salsa partner who doesn't make me think of the way you whirled me about your living room. I imagined that the reason that tall, dark males now warrant second conversations is because tall, dark males are my type, even though my type actually has blond curls.

But something did happen, both times, both men. I feel nervous whenever guys kiss me more than softly and I am immediately turned off and even frightened when they chance to wrap their hands around my wrist. I held movies in contempt before you and I started discussing them like literature and I've only been salsa dancing once since that night. The only reason tall, dark males catch my attention these days is because, from the corner of one eye, I almost mistake them for you.

I don't really need to write about what happened. No, not really.

The aftermath - the way my fingers trembled a tattoo on the steering wheel on the way home, the way I winced through my essays the next day, the way that I am only now beginning to come to terms with it seven weeks later - is enough to write about. The aftermath says everything about what happened, without going into sordid details of betrayal and blame. What happened was never about the event.

Lost:

- My contempt for films

- My ability to see films without wondering what you thought of it

- A good salsa partner

- A pain-free right wrist

- A flair for rough play

- Countless good times with you

- Several good times with someone else

- At least a lifetime's worth of passionate kisses

- One friend on Facebook

- One Netflix customer

- One ounce of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence

- Three tons of faith in the goodness of humanity

Gained:

- An appreciation of films

- A new writing style

- An analytical mindset

- A new "type" of male

- The discovery that I am good at cha-cha

- Time that used to be spent trying to figure you out

- A penchant for cuddling

- A fresh start

- Countless good times with other people

- Countless opportunities to make new friends

- At least a lifetime's worth of sweet kisses

- One Netflix customer

- One ton of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence in the short-term

- Another two tons of confidence in the long-term

- Two pounds of faith in myself

- Three ounces of cynicism

- Recognition that what happened changed me

- The knowledge that what happened changed me for the better

Southern Darling Reality

If you are within five feet of my person and/or are talking to me, you are in my reality. No exceptions, ifs, buts, althoughs, howevers, perhapses or other prevarications. Those are the parameters of my reality and all rules apply. If you don't like the rules or choose not to abide by them, that is perfectly acceptable. You are free to leave my reality at any time and I am free to leave you at any time and take my reality with me. My rules are what make my reality a great place to be and, as I very much enjoy being in a great place, rules are always enforced.

To engage in my reality is to engage in upward motion. There are two key words in that sentence: "upward" and "motion."

"Upward" refers to all things positive. People are to be built up and made to feel good about themselves and the world around them. Smiles, as the number one signifiers of positive emotion, are both bountiful and prized. Any and all frowns are to be alchemized into smiles as quickly as possible.

"Motion" refers to change and progress. There is no status quo in my reality - only improvement thereon. Things are changed, learned from, built upon, and never allowed to stagnate. Laziness and complacency have no place in my reality. Ambition and initiative have mansions.

Taken together, the words "upward motion" refer to a consistent practice of changing things for the better and progressing to higher planes of thought and action.

My reality insists on complete, total, even brutal, honesty (which has a mansion, too, by the way). This means in all aspects - words, deeds, and identities included. This policy does not allow for lies, pretense, masks, self-delusion, or denial. Upward motion is not possible without a clear idea of the place one is moving upward from.

Extended upward motion is only possible if everyone contributes, and thus my reality is also a place of mutual benefit, or give and take. All things - conversation, favors, introductions, advice, clothing, listening ears, etc. - are to be freely shared with the understanding that all will be paid back in due course. This policy does not refer to a mercenary "scratch my back and I'll scratch yours" score-keeping mentality, but to a free-flowing (but not unconditional) generosity in all parties. Give as much value, if not more than, any value taken and upward motion will come easily to all.

The last rule of my reality is that it is my reality. I call the shots, I make the rules, and I decide what and who is cool. There is no one within my reality whom I do not know, cannot talk to, or am uncomfortable with. Anyone within my reality is a friend, someone with whom I can easily talk, and someone I am completely comfortable with.

Welcome to a great place. Enjoy your stay.

The Unwritten Vignette

I remember the days when everything was an affront, if only in the most ironic ways. Every situation called for sarcasm and cynicism. (Optimism is much less entertaining.)

There's something to be said for the Queen of Sardonic Smirks - she's the Queen! And yet I do not find it in me to be truly jealous. She may be the Queen, but Sardonic Smirks do not compose a fairy tale kingdom. (But then again, her appeal always was in tossing the fairy tale on its wings.)

I was an obnoxious seven year old, an obnoxious fourteen year old, and no doubt obnoxious now, too. And I got (get) away with it because I am precocious. But most people don't give a shit about precocious, 'cause that has leopard spots to do with people. However, people are into quirky. Obnoxious and quirky even complement each other (they add up to 180). But you gotta smile a lot to be quirky, so I guess I'd better start smilin' more.

Half the point is that even if I leave everything out for anyone and their bag of chips to see, there will still be a few galaxies of information that they'll never even glimpse. The people we think we know are underestimates. (Non-existent devil abode, we're underestimates. Almost no one is everything they could be.)

If there's one thing I miss from those days, it's the sass. I'm so serious now - all my irony is so subtle that it's liable to be overlooked. (My sarcasm is nearly as invisible as I used to be.) That Queen of Sardonic Smirks certainly knew how to turn a phrase past 360. (And the straight-up Southern Darling doesn't? That's a jarring jack-of-the-box of an idea.)

I'm going to continue to feed the starving orphans in Africa. What I write isn't "deep" - it's basic soap-style melodrama. Who gives a sopping towel about some guy I looked at from across the room or whether or not I think I'm lonely? I complain in glittering trash about how much non-meaning words have (such a shame that there's more trash than glitter). I should take my own advice and talk less than I walk.

So, it's oh-dark-thirty in the morning (2:26) and I'm lying in bed, monstrous blue headphones swallowing my chin, hunting and pecking at my iPod screen. And it's no novelty of a scene. Writing (hunting and pecking) means shadows that could be mistaken for messed up eye makeup. ("Where'd you find that shade of purple?")

Tomorrow I'll roll out of bed with a groan (possibly of the explicit variety) and slap that sadistic screaming clock into submission. For all of approximately nine minutes, at which point I may actually leave my room. Maybe. If I don't burrow back beneath my covers for warmth so I don't have to begin my day of relearning how to smile just right. (Although I abdicated the throne of Sardonic Smirks, I have yet to complete my immigration to the Smiling Society.)

And I'll still remember the days when everything used to be an affront, and I'll have to pretend that there aren't some things about those horrible, awful, obnoxious, precocious days that I miss. (Shhh.... This vignette was never written.)

Re: Posts from early 2008

Part of the purpose of keeping this blog is to chart change and progress, as well as continuity. That said, there are posts on this blog that represent ways that I no longer think. Some of which I think were great stepping stones, and others of which I do the face-palm for.

So, when reading the earlier posts of this blog, feel free to laugh, appreciate, be appalled, be angry, and mock (well, really, you should always feel free to mock). Keep in mind that only the most recent posts (like, one written yesterday) are guaranteed to represent the way I currently think.

(Of course, all this is assuming that anyone can actually be bothered to go back and read the early stuff. Yeah, I'm vain that way.)

Abandoning the Current

If you were the world, then I was the wake, trailing along in the somnolent current of fate with one eye devouring the shore. How much will happen and how much will I have to make happen? If you knew the answer (or even the question) I'm sure you'd respond, but blindness and silence seem to lay between the same set of sheets. (That pattern looks rather familiar....)

I catch your gaze from across the room and feel something catch between naivete and experience, longing and logic. Later, I describe the moment I haven't been able to stop thinking about as "boring," because I know that what means far more to me than it does to you makes for a poor tale indeed. ("Could you please blow something up already? The melodrama in this paragraph is more than enough to feed the starving orphans in Africa for the next century.")

I wonder, despite reality squawking from my shoulder, what you think of me, what you felt when land met water eye to eye. ("Silly girl! Stupid girl! Doesn't matter!") Even worse, I then wonder what he thought as our voices mingled over the backgammon board and, further still, what that other saw as I danced alone in a crush of males afraid of movement. Wondering makes me feel young, like I've never been more than a silly school girl chasing affection and a fairy tale, afraid that any delusions are of Pamela Anderson rather than of me. I am better than that. (Right?)

I calculate where the current will carry me if I stroke in the direction of any one possibility, but am so caught up in conjecture that I lose "control." I look and barely touch, catch your eye from across the room but never call a greeting, wonder but never wander, much less walk. As often as I advocate proactivity, I fail to act anyhow but passively.

Something (I) must change.

To start, I shall open the other eye and swim ashore to sleep. (Time for silence and blindness to get out of my bed and let me use it.) That other didn't see anything, much less the way I danced, and I've always known that the mingling of his voice with mine signifies nothing except the ways in which we are both empty. The next time we crash, eye to eye, land will not pull away from water and I will smile. (As a matter of fact, I am coming on to you.) Later, I'll tell the tale of the way we blew up, knowing that it is in no way boring, meaning as much to you as to me as to (now satisfied with its cracker) reality.

An Imperfect Diamond

You disappoint me and don't even know it; this is nothing new. So I don't know why every head-spinning comment surprises me. I'd like to think that I am too practical to turn you into something that you're not. Sure, you can mix chemicals to make our chemistry, but it doesn't fix anything that's really wrong. You're still going to be three steps behind me, unable (or unwilling) to match my stride. And I don't forget that. Why does every reminder surprise me?

If it were the spell of the winter season, I wouldn't recall standing in the summer sunshine in St. Louis and feeling the same sense of shame. Congratulations - my misappropriated attraction for you is a perennial bloom (which is far more than many others can claim). What does that say?

This entire thought process makes me sick in my stomach, 'cause I realize that it's always been this way. My heart may be married to my head, but they don't always information-share. All I've ever done is settle, allowed myself to be convinced by caresses and the romance that I find rare. Too practical to forget, my rose-bethorned eyes! I am far too practical and thus must forget. How many points does that score for Team IFT (Irony, Fate, and Temperance)?

I want to vanish into sleep now, but revelation has sufficiently interfered. This is why you're in my life, this is the lesson that you bear. I can't say I care for it very much, for all that it's (apparently) what I need to hear. So, next time I'll be more careful (What do you mean, "careful," you silly girl? As if attraction is something you control!) and I'll check the male thrice to make sure of my list. Brains, an open mind, a good work ethic, honesty, confidence, chemistry, and romance. Did I forget anything? (For all my intelligence and experience, my thoughts can still be frighteningly naive. Of course I forgot something - REALITY.)

So here's the diamond for the night, flawed, muddy, and chipped. It's not what you were hoping for, and it's not what I was hoping for either, but I guess it's what we get.

Silencio

Just to clarify, this is a work of fiction, based off the amazing fanfic by Akasha the Kitty, "Silencio."

My bed's never so uncomfortable as when you're not in it; where are you tonight? The empty hours creep by and I have to remember that I made you forget. I know there was a reason to begin with, but is this how it should end? But the bottle's been smashed and there's no turning back - tonight may find you anywhere but here with me.

There's a suspicious dampness just beneath my lashes, and I shouldn't confess that they're tears, but denial changes nothing. I know that better than anyone else, my dear. (And that's a cruel mockery of an endearment; I'm alone tonight and will be for years. My bed will be uncomfortable for years.)

The Violet Round, Chapter Three

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: Harry Potter's world belongs to JK Rowling. I only write using it to improve my own writing skills. Nor do I own Much Ado About Nothing. However, Danielle Varens is all MINE, and I reserve the right to use her however I wish.

Danielle studied Malfoy for long moments, her mind quickly whirring from scenario to scenario. The implications of those ten words numbered in the millions. The politician in her wanted to sit down and start mapping them out, figuring each possibility to her advantage - starting with the choice of helping him or denying him.

He finally turned to look at her, arctic gray eyes meeting ice blue irises. His eyes widened.

She smirked.

Malfoy looked away first, his gaze returning to the horizon.

Danielle's smirk increased, taking further possession of her face.

Oh, yeah. She had the power here.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Because it would make living with her easier," he promptly replied, injecting a certain amount of bemusement into his voice.

One thin eyebrow arched.

"And?"

A sigh answered.

The waves lapped at the wood, rocking the platform of the dock.

He turned to face her straight on, crossing his arms across his chest, gaze locking with hers again.

"My mother and I are under investigation by the Ministry for our association with the Death Eaters before the war. It would be to our advantage were I to make amends with Potter's side-" he paused, giving his next words import, "particularly were I to make those amends with Granger." His eyes flicked away before meeting her gaze again. "Savvy, Varens?"

Danielle settled onto one hip to study him, thoughtfully lipping at the knuckle of her index finger.

Malfoy's hands went from resting on his upper arms to clutching at his rib cage as she regarded him.

She concealed a smile.

"I'll help you."

She watched as he visibly relaxed. Let him think he'd fooled her.

After all, one didn't need respect in order to have the upper hand.

~*~

Harry knocked on the entrance to Hermione's suite. He shuffled his feet a little as he waited for someone to answer. He only hoped she was here; he'd already looked everywhere else. If she didn't open the door, his only recourse would be to search the school all over again.

It would probably take all afternoon, and he'd miss Quidditch practice.

Fortunately for his time and his continued position as team captain, Hermione pulled the door wide and stood in the opening, blinking up at him.

He smiled down at her. She was so cute, with her hair rumpled from sleep, dressed in loose sweats and a t-shirt that was perhaps a little bit too small.

"Hey, Harry," she yawned, once she had gotten her bearings. "What's up?"

He loved standing next to her. She always made him feel so tall in comparison, like he was a giant and she a princess he had kidnapped. He felt himself growing warm.

Okay, best not to follow that line of thought.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay after seeing you leave the Great Hall like that," he murmured, shifting to lean against the stone outcropping that concealed the entryway.

"Oh." Annoyance flickered across her face, but was quickly gone as she yawned again. "I'm fine. Really."

"Oh. That's good."

He shifted again so he was standing upright.

She rocked back on her heels and bit her lip.

He massaged the back of his neck.

She crossed her arms.

"Er, what was that about anyways?" he finally asked. "That Varens girl didn't upset you or anything, did she?"

Her mouth dropped open.

Oops.

"Danielle is perfectly sweet, Harry," Hermione said scathingly. "You have absolutely no call to be rude to her. And no, she didn't upset me."

He swallowed, setting his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I'm sorry, I just thought -"

"What, Harry?" she interrupted. "That just because she's not your biggest fan ever that she must be a complete bitch?" She shook her head, leaning away from him, her lip curled. "Grow up, Harry. It's time to stop judging people."

Harry's hands curled into fists at his sides, his feet shoulder length apart, as he, too, leaned away from his best friend.

"You don't hear what she says to me!" he protested, glaring wildly. "She's a shrew, a vindictive shrew! A regular Beatrice!" he snorted derisively.

There was a beat of silence.

Hermione chuckled, relaxing her stance.

"What?" Harry demanded, still indignant.

She just giggled, "So if she's Beatrice, you're who? Benedick?"

Harry paled.

And then smiled.

And then slid down the doorframe, laughing with her.

"Merlin, no!" he chortled. "Gaaaaah! Heavens preserve me!"

"Hmmp!"

Harry paused to see Hermione blushing, fingers covering the mouth from which that most unladylike snort had just been emitted.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her down to roll on the floor and laugh with him.

The Violet Round, Chapter Two

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: I don't own Harry Potter's world and I only write using it for my own development and amusement. However, Caleb Brackner and Danielle Varens are MINE, and I reserve all rights to use them wherever and however I want, which means that no one else has any rights to them. 'Kay. Thanks!

Breakfast was ash.

Well, likely not literally. But it may well have been for the way it felt on Hermione's tongue.

She took another bite.

Nope, still not as delicious as she knew it should be.

Her lack of appetite did not go unnoticed.

"It's not poisoned," Danielle reminded her, glancing up from one of her many romance novels. "You can eat it without grimacing after every bite and feeling around for tacks."

Hermione set down her fork and sighed into her palms.

Danielle put the novel aside expectantly.

"Malfoy walked in on me and Caleb last night."

"OOOOOh...." The blonde recoiled. "And Malfoy's gone to Dumbledore with it?"

"Psh!" The idea hadn't occured to Hermione, but it didn't worry her now that her friend mentioned it. "No. But now Caleb has turned into a sniveling coward."

"Oh...." The younger girl put a sympathetic hand on her knee. "I'm sorry. I know you hoped that maybe he was..."

"Different?" The Head Girl finished with a wry half-smile. "Yeah. But then, I always do, don't I?"

She pushed away from the table and plodded from the Great Hall with her hair in her face.

~*~

"Hermione?" Harry asked, reaching out a hand to touch her as she brushed past him on his way into the Great Hall, but drawing back before he made actual contact. "What's wrong?"

Her silent back offered no response as she continued on as though she hadn't heard him.

Ron grasped his arm.

"Let her go, mate. She's probably just in a mood again."

Harry glanced at Ginny, who shrugged.

"Alright then," he snapped, shaking Ron off peevishly. "I'll be good."

He all but stalked into the Great Hall, his glower deepening when he saw long golden-blonde hair.

"I'll bet you know something about that," he snapped as he took Hermione's vacated seat.

She glared coolly across the top of her book, lips pressed together.

Ginny and Ron exchanged looks as they settled across from the pair.

Even the witch on the cover of the paperback ceased her air-headed posing to eye the two nervously.

"Well?" Harry demanded. He wasn't used to such hostility from his friends. Well, his best friend's friend whom he'd gladly see at the bottom of the Lake.

She slowly turned her head to face him. A beat passed, then two, before an arsenic-sweet smile split her face.

"Harry, I will tell you what that was about once, and only once you grow a pair of balls."

She ignored the affront of the Boy Who Triumphed and returned her attentions to her romance novel.

Ron snickered.

Ginny covered her mouth with her hand.

Harry resembled a thundercloud, the lightning bolt standing livid on his visage.

"Why, you..." he growled, unable to think of something bad enough to call her that she wouldn't take as a compliment.

"Or you could ask Hermione, the one you're so concerned about," the infuriating Frenchwoman suggested, condescension dripping, not bothering to glance up. "That would be innovative."

Ginny and Ron studied their plates, shoulder shaking.

Fine. They were just as bad as she was.

Harry shoved away from the table and stalked from the Great Hall, muttering darkly.

That horrible, awful girl was making his life miserable.

If he'd bothered to look back, he'd have seen Danielle looking over her shoulder, a small smile playing about her lips.

~*~

"Varens."

She stopped cold on the spot, a tension that had previously been absent tightening the tendons in her neck as she slowly turned to face him. The effect was not unpleasant.

Draco thought, not for the first time, that it was shame that she had taken up with Granger and the Gryffindors since her transfer from Beauxbatons. She was, after all, a pureblood, and a beautiful one at that. She was tall, slender, with breasts just slightly too large for her frame, with long wheat-blonde hair and skin bronzed from the Mediterranean sun.

It didn't hurt that she wore her shirts slightly tighter than was strictly necessary.

"Malfoy." She greeted him less than warmly, her slight French accent doing nothing to belay the chill of her attitude. "What do you want?"

He let her see his eyes rake up her body and smirked. He should really trade-mark that expression.

"Well...."

"Oh, please," she rolled her eyes, tossing her head. "Yeah, you stopped to tell me you think I'm wank material. Duh. Old news." Varens gave him a smirk nearly as good as his own coupled with a disdainful scan of his body. "What do you really want, you prat?"

Draco found a new spark of respect for the girl. Noted: Not a pushover.

It was enough for him to be earnest with her.

He turned slightly and offered his arm.

"Walk with me."

She eyed him with suspicion, but slipped into a comfortable escort position, matching his steps as they began to stroll.

"So...."

His lips tugged up at the corners.

"So?" He couldn't resist taunting.

Varens gave him a bored look and the spark of respect was fanned.

"Whatever it is you want, I don't have to help you, you know," she informed him flatly. "In fact, I probably won't."

He shrugged lightly as they strolled out onto the lawn, the sunshine washing over them. It was a lovely Saturday, though hints of storm clouds could be seen at the edge of the Lake.

"I know. But it's not certain until I try, now is it?"

She nodded acknowledgement and the pair fell silent.

Draco drank in the sunshine, the nature, the students playing games as the promenaded past, chattering, studying, but Varens's eyes remained locked on his face, her expression perturbed.

He was much more interesting than another beautiful day.

Only when they came to a rest on a dock on the Lake, far from the other students, did Draco finally speak again, his gaze somewhere across the waves.

"I need you to help me become friends with Granger."

The Violet Round, Chapter One

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: I don't own Harry Potter's world and I only write using it for my own development and amusement. However, Caleb Brackner and Danielle Varens are MINE, and I reserve all rights to use them wherever and however I want, which means that no one else has any rights to them. 'Kay. Thanks!

"Well, this is unprecedented."

Hermione broke off the kiss with a groan, not bothering to open her eyes, only hoping the mood wasn't broken.

"Sod off, Malfoy!"

She tugged at the boy's hair again, but, unfortunately, he resisted. Bollocks. Of course her fun would be ruined.... Her eyes finally flickered open to see Caleb's nervous eyes receding from across the circular couch and Draco Malfoy smirking in the doorway.

"Maybe I should go..." the Ravenclaw muttered, tugging awkwardly at his clothes as he stood up.

"No need to rush off on my account," that despicable blond drawled. "I was enjoying the show. I had no idea that our upright, perfect little war hero could be so..." He turned his smirk more specifically on Hermione, who glared back.

He should so die. Painfully.

"Naughty. Honestly, using the common room as a rendezvous.... Tsk, Granger."

Caleb blushed crimson, his eyes glued to the carpet.

Well, he was no help.

Malfoy deliberately crossed his legs, taking up more space in the doorway, blocking the other male's way out. Devilish fire seemed to backlight his visage as he studied his counterpart.

"Too much of a hurry to bother with the bedroom, I suppose. I can't say I entirely understand you, Brackner, but desperate times and all...."

Hermione finally accepted that her itch was not going to get scratched that night and sat upright, curling against the side of the couch. All the better to glare with.

Three words: Hell hath no.

She smiled sweetly at Malfoy.

"Just because I prefer an actual person to Mayfair is no reason to be upset, Malfoy," she all but purred. "No offense. I know how attached you are to your hand."

Silence reigned for a few long moments.

"Err... Essuseme?"

Malfoy didn't even look at the boy as he strode into the room, moving towards his own dormitory.

"Don't let me catch you in here again, Brackner. I will give you a detention."

The two doors clicked shut within moments of each other, a gunshot and its echo.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest with a loud sigh.

There went that relationship.

~*~

Draco stomped straight through his room to his shower, grateful, once again, that though he and Granger had to share a common room, that they had separate bathrooms. It would be very embarrassing indeed if she suspected that he was taking a cold shower on her behalf.

It was just that he hadn't expected to come across her like... that. With a guy. Brackner, of all guys, but still a guy, moaning passionately with her hair a mess as his hands worked through it. And she hadn't been passive in the situation at all - she had been nipping at the Ravenclaw, running her hands over him, in charge despite her bottom position.

Draco shivered as the water ran over him, leaning against the cool cream marble while he thought.

He'd been delighted when he'd learned that the remaining seventh years would get separate suites with their own rooms due to the large influx of transfer students. He had looked forward to having his own space to shelter in, away from everyone else.

Of course, his perspective had changed when he'd learned that the suite mate he'd been randomly assigned was Granger. He almost wished that he'd drawn a Slytherin.

But they were now a few weeks into the semester, and after the initial snarls and a small incident where she'd come across one of his copies of Mayfair, the cohabitation had been going surprisingly well. The war seemed to have matured her, and rather than sniping at each other at every opportunity, the two merely glared. They said as little as possible to each other, ignoring one another as she sat curled up on her strange, round couch and he sat poised on the edge of his leather swivel chair, before stamping off to their respective rooms.

It had been far too good to last.

~*~

"Hermione!"

She turned and waited for him, grinning as he panted a little when he caught up with her.

"Caleb! What's up?"

The tall brunet blushed and tucked his hands into the pockets of his khakis, folding his shoulders in on himself.

"I just wanted to apologize..." he mumbled, his gaze caressing the floor.

Hermione's smile vanished.

"I just kinda freaked out, ya know?" His brown eyes briefly brushed hers. "I mean, he's a prefect, and it's his common room, too, and he c-could give me a detention if he wanted to, and he's kinda intimidating anyways, an' I just don't want you to be mad at me, ya know?"

"Oh...."

A pack of sixth-years made their way past them to the Great Hall, talking over each other about their post-breakfast plans. Only one boy among them followed along, listening quietyly. It was he who drew Hermione's eyes. He probably had a backbone.

She brought her attention back to her friend.

"So, what are you apologizing for again?" she asked.

His blush spread. Huh. She had thought that only Ron could turn his throat that color.

"Nevermind," he ran together the words, turning away as he said them. "Seeyalater."

Hermione didn't stop him from walking off.

She had more important things to do.

Child's Play

Kayla twitched her tail away from Devin, giggling at having foiled him again.

He sat back against the wall of the plastic stairwell, his lips pulled sideways with a good-natured measure of mingled amusement and exasperation.

"Now, now," he intoned, "you have to let me enjoy you in that costume eventually."

Kayla peered down at him from the landing, teeth pulling her lower lip into her smile. The over-sized blue cat ears perched in her mess of blonde hair made the sparkle in her angelic eyes all the more pronounced.

"Eventually," she conceded, dangling her tail back down the multi-colored stairs. "I don't know anything about now."

The male said nothing in reply, his green eyes intent on the furry length of blue fabric just out of his reach, his body tense though he held perfectly still. Patience and persistence were what would allow him to win.

Kayla glanced back over the edge, unsure of whether the game continued or even if Devin was still there. She frowned at his inaction and let her tail down just a little bit lower.

He pounced, winding the end of the tail around his palm. Victory danced in the teeth of his feral grin.

Kayla struggled mutely on the upper landing to get away, grabbing on to the lip of the slide for leverage, but with no real hope for escape. The tail was attached firmly to the shorts she wore, and she was prevented from shucking those by the multiple belts intended to support the extra weight.

She smiled as she gave in and her fingers slipped from the hard plastic edges.

Devin pulled her, hand over hand, down the stairs into his lap, disregarding every small scrape and bruise she gained on the descent.

"I know about now," he growled at his prize. "Isn't that fortunate?"

Kayla licked her lips and wove her fingers through his dark hair, caressing the horns he wore.

"Very," she purred, arching her neck for a kiss.

He evaded her with a smirk. They were playing by his rules now.

The blonde's lips pushed out into a pretty pout.

He chuckled.

"Eventually," he answered. "Now," emphasis dripped off the word, "we are going to have some wine."

He turned and made his way smoothly down the plastic steps, despite the double awkwardness imposed by the low clearance and his burden.

She blinked up at him in the clearer light of the open playground.

"I thought we were only playing," she protested.

The horned man didn't respond as he forged through the twilight that had stolen the playground's usual occupants away for trick-or-treating.

Kayla clutched tightly at his shoulders, guileless blue eyes locked on his darkened face. His normally familiar features were now as unclear to her as the clouds around the moon.

A chime sounded as he pushed through the door to the wine boutique across the street, and fluorescent lights made his visage clear to her once more.

Kayla's shoulders relaxed, and then tensed again as she felt a disapproving state come to rest on her. She slowly ripped her gaze from Devin to see Father Patrick glaring at them.

The shopkeeper pushed a bag at the priest.

"Here you go, Father. This should be enough to get you through tomorrow," he said cheerfully. "You just let me know if your order's ever delayed again. I'll be happy to cut you the same deal any time."

"The Lord thanks you," the man intoned gravely, eyes still on Kayla and her companion. "There will be many in need of absolution in the morning." He pursed his lips.

Devin let her slide down his body to a standing position, but continued to hold her tail wrapped about his hand.

The shopkeeper glanced up from the register at the priest's odd intonation, and beamed at the pair.

"Good evening, Mr. Finn!" he greeted. "I've got just the perfect vintage for Halloween night! It's so deep and well-aged, it's almost scary!" The man laughed at his own bad joke. "Come on back and taste it - I know you'll appreciate it!"

"If it's up to my standards, I may take a little," he drawled as he stepped toward the door now held open for him, dropping Kayla's tail.

"But-" she demurred, reaching back for the security of their connection.

"I'll be back," he whispered, his lips warm against her ear, and then disappeared into the depths of the store.

She was left alone with the priest.

Silence reigned as both came to the realization.

"Well now, Kayla, my little lost lamb." Father Patrick spoke first. "You had to know that God would find you again eventually."

Her eyes went wide and her lips went white.

"Oh, yes! I understand it all now," he continued, gesturing grandly as he moved toward her. She shrank into the wall, her tail trailing before her.

"God decreed that the usual order of communion wine should be delayed so that I might be here on this Devil's Night," he spat the capital letters, "to see you, fallen and seduced by Satan, and finally penetrate that bubble you've constructed around yourself."

Father Patrick knelt to pick up her tail. He held the fuzzy length like he would a copperhead, his lip curled.

"This isn't child's play, Kayla." The patient tone he used, the almost kind inflection, was entirely incongruous with the way he looked over the girl in her cute little kitten costume. "I don't know how to get the importance of following God's rules into you."

Abruptly, the priest snapped his fist closed around the costume piece and yanked. The woman cried out in pain as the various belts on the shorts bit into her.

Father Patrick dropped the tail at her feet, now satisfied.

"Come back to church tomorrow," he said, scooping his package of wine off the counter, smiling amiably. "You can be a lamb of God's flock again."

The door chimed as he left.

Kayla was still standing, pressed against the wall, blue eyes wide and teary, when Devin returned, a bottle of red wine in one hand.

"You'll absolutely love this...."

His brow creased with concern, then realization and self-reproach, as he saw his little kitty. He set the wine on the counter, walked softly over to where she stood, unseeing, and gathered her close.

She shivered a little, tension easing slightly but noticeably from her frame.

He rubbed her back and, absently, plucked up her tail, winding the length of it about his hand.

Gaze still locked in a space outside of the material world, Kayla arched her neck towards him.

Now he gave her a kiss.

New Contest Winnings

The week of November 5, "Plexiglass Possibilities" was placed second under the name Sarah Darling. I realized only after hearing from some of my readers that it didn't do as well as I might have hoped because it reads like it should be a short story rather than a blog post. However, it is, as Steward House says, "a unique perspective on the 'call-back.'" So, that's a good. You can find it here.

Last week, I entered the piece I've been absolutely slaving over. While the placement was, again, not what I had hoped for (I mean, I've been working on this piece for well over two months), the review showed that it conveyed exactly what I intended. Here's the link and the piece itself will be going up here in short order.

Once More With Feeling

We know everything and don't want to.

There are no exceptions.

So, tonight, I'm going to dance and I'm going to forget.

Then the fairy tale will end and we'll all go back to reality.

Maybe reality will be different for it, but I doubt it.

So I'll forget beyond tonight.

There is no need to covet what I do not have.

Let's enjoy it while it lasts, however brief a time that may be.

I won't mention it again.

But at least he smiled for awhile.

Maybe they'll call me 'baby' when we get back.

Honestly, I think I'd like that. How very, very strange.

Things have certainly changed.

Where do we go from here?

The curtain will almost certainly not close on a kiss, and my life lacks a soundtrack, so there'll be no ending cheer.

Fairy Tale

This is just a fairy tale. I'm going to wake up, go back to school and reality, and it will all go back to the way it was.

So what's to do? Do I just go with it, enjoy it while it lasts, or do I fight it, push it, try to change it? Does it even matter what I do?

I fly fine on my own, but she flies best with me by her side. Does that mean I'm obligated to be her wing? Sometimes it feels like it. It's the stage, the sidekick, the show. Irony shows its hand as it all comes full circle. (It always does.)

Logic dictates that there is nothing there, but body language takes over and indicates otherwise, leaving us both far too serious. The realization is a robbery. He's no Prince Charming, and even if I look up and see masculinity, I'm no princess. I'm not even Danielle, one wing ripped away. It was made obvious in the way we both ran and looked to the floor. (But why does it have to be anything more?)

Will I at least be kissed awake? I somehow doubt it. The carriage will simply become a pumpkin, and I am very conscientious about keeping my heels on my feet.

On Losing Control

For all that's real does not glisten in the light, but resides in the darker places where it slithers and slides. (You silly person - how do you even know this is right?)

Why do you manufacture memories, sit back and watch your hormones take over? Life is lived on a subconscious level - all you have to do is take notice.

Okay, Mademoiselle Meaningless. You know what it all signifies. It doesn't have to make sense now - take the spiral staircase, and someday you'll see it all.

Puzzling

I think of all the ways in which things connect - the past, the present, all the little ironies between circumstance and expectation. How could we have known it would be this way, even as we knew all along? Despite all the possibilities, this is the only way it could be.

My ankle hurts for a reason, a rebel against the runes that mark it for some cause, however obscure. What does it all mean, the seven of cups and the eyes I draw and the way I can't stop thinking about him, however much I long to? There are answers, but they require more puzzle pieces than I can hold at once. They connect in small ways I can't yet see, am yet incapable of consciously perceiving. (So much of substance lays beneath the surface.)

I want to figure things out, think it through and find the answers. (I am almost certain of the plural.) Perhaps that is the problem. Too much information overwhelms. Draw a line at the end of the sentence - start from there. But I've long since lost track of where the paragraph breaks. (An excuse - as long as I start somewhere, the pieces will click into place.)

I always said that I had little use for a prince, but a knight in well-worn armor was dandy in my view. This one certainly has a sword, but can I call him a knight? Chivalry is dead in him, that's for sure. He validates my cynicism at every turn and I want to be surprised, I am astonished to learn. Title him "THE" and all the girls know whom you mean. I pray this fascination with him is merely ennui.

Perhaps if I ask about the past, there will be a reply. Perhaps not an answer - nothing so satisfying as that - but maybe a clue, another puzzle piece. (It probably won't fit.) But it would be something - a key that could maybe make the latch click (locking or unlocking, I'm not sure).

But everything means something; everything connects. My ankle is still hurting and I still can't stop thinking about him and that question still rings away. Do you know what I dream about? (I can't quite remember....)

Empty Field Myopia

I am young, but far from naive. I lost my innocence long ago, though I like to think my virtue will always be intact.

I dream about having someone beyond the countless males I wear about the curves of my ears. I ask, "who am I?" but mean, "who is he?" It is a solved mystery that I want a more immediate answer to, though I know there is little satisfaction in instant gratification.

So I state the facts and have the fantasy, knowing it is all talk and no walk (much to their frustration).

But all the same, my lack of innocence and want of naivete call for more than I allow myself. My bed feels a little too big with just me in it and my flirtations a tad pointless without a goal. (Purposeless flirting feels directionless, if you can imagine that.) My pointed foot perpetually indicates blank space, a physical empty field myopia.

That's the contradiction and conflict-ion you see. There is nothing there, but my youth insists on fixing on it, only aware that I must one day see.

Third Place in Contest; Nice Review

I can't seem to break the third place string, but they're nice, nevertheless.

This one was for "To Andrew."

The review:

"In contrast to the darker preceding pieces, Henderson's thoughtful 'To Andrew' offers a downright lighthearted perspective on love and identity. Diligent readers of the weekly competition will note the reference to Henderson's 'Nobody - Nobody Special,' a piece that won 2nd place the week of June 22, 2010. Readers who take a particularly philosophical approach to life will appreciate the conclusion of 'To Andrew' most, but all writers should take heed: Henderson practices textbook rising/falling action, the imitation of which would behoove any new or young author."

The next piece I plan to enter is almost done. I really think it's first place material, and (if I dare say...) a masterpiece of short fiction.

Restless

You've always known better. Always.

From the moment he asked you to dance, darkened eyes raking up your illuminated body, you knew all that was to come.

Discovery. A breath in your ear, inhale and exhale to who you really are. You love him and you detest him, want him to be better, momentarily think he is, but know he never will be.

Exhilaration and boredom, constantly aware that swords and pentacles are only two points out of five. Completion does not live here.

She is a hard woman, but she likes to dance at parties, and he can't decide if he's a knight or a king, still in process or complete. He's deception and dependability, made of marble and of mirrors. Is he stagnation or change, or change in stagnation, or stagnation in change? (No matter how I lay the cards, it just won't come clear.)

He speaks literature like a writer, though he refuses to read, and flirts like he's in his cups, though he indulges "only at parties." I can't decide what to do with this fellow, any more than he can decide what to do with me. (I guess, restless, it's all about the journey.)

Third Place in Contest; Amazing Review!

This one was for "Mint". The impressive bit is not the placement, but the review. Check it, chickies:

"A casual reader might mistake this short piece of Henderson for a passage out of a Rice vampire novel. Henderson expertly combines formal dialogue with subtle body language descriptors, which lends a dramatic surreality to the overall product. For readers who appreciate Henderson's artful character interactions, we recommend reading the short stories of Truman Capote. That we can link Capote in any way to Henderson demonstrates the quality of what she's done with 'Mint.'"

Progress

Life is all about splits, and straddles, and proving you right just when you had decided you were wrong. It's a shot of bitter with a chaser of sweet, with the only warmth being derived from the latter and the only strength from the former; we can never taste the sweet until we have downed the bitter. The harsh, clean scent of mint competes with the gagging, cloying smell of perfumed dung - and sometimes we can't tell the difference. ("I love you" has eight letters, but so does "bullshit.")

You can't ever stop trying, even when you've half-talked yourself out. It's sad and beautiful, and like the world spins (just as it ends, it begins), we break our hearts and are summarily made whole.

The music swells to a crescendo that tugs at tear ducts and short circuits the brain. ('Tis no time to think - you must dance!) And it swirls and shimmers with a magick you'd managed to forget, even though it was always, ALWAYS there, waiting for you to use it. We're so powerful that we make ourselves weak.

We have to learn something new every single day, even when it burns like fire and you longingly wish ignorance were truly bliss. (Putting your fingers in your ears and singing doesn't make anything go away.) But we feel every ripple of every action and it makes us change. Sure, you can pretend that every thing's the same, but, as the fault line shifts, you may fall in.

So dance in the flames and breathe in the mint; smile while you cry. The magick is yours to use, arising from that shattered heart in your chest beating itself whole. Life is an exercise in stretching - in order to grow, we must believe we won't break.

A Sad Lesson

If people ever think so pleasantly of you as you think of them, then you should proceed to be extremely, inordinately, even obnoxiously, flattered. Because perceptions rarely almost to the point of never line up so nicely. It is a sad lesson, but one that must be learned. So, think as well of others as you like, but always be prepared to lower your estimations accordingly.

Mint

The pungent scent of freshly massacred mint leaves flooded my nose, giving my indignation a distinct taste.

"What do you think this means, Armand?" I hissed, my voice sliding underneath the sound of the string quartet playing in the more populated portion of the garden. "Are you naive enough to think there are no consequences?"

He eyed me coldly from across the pavilion, his head perched far back on his neck. His arms were iron bars across his chest: cold, hard, and as arrogant as the careful slouch of his tuxedo slacks.

"As ever, you exaggerate," he pronounced with quiet steel. "This was not life-changing; there are no intrinsic 'codes of behavior' that accompany any action. I refuse to allow you to hold me to 'rules' that simply do not exist."

My breath hissed raggedly through my teeth, a small detached part of my mind noting that I'd chosen the right shade of lipstick; if I were to lose control and bite the bastard no one would notice the blood.

"You've nerve. So much, it's a veritable miracle you can't feel!"

One of his eyebrows shot up with a corner of his grim smile.

"No, I definitely feel," he replied. "But nerves are connected to the brain - not to the heart. That's the problem with trying to cage men with lust."

I jerked, and my back met the climbing vines, knocking leaves down my dress with a series of rustles.

Apart from the sardonic twist to his features, he had not moved.

"Someone should teach you a lesson about human beings," I bit out as his form blurred. "You're despicable!"

Even through the tears, I saw his eyes flash.

"And you're pitiable," he rejoined, soft and low, the down-bow of the distant cello adding a perfect punctuation to his phrasing. "You could stand to learn a few lessons yourself, on nature. You're just a girl - you don't know anything about this world you've entered."

Armand's arms fell open for the first time as he took a dangerous step forward.

I pressed back against the greenery as he crossed into my space.

Implacably, he reached out his hand and made me meet his cold blue eyes.

The world went still and all I could hear was the sibilant sound of rustling ball gowns, as somber as the sea.

The corners of his eyes were soft and his lips were no more than a straight line, not pointing up or down. The points where his fingers met my face flashed with fire, although his grip was as gentle as the night we first met.

"Armand," I sighed.

"No," he answered, not breaking our gaze. "I have no obligations to you. You came seeking instant gratification, and that's what you got. Had you been willing to wait..." he shook his head, and his touch dropped away. "I won't lead you on, okay?"

He hovered for just a moment, half-turned, then abruptly spun on his heel and walked away, back to the string quartet and the swirling ball gowns.

I sobbed in the harsh, clean scent of mint.

The Vanity Mirror

She sits at her dressing room table, scorning her image in the mirror. She's beautiful, but she will always believe that she is unworthy for the sun's eyes to rest upon. Nobody knows why - nobody even knows. They all think that 'beautiful' is synonymous with 'confident.'

She reaches out her hand, fingertips meeting the cold glass of the mirror - she wants to break it as she is broken. But she will not. The shards of vanity would tempt her with their bladed edges, and she would falter from living. She can't trust she is worthy of the sun's warming gaze, but that does not mean she wishes to lose that guilty pleasure.

Her eyes find those of her unhallowed reflection. How can this abominable creature be she? The force that grips her vocal cords, warping other's perceptions with her silence, abruptly dies. The sound that is torn from her lips is startling and high, a keening wind of everything she is deluded into 'knowing.' And there, before that dressing room table mirror, she and beauty cry.

A Kiss is Just a Kiss

It was foolish to think that anything really changes, and even as I let myself believe, I knew it. (Naivete is a state of mind that is impossible to recover.) Am I just afraid to try too hard? I've always believed that hard work makes all things possible, but I can't help but feel that to work hard here is to lose. But is that really true? Is it worth a shot? (Ah, but if I actually gamble, it means that I cared enough to have something to lose.)

I recognize another in myself and feel contempt. I have eyes - I can see who texts whom first and know exactly what it means. (The game is to lean back and see how far they lean forward.)

I came so close to candor tonight, but we saw each other before we met and quickly turned to go other ways. What good does a close acquaintance do if you never put it to good use?

I managed to be euphoric for an entire three days. It's so completely ridiculous that a boy can make a smile stay. But I am much too rational for romance - a kiss is just a kiss. (Even when you dare to hope it is something more.)

Won contest - this time with poetry!

"The Laws of Physics", another piece that I am exceptionally proud of.

You can find more of my poetry at All Poetry.

Placed in a contest

"Societal Standards" under the pen name Sarah Darling.

Third place. :)

The Cold 'What If'

I feel all the more empty for having been briefly fulfilled. After all those years, it finally happened. I found him. I found him, and it feels as though as the world seems to begin, it ends. (It used to be the other way around.)

I am cold with unshed tears, but I will not touch the blankets. They have no comfort for me - not tonight. Like the moon crossing the sun, he has blotted out every trace of light I could half-way see. Or maybe I'm wrong and he is the sun finally moving from behind the moon. But this sun must not be for me.

Why is this such a struggle? This is what I wanted! The 'what if' I have chased since I first began to wake up! But, as I always knew but didn't want to, the 'what if' cannot be answered. And I really can't bring myself to really wish it could be. (That would only be to invite disaster, as what goes around, comes around.)

I want to burble on about him to anyone who'll listen, but I don't know enough to really have anything to say. Besides, it's a useless urge. ("Have you been eating bowls of rainbows with unicorn marshmallows again?" The one who I never realized is so much like him demands. "That'd be ridiculous.")

Goddess, why now? (Everything happens for a reason.) Why, when nothing can really come of it, when he may as well be galaxies away? Now not even that not-so-faceless lover will be summoned to my back, and I can't quite recall whom I hoped would shatter that silly adverb 'platonically.'

That pale substitute has the nerve to wink at me and I can't work up the courage to be the woman I wrote about. Hasn't the silly boy figured it out yet? I may as well be stamped, "Mormon Anti-Standard." And he may as well be stamped, "That 'what if' can't be answered." (This is one of those rare entries where the pronoun always means the same person.)

I had so much hope. My heart was thundering in my ears, and I forgot that logic ever even had a voice. I couldn't sleep for anticipation of waking up the next morning to see his face. (I think the problem is that logic was never really overruled by anyone else, no matter how close one almost came.)

So I'm empty now. (No, that's not true.) I'm shivering with tears that keep breaking through. (Leave the blanket alone - there's nothing it can do.) I can't even remember the sun I used to know, because all I can see is the far away moon. (And yes - this is what I wanted.)

Introductions

"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 wit yooh!"

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 through the writhing throng.

"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.

"Here my shorty is!" Anna stopped suddenly and my nose met with 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 worse than my parents, 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 hitchhiker's thumb, the type of hand that makes a girl's body itching-ly 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, to the swooping hollows of a throat, to a... face.

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

"I'm Repens Lantana," 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 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.

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

"Yes, actually," he replied. "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."

The blood rushed happily to my cheeks, a welcome change from where it had been heading. Repens had noticed my dancing? Repens had thought I was good at dancing?

Oh, God. 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 that I danced like a stripper, even though I kept my clothes on. If Repens 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 Repens's voice, concern for the girl with too many curves and too risqué moves. And she didn't deserve his concern, the filthy tramp, not even a little-itty-teeny-tiny bit, because she'd been imagining what that hand on 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, All-American Reject's "Dirty Little Secret."

"These sleeping dogs won't lay, and now I've tried too hard...."

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 judgment crushed my stomach and the taste of bile flooded 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, 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 a deep breath and let that push me up straight. There was a hold above the sink, slate gray metal, rusting over, empty where the mirror obviously should be. It was a dull, depressing sight, but it seemed to whisper to me, telling me something forbidden.

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

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

And I knew it.

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 buzzing fluorescent light illuminating it all knew it was wrong.

It was time to stop listening to Anna, because I now stood, exhausted and exalted, face-to-face with whom I had become.

Only Yesterday

It suddenly hit me that the boy on the screen is only eighteen - well within my reach. This is my world now - it's not just something off in the distance I can barely see. (And yet that night so long ago when I shimmied innocently and was told I should learn to dance was really only yesterday.)

I've filled notebook after notebook with this glittering trash. There is nothing more concrete and nothing more abstract. I remember when I was told I should really get it published and I laughed (and wondered if it would ever really happen). (Remember when 'social commentary' used to be called 'bitching in your journal'?)

I'm shivering fever-cold as I recall who I used to be and look at who I am now. Have I really changed? (Duh.) But it all comes full circle far too often. (He used to be the boy on the bus I'd look at before smiling to myself.) History is a loop or, at least, a spiral.

The boy on the screen who cries like an artist is really just a reflection of me, roller coaster of body language heart pinned to his sleeve. You want to reach out and touch every wry smile, because you had that thought too, so long ago, only yesterday.

I laugh because I still write poetry - or maybe it's that I only ever wrote prose. Whichever way it happens, it's still where you can find the meat of things - all the overblown pretense, and delusions, and buried deep inside a set of parentheses... (the truth). Though if I recall, I didn't like those all that much back then.

I swore I'd stop writing these, but I missed them too much. (I suppose what is real and powerful inside us can be neither hidden, nor disguised, nor repressed.) I just want to be honest.

So let's say it.

I am lonely.

But I am not depressed. (I gave up on the idea of bleeding grey a long time ago - but then again, it was only yesterday.)

I am vivacious and flirtatious, and when I see the people I used to know, I tend to clam up and laugh to myself. Not because (as I claim) I see all the layers of irony, but because I want to make them think I'm interesting. (I've always tried too hard to make that third impression.)

And they lean their heads in close as the camera catches the flickering end of a caress. They're only eighteen. (I wish you could rewind real life to see these moments.) Good Goddess, they are only eighteen.

I sleep with a stuffed frog that an ex-boyfriend gave me (so long ago, on a bus - no, I guess it wasn't yesterday), not because it reminds me of him, but because it reminds me of his quirky best friend. Bless you, Buddha - why did one of those quirks have to be the habit of not wearing a seat belt? (I suppose all this really comes back to you and John and Jesus.)

Yeah, I'm crying. I have been since before that boy said, "Get off of me." There is some strange drive within that won't let me stop, won't let me sleep. There's all this remembering, all this thinking I still have to do. (Oh, great. We're back to that vague sense of rhyming rhythm once again.) I think there's no such thing as a crazy random (ironic) happenstance. There's always a reason. (I'll swear he's timing the intervals between each wall post.)

You want nothing and you want everything. You want "one." (Remember that conversation we had yesterday about second person?) So make up your mind. There isn't a way to have both, no balancing point to stick your rapier-sharp wit into and see the hilt quiver. There is only "get off of me" and "she really has a secret crush on me." (Whirls of interrelated intricacies.)

There will always be the 'suppose's. Even though I want to stop dealing in those. (Let me take my glasses off.) So, I suppose it was a long time ago, when I stood in a circle and shimmied innocently. And I suppose I can count back the years and find that they aren't as many as I first felt. I suppose it was really only yesterday. (Good God, he's only eighteen, that fellow there, on the tv screen!)

Dying Embers

Cara stood on the beach and stared up at the sky, head cocked to one side. She looked silly.

"Whatcha lookin' at, sweetheart?" I sing-songed, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

She didn't answer, and I ended up caught in that awkward moment where expectations are not met.

"Cara?"

"Hm?" she intoned, her gaze not breaking.

"I threw your book-bag in the lake."

"Good place for it," she murmured.

I massaged the bridge of my nose.

"It's the sunset," she finally told me, her eyes only now meeting mine. "It just struck me down with its perfection. It made me think about all the things I used to love, but that I burned away."

I laughed. After all, this was Cara, everyone's favorite party girl. Her chief concerns were boys, fashion, and popularity, in that order. But now she almost sounded... philosophical.

She sighed, and shook her head, her gaze darting briefly back in the direction of the horizon, which glowed like the final dying embers of a campfire.

"Don't worry on it, Hannah," she assured me. "It won't happen to you."

I followed her back towards the music, only vaguely wondering what she meant.

Galaxies

Do you ever think of me? Oh, I wouldn't have back what we had for the world, full of emptiness and repressed urges. Besides, now you have her. But do you ever think of me, when it's dark at night and you can't quite get to sleep, and to recapture a feeling more than a moment, picture my face before guiltily replacing it with hers?

You never know whose fantasy you are. There may be dozens, even hundreds, of people who imagine you when you're not there. You become important to them through those intimate instants. You'll probably always be ignorant of your minute stardom.

And now I can almost feel your lips pressed against my shoulder as I scribble, cold fingers brushing my hair across my neck. I turn to look, but I know you are across this galaxy of a southern state from me. (Warning: this thought process encompasses more than one person.)

So why do I care? (Excellent question. I may even endeavor to answer.) Well, there's something about multitudes that leaves one feeling utterly alone. (Ah, my favorite paradoxical truth.) No matter how much you smile and laugh, and lie with words about support and family, you know that (I know that) you are (I am) still that girl who scribed nonsensical chimes in the shade of a bus. (Second person narrative is never really second person.) You were the only guy who ever made the lies even a little bit true.

What she says isn't true, though. I don't want you back - not in that sense. I may remember laying in your arms, but it's more for the feeling than for the moment. I am only happy that you two are happy, because though I may miss both your conversation, you both deserve your smiles and romance. (I guess I don't really want to know if you ever think of me. I'm not that important.)

Maybe now I will finally be able to drift to sleep in your embrace, though you may as well be galaxies away.

Contemplatia on a Common Paradox

Sometimes it's worth noticing that no one is really paying attention and that reality is not the same thing to any two people. We are irrevocably separate. Never mind this and that bung about 'other halves' and 'soul mates'. There is no symmetry among human beings.

But that's not to say that some vestige of understanding can't be achieved. One just has to remember that we don't fit in the other person's skin. Sad but true that we even try. (The main component of metaphysics is physical.)

One has to adore the paradox of the social animal that is the human being.

Have To

I crave something new - a dance, a security, a snark, a man - and know that no such thing as what I desire exists. But I crave it anyways. (After all, we all want to be understood.)

I know that neither one of us can be what the other one needs, but we're both just so sick of being lonely. I try to recreate a state of naiveté, where a mere name may make me blush, but reality has eaten all my romance. Even celebrities are far too tangible to be the stuff of my fantasies.

So, maybe there is no solution. Maybe the days where I got lost are long gone. (How ironically appropriate!)

But to never taste euphoria again.... I have to believe that a match is out there.

Plexiglass Possibilities

The phone is stubbornly silent and that hurts.

Not that I expected it to ring - I'm familiar enough with the human species in general and the male gender in particular not to entertain such foolishly romantic notions as the phone's low growl against my bedspread would imply.

I suppose I was just hoping to be surprised.

But I am more aware than ever of this plexiglass possibility cage I'm trapped in, bruising my fists where I would usually pace. As shocking a revelation as it may be, I'm furious. After all, I'm supposed to have options. In theory, I could have anyone I want - I know all the right moves to make, all the right phrases to say, just the right balance of accessibility and challenge to offer.

The problem lays in that I cannot think of one person it might be satisfying to have. (It is not enough to want and it is not enough to be wanted.)

I guess I've been around just long enough to be jaded.

So, I offered him a challenge. Because things can never be so easy as 'yes' or 'no' and 'happily-ever-after.' Or even 'happily-three-months-after.'

"Are you asking me out out of genuine emotion or out of a sense that you should?"

If nothing else, one should always be honest with one's self.

And now my cell goes silent and my anger (why must I be so much more than average?) kicks and screams and rages at these plexiglass possibility walls and I try not to cry over this all-too-anticipated non-answer.

Yet, there's still a stupid, silly spark of hope, wanting to be surprised. (Plexiglass is see-through.)

WON Contest!

I'm even more excited about this particular recognition. After all, "Introductions" is my baby. Most of my stories go through a mere three or four drafts. What won that contest was a tenth, possibly a twelfth. I find it rather fitting, actually, since I also consider this to be my first work of intentional literature rather than just storytelling. If you're super curious, compare what won the contest to the draft I posted here April 16, 2009. I think you'll be amazed at the difference.

Placed in Contest!

"Nobody - Nobody Special" was placed second in Steward House Publishing's weekly youth writing contest for the week of June 22, 2010.

I am very excited. :)

Waking Up

"Kissing is good for you."

"Uh-huh." I batted Elec's hand away from my face. "Only when both parties agree to it."

He reached for me again and I rolled my eyes.

"Touch me again and I will remove your lips," I threatened.

Elec chuckled, leaning back against the locker bank as he dropped his hand.

"That's definitely at odds with what you were saying last night."

I jammed my lock closed and flung my book-bag across my shoulders.

"Yes, well," I sniffed, "that was before you took it upon yourself to make out with my best friend directly in front of me."

He followed me as I attempted to storm off, his long legs making it easy for him to keep up with my stiletto-shortened stride.

"Hey, you were off somewhere with Cameron earlier," he said all too reasonably. "You and I both know that kisses don't mean much."

I rounded on him, his chest ramming into my index finger as I brandished it at him.

"At least Cameron is straight. Hallie is a lesbian. You were making out with my lesbian best friend!" My voice climbed in pitch.

Elec, with the blond curls and deep velvet-brown eyes, the strong jaw and slight stubble, had the nerve to look amused. The rat!

He captured my hand.

"As I said, Rena. Kisses mean nothing."

I jerked away, careful to keep my eyes on the linoleum as I put him behind me.

Only a few days before, I would have said he was right.

Frustration & Stories

I'm discontinuing Bloodstone. I went back, read it, discovered it sucked.

I'm discontinuing The Violet Round. It was originally intended to be Draco/Hermione fanfiction, but the Writers' Club convinced me to write an original draft, which I stupidly did, not thinking about how I wouldn't be able to make my points with an original.

What I'm working on now? It's a sort of hybrid based off the Arsenicia novel I was going to write, but lost most of my work on. (Stupid flashdrive!) It's the same sort of snark that Arsenicia brings, with a similar male/female character dynamic and the changeling premise. However, I feel that this will be stronger because it focuses more on this world than on Dretis, has plenty of room for allusion (Joss Whedon and his works figure heavily), and makes more of a point about identity. The main character? Carnelia Bellis, a girl who wants to grow up to be a female version of Joss Whedon but discovers that she's a succubus. Which, really, explains so much.

Check back for drafts. ;)

The Violet Round (Chapter One, Draft Four)

"Well, this is unprecedented."

Ametrine broke off the kiss with a groan, not bothering to open her eyes, only hoping the mood wasn't broken.

"Fuck off, Maerks!"

She tugged at the boy's hair again, but, unfortunately, he resisted. Balls. Of course her fun would be ruined.

Her eyes reluctantly flickered open to see Caleb edging back to across the circular couch while Devlin Maerks smirked in the doorway.

"Maybe I should go..." the younger witch muttered, tugging awkwardly at his clothes as he stood up.

"No need to rush off on my account," that despicable blond in the doorway drawled. "I was enjoying the show. I had no idea that our upright, perfect little war heroine could be so..." He shifted his smirk to Ametrine, who glared back.

"Naughty." He drew the word out like honey. "Honestly, using our living room as a rendezvous.... Tsk, Dracaena."

Caleb blushed crimson, his eyes glued to the carpet.

"Too much of a hurry to bother with the bedroom, I suppose. I can't say I entirely understand you, Brackner, but desperate times, and all...."

Ametrine finally accepted that her itch was not going to get scratched tonight and sat upright, curling against the side of the couch. All the better to glare with.

Three words: Hell hath no.

She smiled sweetly at her suite-mate.

"Just because I prefer an actual person to Maxim is no reason to be upset, Maerks," she all but purred. "No offense. I know how attached you are to your hand."

Silence reigned for a few long moments.

Caleb, the poor schmuck, took the opportunity to escape.

"Um... Excuse me?" he squeaked.

Maerks didn't even look at the other witch as he strode briskly into the room, moving towards his own dorm.

"Don't let me catch you in here again, Brackner. I will give you a detention."

The two doors clicked shut within moments of each other, a gunshot and its echo.

Ametrine tossed a glossy curl over her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest with a loud sigh.

There went that relationship.

***********************************************

Devlin stomped straight through his room to his shower, grateful, once again, that although he and Dracaena had to share a living room and a kitchenette, they had separate bedrooms with their own personal bathrooms. It would be very embarrassing indeed if she suspected that he was taking a cold shower on her behalf.

It was just that he hadn't expected to come across her like... that. With a guy. Brackner, of all guys, but still a guy; her moans just audible as he kissed her.

After all, Ametrine Dracaena wasn't like the rest of them; no one was supposed to think of her like that. She was the smart one, the heroine, the Witch Who Figured Out How to Save the World and then bothered to come back to school to finish her education. She was supposed to be above silly things like sex and hormones. She was not supposed to be the hot girl who made your mouth go alternately dry then too wet as you watched her shift to drape her arm across the side of the sofa.

Devlin shivered as the water ran over him, leaning against the cool cream marble while he thought.

He'd been delighted when he'd learned that the remaining seniors would get separate suites with their own rooms this year due to the large influx of transfer students. He had looked forward to having his own space to shelter in, away from everyone else.

Of course, his perspective had changed a little when he'd seen that the suite-mate he'd been assigned was Dracaena. He even almost wished that he'd had the ill fortune to draw one of the last stubborn few Speakers.

But they were now a few weeks into the semester, and aside from the initial snarls and a small incident where she'd come across one of his copies of Maxim, the cohabitation had been going surprisingly well. The war seemed to have matured her, and rather than sniping at each other at every opportunity, as they had in the past, the two merely glared. They said as little as possible to one another, ignoring the other each night as she curled up on her strange, round couch and he sat poised on the edge of his leather swivel chair, before silently stamping off to their respective rooms.

It had been far too good to last.

*********************************

"Ametrine!"

Hope made her turn and wait for him, let her grin as he panted a little when he caught up with her.

"Caleb! What's up?"

The tall brunet blushed and tucked his hands into the pockets of his khakis, folding his shoulders in on himself.

"I just wanted to apologize..." he mumbled, his gaze caressing the flagstones.

Her smile vanished.

"I just kind of freaked out, you know?" His brown eyes briefly brushed past hers. "I mean, I shouldn't have left like that, but, you know, he's a TA and a senior, and it's his suite, too, and c-could give me a detention if he wanted to, or worse, and he's kind of intimidating anyways, and I just don't want you to be mad at me, you know?"

"Oh...."

A pack of juniors made their way past them from the cafeteria, talking over each other about their post-breakfast plans. Only one boy among them followed along, listening quietly, and drew Ametrine's eyes.

He seemed to have a spine.

She brought her attentions back to the junior who had once approached her with an easy smile, and a fresh picked flower.

"So, what are you apologizing for again?" she asked.

His blush spread, turning what she could see of his throat a vibrant red. A corner of her mind ironically compared it to the plumage of a male robin's chest, proudly displayed during mating season.

"Nevermind." He ran the words together, turning away as he said them "I'llseeyouaround."

Ametrine didn't stop him from walking off.

Breakfast was more important.

However, when she sat down and bit into a piece of the French toast she had gathered onto her plate, she found that it tasted like ash.

She bit again.

Nope, still not as delicious as she knew it should be.

Her lack of appetite did not go unnoticed.

"It's not poisoned," Danielle reminded her, glancing up from one of her many romance novels. "You can eat it without grimacing after every bite and feeling around for tacks."

The young heroine set down her fork and sighed into her palms.

Danielle put the novel aside expectantly.

"Maerks walked in on me and Caleb last night."

"Ooh!" The blonde girl recoiled. "And he's going to Dr. Tomasi with it?"

"Psh!" The possibility hadn't occurred to Ametrine, but it didn't worry her now that her friend mentioned it. She had enough on the prat to retaliate in such an event. "No. But now Caleb has revealed that he is, in fact, a sniveling coward."

"Oh...." the younger girl put a sympathetic hand on her knee. "I'm sorry. I know you hoped he was..."

"Different?" the Student Minister finished with a wry half smile. "Yeah. But then, I always do, don't I?"

She pushed away from the table, leaving her dishes, and progressed from the hall with her hair a curtain between herself and the world.

******************************************

"Ametrine?" Aiden queried, reaching out a hand to touch her as she brushed past him on his way into the caf, but drawing back before he made actual contact. "What's wrong?"

Her silent back offered no response as she continued on as though she hadn't heard him.

Gary grasped his arm.

"Just let her go," he advised. "There probably isn't anything you can do, anyways."

Aiden glanced at Kelsey, who shrugged.

"Okay," he bit out, shaking off his best friend. "I'll be good."

He all but stalked into the hall, his glower deepening when he saw long golden-blonde hair.

"I'll bet you know something about that," he snapped as he took Ametrine's vacated seat.

Danielle glared coolly across the top of her book, lips pressed tightly together.

Gary and Kelsey exchanged wary looks as they sat across from the pair.

"Well?" Aiden demanded. He wasn't used to people disregarding him, especially those who were in his social circle. Even if the person in question was his best friend's friend whom he'd gladly see at the bottom of the lake.

She slowly turned her head to face him. A beat passed, then two, before an arsenic sweet smile split her face.

"Aiden, I will tell you what that was about once, and only once you grow a pair of balls."

She ignored the affront of the Golden Boy and returned her attentions to her romance novel.

Gary looked amused.

Kelsey studiously admired the fruit she'd heaped on her plate.

Aiden resembled a thundercloud, his grey eyes glowing with fury beneath his dusty brown hair.

"Why, you..." he growled, unable to think of something bad enough to call her.

"Or you could ask Ametrine, the one you're so concerned about," the infuriating woman suggested, condescension dripping, not bothering to glance up. "That would be innovative."

Gary smothered a suspicious sounding cough with his elbow.

Kelsey took the opportunity to turn and wave at someone at a table behind her.

Fine. They were just as bad as she was.

Aiden shoved away from the table and stalked from the room, muttering darkly.

That horrible, awful girl was making his life miserable.

Back at the table, a small smile played about Danielle's slight lips as she stared at the book, but did not read, as she had not throughout the entire exchange.

************************************************

"Varens."

She stopped cold on the spot, a tension that had previously been absent tightening the tendons in her neck as she slowly rotated to face him. The effect was not unpleasant.

Devlin thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame she had become so involved with Dracaena and the rest of the Armed Doves since her transfer from Glorbixon Academy; though they were currently powerful, that wouldn't last forever, and Varens was a member of one of the Founding Families, and pretty, too. She was tall, slender, with breasts just slightly too large for her frame, with long wheat-blonde hair and skin bronzed from the Southern sun.

It didn't hurt that she wore her shirts slightly tighter than was strictly necessary.

"Maerks," she greeted less than warmly, her southern accent doing nothing to belay the chill of her attitude. "What do you want?"

He made sure she saw his eyes rake up her body and smirked.

"Well...."

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes, tossing her head. "Yeah, you stopped me to tell me you think I'm jack-off material. Duh. Old news." Varens gave him a smirk nearly as good as is own, coupled with a disdainful scan of his own body. "What do you really want?"

Devlin found a new spark of respect for the girl. Enough for him to be earnest with her.

Coming to a decision, he turned slightly and offered his arm.

"Walk with me."

She eyed him with suspicion, but slipped into a comfortable escort position with him, her fingers cool against his bare skin.

"So..." she started.

His lips tugged up at the corners.

"So?" he couldn't resist taunting.

Varens gave him a bored look, fanning the spark of respect.

"Whatever it is you want, I don't have to help you, you know," she informed him flatly. "In fact, I probably won't."

He shrugged as though it didn't matter as they strolled through the large double doors out onto the lawn, the sunshine washing over them. It was a lovely Saturday, although hints of storm clouds could be seen at the edge of the lake.

"I know. But I won't be certain until I try, now will I?"

She nodded grudging acknowledgement and fell silent.

Devlin drank in the sunshine, the nature, and the students studying and playing ultimate as they promenaded past, but Varens's eyes remained locked on his face, her expression perturbed.

He was much more interesting than another beautiful day.

Only when they came to a rest on a dock on the lake, far from the other students, did Devlin finally speak again, his gaze somewhere across the waves.

"I need you to help me become friends with Dracaena."