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."

Review on Katie MacAlister's Steamed

Katie MacAlister's books are a staple of any romance lover's collection. Her stories cover various sub-generes, contain actual plots in addition to the romance, and are told with characteristic situational and conversational humor. Even her young adult novels, written under the name Katie Maxwell, are guaranteed to make the reader garner strange looks when read in public places due to the near constant laughter they induce.

Steamed, her latest novel, does not disappoint, although she has tried multiple things that are not her standard; specifically the alternating first-person perspectives and the exploration of a different sub-genre.

The novel opens in a modern day quantum physics laboratory, with Jack Fletcher narrating as his sister thoughtlessly plays with a canister of liquid helium while informing him that she has set him up with a friend who shares an interest in steampunk (a genre of Victorian-ized sci-fi). Jack cares less about the prospective date than the probability of an explosion, which accordingly ensues, opening a new scene from the perspective of Captain Octavia Pye, who finds the pair passed out in the cargo hold of her airship in an alternate - you guessed it - steampunk dimension.

Octavia's characterization is perhaps the best part of the novel, at least in terms of Katie Mac's development as an author. With her formal speech and subtle phrasing, she is a strong, pragmatic heroine who provides the straight-man partner to many of the more zany characters and situations in the novel. Her voice is quite distinct from Jack's, especially towards the onset of the book, though the two start to blend towards the conclusion. For those readers who loathe the love-at-first-sight scenario, Octavia's cool reason as she analyzes her attraction to Jack is absolutely refreshing. However, when it is revealed that Octavia too is a traveler from our dimension, it screeches with hard friction against her initial response to the explanation for her discovery of Jack and his sister, Hallie, on board her ship.

Jack Fletcher, though not as consistently drawn a character as Octavia, is at least an interesting addition to the story. He initially appears dressed in a t-shirt marked "Airship Pirates," providing the first nod to Jack Sparrow of Pirates of the Caribbean; his whimsical nature and whole-hearted pursuit of half-baked plans gives the second and third nods. Though we are told that he is a Quaker, and that he is not necessarily a very devoted Quaker, his responses to conflict are unpredictable, often violent but sometimes pointedly pacifist. This was likely an attempt to provide ironic humor, but it ends up being simply contradictory, much like our initial impression of Jack as a modest man and his later portrayal as jealous and cocky, speaking in poetic/cliched exclamations in regards to Octavia.

The constant switching between their two perspectives is accomplished through the presence or absence of a Captain's log. The main problem with this method is that never once in the exceptionally detailed log book does it mention Octavia's keeping of said log book. But, at the end of the novel, when Jack and Octavia's voices become more difficult to differentiate, it is exceedingly useful to the reader, though the device should have been excludable entirely. However, at least the method is consistent with the aether-driven universe that MacAlister portrays.

The unique setting is one of the main reasons that Steamed is so enjoyable, as it provides a fun and adventurous plot to counteract the necessary "corniness" of the genre. The steampunk world is rife with wars, emperors, and revolutionaries, including the arbitrary and sometimes horrifying acts that accompany such things. Within a few chapters of Jack and Hallie's arrival, Hallie is arrested by the Emperor's agents as a spy, and it is up to Jack and Octavia to find some way to rescue her before she is hanged. This leads to run-ins with the radical revolutionary forces, battles and kidnappings by the agents of the encroaching Moghul Empire, and our hero and heroine having sex... in a secret passageway adjoining the Emperor's bedchamber (Oops!).

Though certainly not high literature, Steamed is well-worth the read in terms of laugh-out-loud entertainment.

Review on Erin McCarthy's Mouth to Mouth

Erin McCarthy's work is usually typified by her witty, quirky heroines and the absurd situations they find themselves in. She builds strong plots, sometimes out of everyday situations, and sometimes out of specific subcultures (vampiric politics and Nascar racing are two examples). When smut occurs in her novels, it serves a purpose and advances the plot in addition to being both plausible and entertaining.

Mouth to Mouth has none of these characteristics. The heroine is Laurel Wilkins, a moneyed deaf woman who is generally shy and cautious, but wishes to have a wild affair. Her main contribution to the story is either as a victim of white collar crime or a body cavity to be filled during the frequent and gratuitous sexual interludes she shares with the over-protective police officer investigating the crime. Interludes which, despite an occasional gem of imagery, are uninspiring, but somehow lead the pair to fall in love. It is clear throughout it all that McCarthy has little sympathy with either character, as both come off stilted and a tad caricatured throughout. Any natural flow or humor to be found comes from either Laurel's mother or the side pairing, which McCarthy transitions to and from with awkward jolts. The overall effect is the feeling that one is reading a cliched romance novel - something that no reader wants to experience.

However, the book is not without some merits. It is perhaps one of the best portrayals of obstacles to love that McCarthy has ever written - the emotions that lead the characters to resist falling in love are realistic to their situations, with Laurel struggling with her need for independence versus her desire for the over-protective and sometimes over-bearing hero, and the hero, Russ, dealing with a conflict of interest posed by his desires for his family and the blossoming relationship. It is the two being in love that the reader has difficulty swallowing.

The supporting characters are also bright spots in this novel. Sean, Russ's little brother, is a plausible representation of a teenaged boy who has just lost his parents, and although there is perhaps too much disparity between Laurel's perception of her mother and the way she comes across to the reader, Beverly Wilkins is also strong, with a distinct voice. The villain of the novel introduces some elements that are never fully explored, but is consistent and plausible as a character, and ultimately brings about the conclusion of the novel, ending the tortuous and smut-ridden courtship between the main characters, who, of course, live happily ever after.

But these things are not enough to carry the novel, especially if one is accustomed to the higher quality of romantic literature that Erin McCarthy normally produces. Quite frankly, if this was the first novel she had written, she would not be a published author. It lacks all the richness of plot, character development, message, and voice that the title 'literature' demands, failing to deliver more than the barest gleam of entertainment.

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.