The Mighty Pen

Wakeful Dreamer

2009-11-27T12:17:00.001-05:00

I don't sleep.

I never have, even as a young child. I remember hiding beneath the thick quilts, shivering despite being drenched with sweat. Noises surrounded me, pressing in on me, suffocating me, slowly but surely. Eerie howls and rustling grated harshly in my ears, and I hid deeper and deeper. Even now I can almost hear them.

The dark was loud in itself. It spoke to me, whispered to me, telling me terrible, terrible things that sent quivers down my spine. I didn't like what it said, the scenes it painted in my mind. Of love, and of hate; of blood, and of tears; of life, and of death, and the very things that made up the world we know.

It never seemed to silence itself, and I always wished it would – or at least that I could sleep, could close my eyes when it grew dark and open them when light came back, like everyone else. Whenever I managed to get through the night, through the looming shadows and lumbering figures, through the whispers and stories, I melted with relief, bones trembling and face small but drawn.

Everyone could tell there was something wrong with me just by looking. My pale skin, hollow eyes with the deep shadows beneath them, thin lips that never moved to form words, and my drawings. In preschool, once, we were told to illustrate what we wanted to be when we grew up.

Around the room, little girls drew crude ballerinas, in light pink tutus, gracefully dancing across a ballroom floor, and little boys drew clumsy pictures of football players, scoring touchdown after touchdown, or baseball players, slamming home runs.

But then there was me, sitting by myself in the corner. The teacher – a short, kindly old lady – tried to hand me a piece of paper and some crayons. “Draw what you want to be,” she urged me quietly. “Anything – anything at all.”

Mostly out of annoyance, I took the paper, scorning the crayons in favor of a long, thin pencil. I busily set to work, the words of night still echoing in my mind. That previous night, it had told me about a girl named Joan. She was set on fire, it said, and burned. It showed me the scent of scorching flesh, played me the sound of dying screams of agony, and asked me if I wanted to feel the pain. The pain of flames tearing me apart, of a slow death watching myself die in bits and pieces. Frantically, I had refused, huddling beneath the blankets. It told me that if I didn't want to feel pain, I had to cause it. And so it taught me how to set people, houses, anything on fire successfully, and let me experience the thrilling joy of arson.

It had been the first time the night had made me kill someone. Hurt someone, scar someone – I had done that. But killing...I didn't feel the joy the night told me about. I didn't feel the pleasure that lifted you up and carried you away, the satisfaction that swirled around you. And the night had been angry with me, and threatened to set me on fire and see if I felt the joy then. So I had lied and told it that I loved the feeling, and that I only wanted to do it again and again and again.

Even though I didn't. It was also the first time I lied to the night, and since I lied to it I had to keep up the pretense of that lie. There was no doubt in my young mind that it was constantly watching me, hoping to catch me in a lie and then find some horrible way to exterminate me. And so since I said I loved arson, I drew myself as an arsonist.

The night had showed me how to draw, once. It taught me the way to hold a pencil and let what is your mind flow onto the paper. I remembered what it told me, about thinking only of the image in my mind, ignoring the pencil in my hand and paper beneath the point. The only canvas in the world, it had said, is the world itself.

And when I was done, I gazed upon it in satisfaction. There was I, tall and fearsome, a blazing grin upon my face. In front of me was a large, burning house, and inside, two small children about my age screaming. Their faces were twisted and battered, and their flesh burning.

It was night outside.

The teacher, happy to see evidence of drawing on the paper, shuffled over. “Let's see what a beautiful picture you drew,” she said cheerfully, probably glad about making a breakthrough. I glanced up at her in annoyance, but it was too late to stop her, and she was already studying the drawing, smile still frozen on her face.

She looked at me, and then back at the paper. “Did you – did you draw this?” she finally asked, voice frail and trembling. “James?”

I didn't respond, only ignoring her as I looked at the paper, a small smile on my face. The night would certainly be fooled by this. It would know I enjoyed arson, and wouldn't hurt me.

Standing up suddenly, she hurried over to the telephone and began making a call, knowing my home number by heart.

By heart and by life; by grave and by death. Night had taught me that.

It was around then that I began seeing a therapist. I disliked those sessions with the psychologist, who asked me annoying questions and wanted me to draw pictures all the time. He told my parents I was an artistic genius – that I had a tremendously high IQ, and because of that, I was different. The night told me IQ meant nothing, and that they were all wrong. I was nothing special. The only thing they got right, it said, was that I was different. Hopelessly different, and no one would ever like me. By heart and by life, it told me. By grave and by death.

I don't remember how long I was afraid of night, but by the time I was eight I no longer was. Night was my friend, my lover, my family. Night was everything I would ever need, and nothing more. It taught me about death and life, and showed me the complexities of human nature. Humans, it said, were all invariably stupid and evil. They were cruel and vicious at heart, like their monkey ancestors, and wholly unable to change.

Except I was different. I was its child, it explained. And a child of the night needed no one. It was because of this, I soon realized, that I had no friends. Everyone stayed far away from me, eyeing me worriedly when I came too close and whispering to each other about me. Teachers heard about me long in advance, and psychologists fretted that I would only grow more and more withdrawn. They recommended pulling me out of public school and placing me with other geniuses.

And that was how I ended up at the School of the Gifted and Talented. SGT was filled with rejects that had brains, or as the night explained to me, humans so human-like they weren't accepted. I still didn't make friends there, although some people tried to befriend me. But I brushed them off, because I didn't need them. I was a child of the night.

By the time I was eleven, I regularly wandered the streets with the night, only really comfortable when I was alone. Weather didn't affect me, and I carried out the tasks night told me to do. Sometimes I wondered why I had to destroy a certain house, or kill a certain animal, or murder a certain human, but increasingly less and less. Night knew my thoughts, and rebuked me whenever I had these doubting thoughts. A child never doubt its father, it told me. Even the humans got that right in their book. Those stupid psychologists diagnosed me with paranoia – as if they would know whatever they're talking about. Had they ever killed, destructed, butchered? If they hadn't, how could they presume to call themselves experts of the human mind, when they hadn't ever explored all its avenues?

I didn't need to eat much. Knowledge was my nourishment – not the garbage found in books, of course, but what the night told me. There were times when all through the dark it taught me, of flora and fauna, how the world works, of science that could defeat time, and of mathematics that could defeat any corporate environment. Food was only necessary once or twice every handful of days. I may have been thin and lean, but I still had enough to survive on – plenty, in fact. They called me anorexic; I called them idiots. By heart and by life, I remembered. By grave and by death. What did they know?

It wasn't until I was thirteen that I learned, truly, how to live. The physical world was one thing, but I had never really known of the dream world. Night called it Death, and it was a world that only I, a child of the night, could enter. Even night had to stay behind, only watching.

I could wander from dream to dream, silently observing and learning. What surprised me was that I could do whatever I wanted, think whatever pleased me, and night would never know unless I told it. It was the ultimate freedom, Death, and I visited it more and more.

Before too long I discovered I could change them, and this gave me such pleasure that it was the only thing that could make me happy. The other world – it was stupid, it was boring, and there was no point to it. Listlessly go from place to place, where was the fun, the novelty in it? Death was so much better. The psychologists labeled me as clinically depressed. They were so, so hopelessly ignorant.

It was in the middle of such a dream, when I was fifteen, that I first saw her. I was gliding from branch to branch of a tall, twisted tree, my hands easily grasping each gnarled limb and my feet pushing off of them as I went. With every touch, each tree grew increasingly diseased, until it almost withered away. With every breath I exhaled, a four-eyed raven flapped around, spikes protruding from its ebony feathers along its spine, and long, poison-tipped talons from its feet.

The air, which smelled sweet and pure, with floral hints, quickly grew sour and repulsive. My eyes scanning the ground from above, I quickly spotted the dreamer. She was a young girl, and in her dream, she had cropped black hair with beautiful blue eyes. In reality, she probably wasn't so beautiful. Her eyes were wide and frightened as she wandered through the dark, malicious forest I had created for her. I smiled, teeth glinting in the dark of Death, as she whimpered quietly.

I whispered a single word in the ear of one four-eyed raven, which then swooped down beside her, cawing loudly. The girl let out a cry of terror and started running, but I stopped her in her tracks. She struggled, but was no match for my powers, and could only watch as the raven drew closer and closer. Her mouth opened, but I swallowed the scream that came.

“Is that really the best you could come up with?”

Startled, I whipped around, to see nothing. “Show yourself,” I commanded, in an unwavering voice. Death was my realm.

There was a flitting movement, but I saw nothing. “So unimaginative...especially for a child of the night,” her – for it was definitely a girl – taunting voice came. “All you can do is frighten little humans?”

I bared my fangs. “Come here and say that, coward!” I hissed.

And finally, she did come, perching beside me on the branch. Her expression was cocky, large brown eyes studying me condescendingly. “You think yourself a bit of a lord, don't you,” she said, not even making it a question. Her voice was amused. “The only child of the night, I bet.”

“What are you talking about?” I snarled.

She laughed. “There are many of us.” Leaning forward until her face was almost in mine, she continued, “I've been watching you for a while. Don't you think there's more to this than petty nightmares? Have you ever tried...” The girl breathed, “...scaring someone to death?”

I recoiled. “Scaring someone to death?”

“Controlling their thoughts? Their actions?”

“Is that...” I shook my head. “That's not possible!”

She cocked her head. “I thought you might have to see it to believe it. Follow me.” She coyly beckoned me with a single finger, and I struggled to catch up with her as she easily bound through the Death territory to another dream.

We arrived at a pitch black place, where I could see nothing, despite my unusually strong night vision. “This,” the girl said in a hushed voice. “is true Death.” There was a movement beside me, and the darkness faded to an open, grassy meadow. “And this,” she said. “is life.”

I stared at her. “You...brought the dreamer back to life?”

She smiled smugly. Waving a hand in the air, it dimmed to the same blackness again. “And to death,” she said, a hint of a giggle in her voice. “It takes a lot of practice. Maybe you'll be able to do it sometime.”

“Wait,” I called, as she started to bound away. My eyes began to adjust to the Death beyond all other Deaths. “How many of us are there?”

She turned and winked. “Lots.”

“And...what's your name?”

But she was already gone.

Later, when I was with night and not Death, I mentioned her, and I felt it bristle. Don't go near her, it warned me. It's dangerous. Stay away. I agreed, but I knew I would see her again. Night couldn't follow me into Death.

And so my first rebellious thoughts began to fester.

The following nights I went straight to Death, and attempted to bring dreamers to true Death and then life again. The secret was in the mind, I soon found, and before long I was able to do it, for a good part of the time. I practiced for several weeks until I fully mastered it, and then I sought out that strange girl.

She was different, like me, I believed. Although she wasn't very beautiful, something about her was appealing...like a different kind of beauty. I thought about her all the time, the way she easily accomplished things. She was better than me, I concluded. And I didn't feel envy, but something else. Something I had never felt before.

I thought it might be love.

When I next found her, she was talking to a dreamer, something I had never even dared to try. I hid behind a bush and watched her speak. The dreamer, eyes wide, took in everything she said. She was quickly done, and then glided over to me. “Hello, again.”

I smiled, surprising myself. “Hi.”

“I suppose you think yourself pretty clever for being to able to kill and revive, huh?” she asked, crossing her arms.

I blinked. “How did you know I was able to do that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, why else would you try to find me?”

Shrugging, I replied, “Dunno. So what were you doing? Talking to the dreamer, I mean.”

She turned and looked up at the sky. “Didn't you just answer your question?”

“Huh?”

“You asked what I was doing. I was talking to the dreamer.”

I licked my lips. “I mean...why? What were you saying?”

She yawned, and then slid a smile my way. As if children of the night would ever be sleepy. “The dreamer was my math teacher. I told her to give me a good grade.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You controlled a dreamer for something that...that petty?” I accused her, using the same word she had used to describe me a month ago.

“Well, I wasn't doing too well in that class.”

“But what's the point? Why do you even care?”

The girl glanced at me. “Why did you kill and revive that dreamer over and over again? For practice. It's the same thing, bozo.”

“Oh.”

For months after that I met her every day, and she taught me how to do things, like control people and manipulate them. I managed to get the psychologists off my tail and kept my parents out of my business, too.

One day, she seemed excited about something, and ran up to me as soon as she saw me, different from her usual detached self. “What's the matter?” I asked in surprise.

“I think I've just figured out something new!” she said, grinning. “I can choose the dreamer now, instead of having to go from dream to dream until I find the one I want.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded. “It's all mental. The same powers that allow humans to create their dreams of Death are the same that let us do these things, right?”

I nodded as well. “Yeah. I know that.”

“Well,” the girl continued. “If you extend these mental powers outside the Death realm instead of inside it...you reach the physical world.”

My eyes widened. “I think I see what you're saying.”

We practiced it together, shivers running through my body all the while at being so close, so intimate with the girl. At one point, when we were nearly successful, I suddenly asked her, “What's your name?”

She glanced at me. “Adela,” she said softly.

“I'm James,” I replied hesitantly.

Both uneasy with the emotions inside us, we turned back to the task at hand. Closing our eyes, we combined all our strength and reached out to an arbitrary person – the governor of Wisconsin, as it was.

Giddy, we realized we were inside his dream. Laughing together, we hugged, and then abruptly pulled away, both of us blushing.

For a long time after that, I didn't see her. Adela was gone, and it was just me. I spent a year like that, lonely and cold, as if I was that young, frightened child again. By the time I turned seventeen, I had managed to almost completely forget about her, and it was just me and night again.

But then suddenly, she came. It was as abrupt and startling as the first time we met, but she was different. Whereas before she had been sadistic, cocky, and condescending, there was something special about her. Adela seemed kind and modest, and she slowly walked up to me. “James,” she said in that gentle voice I had only heard her use once before. “It's been a while.”

I glanced at her, surprised. “Uh, Adela. Hi.”

She watched me finish instructing a dreamer to hijack a plane, and then asked, “Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why do you want him to do that?” Her voice brimmed with anguish.

“What's wrong with you?” I snapped, irritated by her strange softness. “You're acting like a human.”

She shook her head. “James, you don't understand.”

“You're right about that.”

“James, look. A while after we figured out how to reach outside Death, I...” she hesitated. “I was curious. So I visited the dreams of a fetus.”

I stared at her. “A fetus?”

“Yes. And...I can't even describe it.” Adela looked up at me, her eyes wide and – what was that? Hopeful. “It was so...amazing, so spectacular!” She placed her hands in mine, sending those familiar shivers through me. “I can sleep now. And night no longer bothers me. It's so wonderful!”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about? What's wrong with you?”

“No,” she said. “You still don't get it. You have to visit one of those dreams too. Everything will make sense.”

Narrowing my eyes, I snapped, “Don't you even get what's happening to you?” I shook her hands of off mine in disgust. “You're human now, idiot. I don't know how you screwed this up, but you did. You don't deserve to be a child of the night anymore.”

Her eyes widened. “James...”

I took a step closer to her and she flinched. “Look at what I've mastered,” I whispered, eyes gleaming. I raised my hand and let swiftly dropped it. Adela gasped and fell to the ground, before slowly fading to dust.

Raising my head to the sky, I smiled. “Hear me, Death,” I purred. “Did I do well?”

And it rewarded me greatly.

A week passed, and I still remembered Adela's words. She had talked in such idiotic adoring tones of the fetus's dream. What could a fetus possibly dream of, anyway? Out of pure curiosity, I visited.

When I arrived, I closed my eyes immediately. It was all around me – something I couldn't describe, but made my pulse pound and my blood freeze. I trembled, something I hadn't done since I was a very young child. Angry at myself for being afraid, I forced my eyes open and looked upon what lay before me.

My breath escaped from me, and I fell to my knees. Lowering my head, I cried for the first time in my life.

Now I See

2009-10-30T21:10:00.001-04:00

The golden castle, end on end
across the murky waters
What lurks within the hidden
bend?
A world so far removed
from mine?

The twisted lumped flesh
of corpses entwined
arm upon arm, leg upon leg
But there's more to be
found
A secret, sweet and fresh

This window is so narrow
and such an obstructed view
can't possibly let any light
shine in
and darkness too

These stones that shield
from outward danger
A barrier against all plights
block not just against
the sword and spear
but swaying tree and rich field
as well

The waters that run so deep
that flow so fast
they whisper to me
They tell me things
and guide me through my dreams
so I shan't be lost in sleep

Come play with us
they call
Come and see the wonders
beyond the dull, gray wall

I wish I could
I say
I want to, I need to
If I could, how I would

There's a way
they tell me
an easy, a simple way
They tell me,
and they hand it to me,
and I see

Only I hold the knife
in my hand
Only I control the movements
the delicate trembling
of the blade
In one fell swoop
I take away
my imprisoned life

It's mine, now
the freedom to be who
I want to be
to do
what I want to do

For with the cutting
of my chain
I easily took away
the pain
And now I'm here,
and now I'm free

And now I see what lies beneath
the icy waters
of the deep.

Masquerade

2009-10-16T16:30:00.002-04:00

I'm smiling. Laughing so hard, I need to support myself on the desk. They're laughing too. My voice is empty, hollow, fake to me, but they don't notice. To them, it's an ordinary day with ordinary people, in an ordinary school in an ordinary world. They can think what they will, and my joyless laughter can ring as it will, but it won't change the scars deep inside me, won't change the eroding worry in my mind, my heart.

Class has started now, and we're sitting down, quiet. I take out my homework, the short project I labored over the previous afternoon. It was a nice afternoon. Ordinary. The sheet of paper, neatly typed, looks fine to me. My writing is clear, and it flows, words written by a girl who couldn't have been me. She wasn't nauseous, wasn't sick to the pits of her stomach. She was happy and smiling and laughing, but not like I do. Because she was fine. Ordinary.

Untouched.

I listen, calm, as the teacher explains. Her voice is croaky, weathered, tired. The words stagger out of her mouth, jumbled and crashing into each other, before falling in a silent heap. My pen twirls between my fingers, an endless stream of light blue. Will it ever stop? Will it, at some point, simply give up, weary of this world, the never-ending spin?

It won't. Not now, anyway. It keeps on going, for what is a few moments for me and an eternity for it. The teacher might still be talking, or she might not. I can't hear - the world is quiet, like two hands are clamped over my ears. Only the rush of blood in my head echoes, until it is consuming me, until I'm no longer a person with thoughts and feelings but just another cell flowing through a body, a thoughtless cell with one task in mind, an endless task.

They're calling me. Pulling me back, closer, closer, like a fly-away balloon being tethered again. I blink and flush, when I see the teacher is impatiently in front of me. She repeats a question, and I answer. My voice is perky, cheery, confident.

But I don't want it to be. I want to rip off this mask and lock myself in my room, I want to hide and hide, and hope they never find me. I don't want to face another sleepless night, just me and the tick-tick-ticking clock, me and the few cars zooming along the road, me and the other lost souls of this world.

The teacher has moved on, and is elaborating on what I said. I look down on my paper, and am surprised to see that I was taking notes, because there they are, in my crisp handwriting, bold across the bright white page, snugly between the blue lines. My fingers continue to spin the pen. On and on and on.

My heart isn't broken. It wasn't taken and snapped in half, and placed back in. It was crumpled. Shattered. Nuked. I place my hand there, but it still beats. Imagine. A pile of concrete concern and pain can be poured on it, but it will still pulse.

It beats constantly, but at ragged intervals. Like the fluctuating speed of the pen in my fingers. Suddenly, I know that if my pen stops spinning, if it ceases to keep going, my heart will stop too.

Dead.

My heart beats faster, and my pen flies around my thumb. A classmate's voice is loud, almost obnoxiously so, but the thud of my heart is louder. The rough noise of my breath. The scrape of my feet as they brush the tiled floor.

The pen drops, and I stare at it for a moment, feeling that moment of previous pain amplified, amplified by a million times, or a billion, or by a number we have no name for. Then there's a voice, a tap on my shoulder. I look up and realize the tears are streaming down my face, burning hot, and I stand up, suddenly, out of my chair. I mutter something and stumble out, and then I'm running, faster and faster, like I can run away from everything. Leave it behind and never come back.

But I have to stop, eventually, and so I do. I push into the bathroom and lock myself in a stall, sliding down to the floor.

I sat there for a few seconds. Twenty minutes. An hour. A year. The tears keep coming, but slow, steady. They drip to the floor, competing with the rhythmic tempo of the leaky faucet. I feel dizzy, lost, disoriented.

How could it happen to me? It happens to people in books, in movies, in stories and plays, but never to real life people. Maybe in somewhere far, far away, but to me?

I never thought it would hurt so bad, like thorns slicing through my flesh, the blood dribbling down. My arms are wrapped around me and I look up, from the cramped bathroom stall, to the grimy window. It's so dirty you would think nothing could possibly go through it, but sunlight still floods in. It doesn't care about the scum that ails it, just passes straight through it.

The janitor walks in, whistling. I watch her spray something on it, and then wipe away the grime with a rag. Gone. Just like that.

Who?

2009-10-11T10:04:00.003-04:00

The lone flame trembles
in the endless night
the small circle of light
wavering

Who will break my fall
when I begin my descent?
Who will be there to stop me
when the taut ropes snap?

The howling wind blows past
carelessly
taking down the feeble
feeble
flame

Who will hold me back
when I try to escape?
Who will keep my frozen heart
when I've cast it away?

The moon has lit
The stars have sung
The flame has been
extinguished
The dark is here,
the dark is now

Who will keep my company
as I prowl the land?
Who will shield me from the sights
of a world that has long ended?

Time is gone,
the past, present,
and all hopes of a future
The world has sunk
All life snuffed out

Who will be there
when the hunger awakes in me?
Who will give me love
when I give hate?

The rustling of nothing
echoes in the air
Eerie and sharp
cold and wet

Who will I kill tonight?

Overdue

2009-10-03T12:59:00.002-04:00

The television blared, some program about gorillas. Rachel lounged on the sofa, half-paying attention as she slowly chewed the TV dinner. Not too far away was David, relaxing on the dull red armchair, flipping through the newspaper.

"Well," he said at last. "They say a woman was found dead. Lying in the middle of the street, she was."

Rachel switched the channel to the Late Show. "Was she?"

"Was murdered. Brutally, they say, with a lot of blood." David turned to the next page. "And she was a widow, to top it off, with three kids, not even ten years old, the eldest."

"Terrible," she replied, grimacing. "The state of crime these days."

"Just awful."

Rachel studied her crusted food. "I went to the library today. Your books were long overdue, and I had to pay a fine."

"Were they?"

She glanced irritably at him. "Yes, they were, and you really must be careful."

The newspaper rustled softly. Rachel sighed and put down her fork. "The fines are terribly high these days."

"Just awful."

The Rain

2009-09-18T19:24:00.005-04:00

Kelsey glowered at everyone she passed as she stormed out of the school's front doors. Volleyball was canceled; it was raining; she had no umbrella and her parents were too "busy" to pick her up. A mousy boy crashed into her and she violently shoved him off, snapping, "Watch where you're going!" He mumbled something and quickly sprinted away.

The rain was pouring down in sheets of gray, slamming into her brand-new clothes and turning her adorable shoes into a soggy mess. She shivered in her tight t-shirt and started to walk faster and faster. What if someone important saw her, utterly bedraggled, during her thirty-minute walk home? Kelsey kicked a rock and then glared at it when her toe began to hurt. It was going to be a much longer walk than normal.

***

The man's slender fingers stroked his smooth chin as his pale eyes watched the falling rain. It was the perfect weather. Who would notice a small girl in times like this? Everyone would be too concerned with their clothes, and their happiness to notice one little girl who was there one moment and gone the next.

The perfect weather.

***

She hummed a tune to herself as she rocked the sleeping baby, the young boy pressed against her garish yellow apron, dotted with bright red roses. The weather was positively dreary outside - she much preferred the bright shine of the sun gazing in from outside, with the cerulean canvas of the sky overhead. Little Georgie liked that weather too, for he always had a charming smile on his face on those nice days.

But soon the clouds would clear up - in an hour at most. Already the rain had lightened up a little, surely, even if it was imperceptible. "And then we'll go for a walk in the park," she told Georgie. "A nice, long walk in the park where you can see the butterflies and the bunnies and flowers. Then we'll get home and put supper on the table, just in time for Daddy."

Georgie's long eyelashes fluttered, but he remained asleep, as perfect as can be.

The phone rang.

***

A small, green Honda pulled up to the curb, and Kelsey eyed it warily. She had heard enough times in school about the danger of kidnappers, and that, she thought ironically to herself, would just be the finishing touch to her very most perfect day. Inside, though, was a large, grinning woman with a fat little baby in her arms, warmly calling, "Kelsey, dear! Would you like a ride? Your father asked me to come pick you up, such a nice fellow."

"No, th -" she automatically began, and then stopped suddenly. Screw this, she thought. I'm wet and tired and hungry, and my clothes are messed up and it's just a woman anyway, a mother with her little baby. "Actually, yes, thank you." She smiled and sat down on the seat beside the woman.

As they began to drive, the woman cheerily introduced herself, "I'm Mrs. Morrow, I just moved in from down the block!"

Kelsey vaguely recalled something about a family with a baby moving in nearby.

"Little Georgie here is six months old," she continued with pride. "Such a cute little boy, isn't he?"

"Very cute," she politely answered, glancing guiltily at the puddle forming on the floor.

The woman chattered on, "My husband, he's an accountant. Works for a firm about twenty minutes away. Say, is your father an accountant?"

Kelsey looked up at her, confused. "My father? Um, no, he's a lawyer."

She squinted at her. "Oh, really, well, I wouldn't have thought. He just didn't seem that type, you know? Dark, quiet man, isn't he?"

"Dad? Quiet?" Kelsey laughed. "No, he's the most talkative guy in town."

Chuckling, she replied, "Guess he had a lot on his mind or something. Well, my husband is a quiet man but I do like to talk a bit. Not a gossiper, mind you, but I do like my neighborly meets with the other women in town."

She continued to talk in a loud voice, barely pausing for breath, while Kelsey turned and looked out the window. The rain didn't cease.

***

The car stopped in front of his house, and the girl got out, looking bewildered. The foolish woman hustled her up to the door, mouth still flapping, and the young girl utterly confused, but unable to even protest. With a cheery wave, Morrow turned and quickly got back into the car, making sure her precious Georgie was all right.

He might like to get his hands on little Georgie someday, he thought. But not until he got older, of course. His pale hands reached out and opened the door, clutching her arm and dragging her inside.

"There's some mistake!" she yelped, brown eyes frantic as she slowly realized what had happened. The others, they were so much slower than her. Dull little children who believe their lives are too perfect for anything to happen to them.

His intense eyes turned onto hers. "There is no mistake, Kelsey," he drawled. "Do come into the living room, will you? Have a seat."

Her eyes darted to the door, and he squeezed her arm harder. "Have a seat."

She then saw a bulge under his clothing in a shape she ought to know very well from movies, and slowly followed him, the tears already pooling in her eyes.

***

They call it night, even though it's really half day. But in this house, it was night the whole time.

The Nest

2009-09-07T19:28:00.003-04:00

Jake crouched on the red tiles of the kitchen floor, examining a stray ant through his new magnifying legs. "Look," he said in a hushed voice. "It's got six legs!"

"That's right," his mother replied absent-mindedly, checking on the chicken inside the oven. Unsatisfied, she placed it back in and turned to the spaghetti.

Sighing in contentment, he leaned back against the wall and breathed in the deep, delicious aromas swirling around the room. It was warm and cozy, the perfect place to be during the frigid winter. Tail wagging, Kodak padded over to him, her lustrous, golden fur shining in the bright light. "Hi, girl," he murmured, stroking her.

She licked his face and then settled on the floor, resting her head in his lap. Giggling, he patted her head. Her long tail thumped against the floor, making him laugh harder. Jake's father called from the den, "Food, Kodak!"

Yawning, she stood up and lumbered away in a dignified manner, very different from a few years ago, when she would skid around the house, barking, at the slightest noise. Jake got to his feet as well and picked up his magnifying glass, studying the kitchen counter. "Would you grab me a can of spaghetti sauce?" his mother asked. "I don't think I'll have time to make my own before your grandmother gets here."

He glanced at her. "In...in the cellar?"

"Of course." She laughed lightly. "Where else would it be?"

"But there are monsters in there!"

"Don't be silly, Jake. There are no such things. You're a big boy now, aren't you? Six years old."

He put down the glass and hesitantly walked over to the cellar door. Slowly, he reached out and gripped the knob. As soon as he made contact with the ancient brass, his body felt like it was pierced with ice. Trembling, he opened it, bracing himself against the freezing cold wave that flowed through him.

Trying to take deep breaths, he took a tentative step onto the first stair. Pain like electricity shocked him, and he gasped. Jake could already tell that today was different. Whatever was in there was in a terrible mood, a hungry mood. He looked over his shoulder. Was it too late to go back inside? Maybe if he threw a tantrum...

The door swung shut with an ominous click, and his heart jumped. Jake turned around, sweat sliding down his cheeks, and tentatively reached forward for the door knob. His fingers were a hair's width from the rusty instrument, but suddenly stopped. Grunting, he tried to reach it, but couldn't and he knew he was trapped.

Jake's stomach clenched, and he slowly backed away from the door. Something shifted beneath his feet, but he couldn't scream, couldn't yell, could only whimper as he landed, hard, against the concrete floor. His head smashed into it with a nasty thud, and the darkness swam before his eyes. There was a searing light, and then all was black.

One Second

2009-08-30T10:34:00.004-04:00

Erica stood in the elevator, hunched over, hands gripping the shining bar. Her eyes were shut, desperately holding the tears that threatened to pour over. Knuckles white, she took in deep, shuddering breaths.

She glanced up in the mirror and saw her red, blotchy face and quickly lowered her eyes again to the thin, brown carpet. Scrabbling in her pockets, Erica found a crumpled tissue and pressed it to her eyes. Any moment, the elevator would stop and she would be forced to walk out and face them. She knew what they would say, what they would do to her, because she had said it and done it to others, never thinking it would happen to her.

Erica remembered the head-spinning music that seemed to flow in her blood, until her entire mind was overwhelmed by the events and she could only act, pushing, screaming in laughter, shouting insults in a slurred voice. The girl - who had it been? - stumbled around the room, tears streaming down her face, struggling not to lose it, but they had wanted her to lose it, wanted her go crazy. And then finally she had, screeching in what had been the most hilarious way, fear overflowing in her glazed eyes.

It had been funny at the time. Didn't the girl deserve it? Of course she did. There was no question about it, and besides, that's what happens. The girl shouldn't have been so stupid.

But now it wasn't funny. Because this time, it was Erica who was the pig going to the slaughterhouse. She forced herself to breathe slowly. Don't panic. Panic will make it worse. The very least she could do was hold herself with dignity.

She turned to the elevator and squinted at the glass. Still another fifteen seconds before she arrived. The elevators had gotten much slower with age, but since the World Revolution of 2012, and the resulting diseases and smaller wars, no one remember how they worked. No one remember how anything worked. Eventually, she had heard, the elevators and all other technology would stop working.

But that was the last thing she had to worry about now.

10 more seconds.

Erica suddenly crumpled to the floor, her legs so weak and rubbery. She tried to stand up but couldn't, and suddenly everyone was laughing and screeching, shouting at her. But how could they? She was in the elevator, she hadn't arrived yet! She shook her head, and suddenly retched at the sudden movement, but the voices were gone.

Slowly crawling away from the pool of vomit, she managed to stand up, clutching the bar. 7 seconds.

Was there a way to get out? Eyes wild, she looked around but the elevator was impenetrable. The pre-revolutionaries were good at what they did. Erica clawed at the walls but they wouldn't yield. Sobbing, she pounded on them, kicked them, and screamed as loud as she could but nothing happened. 4 seconds.

What would they do to her? Would it hurt? Would she feel pain as she lay there, or just fear? The voices crowded her head again and she gripped it with both hands. "Go away, go away, go away!" she yelled. "Stop it!" 2 seconds.

2.

1.

It was time. But the doors wouldn't open. The glass display was stuck on 1. Her heart fluttered and she smashed her throbbing fist against the wall. Erica rubbed her smarting eyes, trying to get rid of all the tears but they wouldn't go away. And then suddenly she couldn't see anything. She was blind, the world was dark, the voices were screaming, and yes, there was pain, pain that started deep inside her and reached out to her fingertips, burning flames licking at her flesh. Frantically, she tried to wipe them off, but they wouldn't go, and the pain, the scorching heat, it was all too much and she dissolved into nothing, screaming and wildly wondering how this could be happening to her, and when this would be over, if it would ever be over, if she could always be like this and it would never ever go away.

The elevator dinged. She blinked and looked at the glass display. 1 second. There was still 1 second. Why wouldn't it go away, why was the ding still lasting, how long would this second go?

1 second. That's all it took to die, to kill, to make, to destroy. Erica hoped she would die at that very moment, just fall over and never wake up again, but she continued to breathe, her heart continued to beat. What had happened to that girl? Did they kill her? Or just destroy her? Where was she now, where did those people go?

Where would Erica go?

She looked up. 1 second.

Pain rippled through her again, and she gasped, sweat trickling down her pasty skin. She slumped on the floor, body twitching, whimpering.

One second, the voices whispered. One second one second one second one second one second one second.

No.

One second. One second. One second. One second.

"No!" she screamed, her voice escalating into the highest notes a human voice had ever reached, and then higher still, until suddenly her eyes rolled and she lurched forward, choking.

Her hands slammed against the glass display. It cracked with a bang. Grunting, blood dribbling out of the corner of her mouth, she slid back down to the floor.

One second.

Huntress and Her Assassin Pt. 1

2009-08-21T18:54:00.002-04:00

I am a huntress. I always was, and I always will be. There was never a beginning. I don't know if an end will come, but I haven't met it yet. They've called me different names over the years - vampire, witch, werewolf, fairy, mermaid. I am none. I am simply a huntress, and there is not much more to it.

There are other huntresses. Like me, they hide in plain sight, finding their victims, hunting them, and then disposing of them. I don't know what makes good prey; I only know what it looks like. When I walk down the streets, casually gazing at individuals strolling by, I sometimes twitch when my amber eyes fall upon a certain one. I get a feeling, a blood-rushing, pulse-pumping, heart-pounding feeling that the person right there will be my next prey.

I don't question the feelings I get. Instinct is instinct, and should be put to good use. My prey has varied over the years. Sometimes, it is small children, most notably a young girl so long ago. Her hair was like spun gold, glowing in the sweet sunlight, and her eyes were an enigmatic grey. She liked to play, this Maryanne, running around all day in her frocks, hating to have to go inside and learn to sew. I hunted her for years, lurking in the darkness, my pale face expressionless as she skipped rocks across the river, or hiding among the twisted branches of the trees as Maryanne chased her brother.

Often, her frocks and dresses would be muddied from her various exploits, resulting in a scolding from her governess. But she didn't care. She matured into a headstrong woman, and her parents tried to force her to marry an obnoxious young man. At least, she thought he was obnoxious. To me, all humans are foolish and trivial, with their useless emotions and silly beliefs and superstitions.

Maryanne fell in love with a handsome but poor man. She was entranced by his looks and "elegance", not aware of how much money he gambled. When she married him, her parents cut her off from the family, but what did she care? She thought she had the world in her palm.

It was then, twenty years after finding my prey, I knew it was the right moment. My partner, my assassin - it was his turn. He crept into her house one night, cheeks flushed with excitement, and struck.

She did not scream very loud. Some humans yelled so loudly it was a wonder no one heard. But of course no one ever does.

Why should they?

Shedded Promise

2009-08-16T19:25:00.002-04:00

Nicky struggled to sit up on the tangled sheets of the bed. His clothes, a dark green t-shirt and torn jeans, were rumpled and so filthy his skin crawled. Cradling his head in his hands, he wondered exactly how much he had drunken the night before. There were beers and wine bottles and vodkas...a moan escaped him as his head pounded furiously. Gingerly, he slid off the bed and onto his feet, and glanced at the clock. 9:52. He was way late to school, but what did it matter? Maybe he wouldn't go at all. After all, there was that civics assignment Nicky had neglected over the weekend. But then again, if he was at school, it was less likely he would think about - no. No, no, he couldn't think about it, shouldn't even let his mind wander there. Just forget about the party.

Groaning, he stumbled into the bathroom and turned the water on as strong and hot as he could. Nicky's entire body felt dirty in a way that went beyond plain grit, and he scrubbed as hard as he could with the bar of soap, until his flesh turned bright pink, and then harder still.

The previous night had started out great. He and Russ drove over to Tony's house, and it was huge. Big, white, and parent-less. What could be better? When they walked in at 8:30, the living room was already packed with sweaty teenagers. Apart from the people, it was sparsely decorated, with just a thick white carpet (that wouldn't stay white long), an elegant grand piano, a sofa, and a glossy plasma TV that currently showed a chick flick. Music blasted from an expensive stereo perched on a small table, loud and obnoxious songs that bounced off of Nicky's eardrums.

He grunted and squirted half the bottle of shampoo into his hair. Shouldn't think about it. Couldn't think about it.

They had wandered into the dining room, with a long mahogany table and thin, creamy white table cloth. A cracked plate surrounded by scattered blobs of melted cheese and pepperoni was in the middle, beside a dancing girl. She wasn't amazingly beautiful but still attractive, with her deep brown eyes and shining black hair. A closer look showed her skin waxy and eyes flat. Within a few minutes, the stoned girl staggered off the table and landed hard on the floor. Nicky winced, before he was handed a can of beer from Russ. "Good stuff, this," he'd said, grinning. "Drink it up, Nicky!"

"Drink it up, Nicky," Nicky repeated to himself, slipping out of the shower. "Drink it up, drink it up, drink it up. Bet you're regretting that now." Suddenly realizing what he was saying, he stumbled over to the sink, gripping both sides of the porcelain, and gasped, struggling to hold back the vomit that threatened to come up. "No," he panted. "No, no, no."

The kitchen had been dark, filled with just a couple of boys and girls, a few of which where lying motionless on the floor, saliva dribbling out of their mouths. Russ and Nicky carefully picked their way over the bodies, grinning stupidly at each other as they did so. He felt looser and more relaxed with the beer, and grabbed another one from a table as he passed by. A lovely girl wended her way over and then shoved herself into his arms, giggling coquettishly. "Nicky," she crooned. "Hi there, Nicky."

Gagging, Nicky stumbled out of the bathroom, steam following him, and ran into his room, where he pulled on a fresh set of clothes. Despite this, he still felt indescribably grimy, but that wasn't something he could wash away. He shoved a few random papers into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried down the stairs.

Slurping his own beer, Russ chuckled. "You gotta chick, Nicky," he slurred. "She's a hot one." Snickering, he wandered off while Nicky tried to detach himself from the girl.

"I'm Delilah," she giggled, reaching up to stroke his face. She handed him a bottle of red wine, urging, "Try it, Nicky, it's French. Bet you've never had French wine before."

Shrugging, he took a swig, and spluttered. Delilah tittered. "Who'd have thought French wine was so strong?" she muttered, almost to herself, before bursting into laughter again. "Try it again! Try it again!"

Nicky slammed the front door behind him and quickly walked down the sidewalk. Pausing, he studied his reflection in a glass window. His face was pasty and there were heavy shadows beneath his eyes. Rubbing them, he turned away, his throat feeling strangely raw.

The bottle of wine was lying, empty, on the floor, while Delilah sat on Nicky's lap in the living room, laughing loudly. With every drink he had, she seemed more and more gorgeous, until Russ stumbled by. "Delilah," he slurred. "Hey there, Delilah." And then they were both laughing, laughing and snorting something strange. Russ reached out and offered one to Nicky. "Take a hit."

"Take a hit," Randy was saying. Nicky blinked and saw him holding out something. "You look awful. This will make you feel a lot better, believe me, man."

"Go away," Nicky snapped, walking faster.

Randy held up his hands reproachfully. "All right, all right, whatever."

Nicky had fallen asleep on the couch, and when he woke up, he saw Delilah and Russ kissing passionately. "Hey!" he shouted. "Leggo of her, man. That one's mine."

He gasped and fell against a tree. "You okay, man?" Randy asked in concern. "Do you have like diabetes or somethin'?"

Russ sniggered and kissed her harder. Nicky lunged and punched him as hard as he could. Laughing while holding his bleeding nose, Russ shoved him aside.

Nicky moaned and slipped to the ground. Randy was saying something but he couldn't hear.

Reaching for a heavy book, Nicky hit Randy's head. Again. Again. Again.

"Again!" he suddenly shouted. Randy was fumbling for something in his pocket.

Again. And again. And then suddenly Russ or was it Randy or was it Delilah or was it Nicky was lying on the floor, and Russ or Randy or Delilah or Nicky wasn't moving, and Russ or Randy or Delilah or Nicky wasn't breathing.

And then Nicky's head cleared and he vomited, vomited all over the floor and furniture, so hard and so fast he thought he would die, maybe it would be better if he died, but he didn't, he kept living and breathing.

"Hey, man!" Randy was shouting. "Oh, God, what did you eat?"

No one really noticed; they were too stoned or drunk or simply not caring. Nicky dragged the body outside, tripping and stumbling and sobbing.

Gasping, Nicky crawled forward and started digging with his bare hands. "What are you doing?" Randy asked in bewilderment. "Man, I'm calling 911, okay? They'll be here soon, all right?"

Nicky dragged the body all the way over blocks and blocks and blocks, a messy trail behind them and then stopped in the grass. He dug with a stick, a shallow, clumsy hole.

Clumps of dirt flew out and there was Russ, lying, and Nicky began screaming. "Oh, shoot," Randy breathed. "Oh, oh, oh man."

Nicky turned to Randy, his eyes red. And he knew what he had to do.

Doubles

2009-08-13T18:11:00.003-04:00

The snow crunched beneath my feet, as I trudged towards the large, gray building, almost as gray as my eyes. "I don't feel like going to school," Addie whispered. "Why don't we skip it today?"

"No," I replied firmly, hefting my backpack. "We're not skipping school and that's final."

She pouted. "Why not?"

I sighed exasperatedly, brushing the dull brown hair out of my eyes. "I've told you, I'll get in trouble if we skip. Besides, I don't like having to make up work."

Stumbling over a rock, I reached out to a pole to stop my fall. "It's all right for you," I continued. "You don't have to do a thing - I do all the work!"

Rolling her eyes, she answered, "Hey, it sucks for me too, Noreen. It's sooo boring to watch you do all those assignments, and you won't even let me out."

"You know why I can't," I snapped back. "First of all, what if my parents saw what they think is me wandering all over town doing who knows what? Second, you know I get really dizzy and sick when you're gone too long and you always stay out for hours."

A short boy with rumpled black hair approached, grinning. "Hey Noreen!"

"Hi Alex!" Waving, I hissed, "Don't say anything, Addie."

"I will if I want to," she grumbled, and I mentally glared at her. "Hey," she protested. "I didn't ask to be inside of you my whole life. How do you think I feel all the time, not being able to live?"

Alex attempted to smooth back his hair as he started walking beside me. "What's up?"

"I finished my science fair project," I answered, adjusting my mitten. "So what's up with you?"

Addie snickered suddenly, and fear flashed inside me for a moment. She didn't normally act up in front of other people. Raising an eyebrow, Alex replied, "Not much. What's so funny?"

"Uh, nothing. Just thinking about a joke. You wanna hear it?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Oh, not this one again!" Addie groaned loudly. "She tells this all the time."

His eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

I laughed weakly. "You like my ventriloquism? I've been trying to throw my voice but it's not really working out."

"You do that scarily well," Alex said. "I swear I didn't see your lips move at all."

"Yeah well, I've been practicing."

Addie suddenly shouted a string of profanities that I didn't even know, and my cheeks flushed. Staring at me oddly, Alex shoved his hands in his pockets. "Are you okay, 'Reen? You never curse."

I fiddled with my watch, nerves rattled. "What is wrong with you?" I murmured as viciously as I could. "Settle down, would you?"

"Scared, huh?" she purred. "You don't know what I can do."

He glanced around as we pushed through the heavy doors. "What are you doing, Noreen?"

"Sorry, I, um - "

Addie interrupted, "Why don't you go away and stuff yourself with more chocolate, fatso?"

His eyes flared and he abruptly turned and walked away. "Call me when you're going to act like a normal person."

Ignoring the stares around me, I ran into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall, making sure that no one was around. "What was that?" I yelled. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I want to get out," she screamed back. "I'm sick of it in here, and I want to get out!"

"You can't! You know it'll kill me!"

She seethed for a moment, her anger rippling through me, before shouting, "Good! I hope it does!"

Chills trickled down my spine, and she suddenly stumbled out, a copy of me. White flashed in front of my vision, and I slid down to the damp tiles, sweat coursing down my face. "Addie," I said hoarsely. "Get back."

The world spun rapidly and I rested my head against the cold metal of the door, feeling like I'd blow away in any second. My throat was suddenly parched and my mouth dry, and everything ached. She sneered at me. "How would you like to live inside of me, freak? Not be able to control anything, not be able to live your own life?"

I moaned quietly, dark bruises appearing on my pasty skin. "You can do that," she said. "You'll live that way. Alive, but then again, not really." Addie tossed her hair. "I'll be different from you. I won't let you regain control. Believe me, Noreen, things will be different."

"Stop," I whispered, squinting up at her. The lights were so bright all of a sudden.

She stared back at me contemptuously. "Or you can die here. You see, I don't need you. I'm strong enough to survive on my own, half a soul."

I cradled my head in my hands. "No, you can't," a voice rasped. It couldn't be mine, could it? I couldn't be me, not this whimpering, dying girl in a bathroom stall. "You'll be okay for a while, but you can't live long. A month at most, then you'll start to..." I coughed. "Then you'll start to fade, until you're gone."

Addie smirked. "You just want control. Your petty tricks won't work. Goodbye, Noreen." She sauntered out and strode down the hall, and I swallowed, with difficulty. Blood dripped out of my mouth and splashed on the floor, and I studied my mottled skin until everything went black.

I Said Yes

2009-08-04T10:09:00.004-04:00

I hate the way I have become, the fragility of me, as if I wasn't a healthy twenty-year-old, as if I was a porcelain doll. I shuffle through the house by day, feet making a gentle rasping noise on the floors, small and hunched over against the bitter winds flung towards me. And then other times, I'm almost like myself. I smile and laugh and sometimes he's not even in my mind, not even hiding around the deepest corner, and then someone will say something. Something that seems innocent, but the pain will burn fresh and tears bubble over. The slightest touch will topple me over until I'm lying, shattered in the familiar jagged pieces I was not so long ago.

I hate the way they look at me, their eyes so pitying, but how can they understand? How can their happy minds comprehend my feelings, when I can barely comprehend them myself? Oh yes, some of them have lost their loved ones, but they have never lost what I have. They have never lost their heart, their soul, their very reason for existing. Their gentle words and comfort - it means nothing. Bright wrapping around an empty box, presented with a hug; they mean well but they don't know. How could they?

I hate the night more than I do the day, the way the sheets stick to my sweating skin, how they rustle as I roll over. The unbearable noises from outside, the jingling of the crickets, buzzing of the insects, and squawking of the birds, rushes into my ears, and I'm sure it's amplified. He had called it a symphony, finer than Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart combined, because he said it truly described what they could only attempt to do. It's not a symphony. It's a cacophony, an abomination, whose only purpose is to torture me further.

I hate the slippery tears that slide down my cheeks, the quiet ones especially. I sit in the rocking chair and let them fall, let them drip onto my sweater and fade into the carpet. Not so much as a sigh escapes from me as I sit, utterly still, staring straight ahead. And then other times I can only cradle my head in my arms as I gasp and whimper, tears flowing freely, and then I can't control them. Whenever I had cried in the past, he was always there, gently wiping my tears away and pulling me closer to him. But now there was no one to hold me, no one who refrained from telling me it would be okay, no one who could understand what and how I was feeling more than I did myself.

I hate the cookies, the muffins, the cakes, and the presents they bring, the sweetened clumps of nothing they shove down my throat. They don't know what I like, and bring all the wrong things. I've never liked chocolate chip cookies or cheese cake or Godiva chocolate. I like sugar cookies sprinkled with just the right amount of cinnamon, and Hershey's milk chocolate without any nuts. He knew what I liked. He would bring me pieces of chocolate with the most extravagant wrappings, brilliant colors and minute bows, and it would turn out to be just good old Hershey's. We would both laugh, and then maybe watch a movie, with him feeding me popcorn, one by one.

I hate him. When we were little, he would tease me for my freckles, my buck teeth. He would pull my braids and put frogs and spiders in my schoolbag. Sometimes he stole my homework and wouldn't give it back, and he would break my toys and get my new dresses dirty. Every prank there was, he did it on me.

I hate him. When we got older, he shyly asked me to come to the dance with him. I said yes. We danced the whole time, and it was so much fun. He whirled me around until I got dizzy, and made sure I wasn't thirsty or hungry in the least. At the end we were dancing in the center, everyone circled around us and cheering us on. A few weeks afterward I went to the movies with him. It was a terrible movie and he was so sorry, but I didn't mind. Truth be told, I didn't even watch the movie. I watched him. And it was great.

I hate him. When we graduated from college, he proposed to me in the restaurant. He got down on his knee and held out a ring I knew he couldn't afford and asked me to please marry him. I said yes. The wedding was elegant, with me in the most beautiful white dress and him in a tux that fit him better than I imagined. Ever since then I've worn the ring every day, even now.

I hate him. I woke up in the night and saw him throwing clothes in a suitcase, and I asked him where he was going. He glanced at me, but his gaze wasn't the soft, loving one I was used to, but hard and irritable. He said he was going away, and that he would maybe come back. I felt like my stomach was punctured and asked him why, why was he leaving me, why? And he said he had to, that he couldn't stay, and wouldn't say anything more. I followed him outside, in the pouring rain, and grabbed his arm and beseeched him to at least tell me why. Was it another girl? Did he just...grow tired of me? My tears rained more heavily than the sky, but he only sharply told me to let go. I clung for another moment, eyes desperate, heart thudding, and then, I said yes. My fingers slipped off his coat sleeve, and he smoothed it out, before hurrying onto the bus. He didn't look back, but I stared until the bus went out of sight. Dressed in a bath robe, in the pouring rain, lost, alone, and confused.

I hate him. I didn't know him. I never did. I didn't know who he was, what he was like. I could tell you his favorite color, candy, clothes, drink, food, his favorite everything, but I can't tell you who he is. I don't know. He was my heart, but I wasn't his. And when he left me, he took my heart away and never gave it back.

I hate him. I got the phone call one day, and they said he was dead. Suicide, they said. He was found on the train tracks, body damaged beyond all recognition, except for the driver's license they found on his body. But I know they're lying. He wasn't found dead at all. He's out there somewhere, I know he is, because I found his note on my kitchen counter: Say yes. I knew it was him, I know his handwriting. He was there and alive but I still didn't know him.

I hate him. But I said yes. Because I love him.

The Glass Globe

2009-07-31T09:04:00.002-04:00

The hushed silence of night in the suburbs cloaked the small, innocuous house. A blazing bright moon perched in the sky, its ghostly light almost trickling down and through the dark window. A few strands of moonlight brushed the mumbling sixteen-year-old, but then continued on to the glass globe on the dresser. The globe had settled "snow" at the bottom, and a lone figure, a boy with jet black hair, standing on it. When Brenda had first received it for her birthday, she had been fascinated by the little person utterly alone in his world, with no one else around. Now it sat in a pool of dust, forgotten as so many childhood trinkets are, the carefully hand-painted eyes staring out the window. As the moonlight circled it, the globe emanated a gentle glow, and the world stopped ticking.

Brenda's clock froze at 3:16 AM, as did every other one in the house and every other one in the world, regardless of the time zone. She stirred briefly in her sleep, eyelashes fluttering, before sighing and returning to her confused dreams.

Alone.

***

She smiled dreamily, her amber locks strewn about on the pillow, and her lanky limbs askew. Sunlight poured in from the window, casting a golden glow on the maple furniture and hardwood floor. Brenda rubbed her eyes and sat up, yawning, as she glanced at her clock. Blinking, she peered at it again. 3:16 AM. She whipped around and hurried over to the window; it was much too bright to be 7:00 - why did her alarm clock have to die on today, of all days?

"Mom!" she called, throwing on a lime green t-shirt and worn jeans. "What time is it? Why didn't you wake me up? I'm gonna be late for school, and the final rehearsal for the musical starts second period!" Frantically lacing on her sneakers, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had seen better days but it was presentable, at least. There wasn't any time to comb it, so it would have to stay as is.

There was no reply. "Mom!" she shouted louder, bursting out of her room and racing down the stairs. "Mom?"

Brenda paused in front of the living room clock and saw it too was stuck at 3:16. Was there some sort of power outage the night before? At least that would mean a couple kids would be late like her, so surely it would be okay.

Running her fingers through her hair, she grabbed an apple and threw on her backpack. Her parents had probably left for work already, and figured she was at school. As she stuffed her house key in her pocket, it occurred to her that her mom wouldn't do that.

A pit in her stomach, Brenda ran upstairs and knocked on her parents' door. She waited a few moments, and then peeked in. The bed was impeccably made, and her nerves were assuaged. They must be at work, then.

Running back downstairs and out the door, she headed for school. The streets were silent except for her footsteps - she must be later than she thought. The quiet was unsettling, and she silently berated herself for such cowardness.

A few minutes later, she arrived at the large high school, and took a deep breath before pushing the heavy black door open. Hopefully, the rehearsal wasn't too far along by now. Brenda quietly walked down the hallway and reached her locker, where she shoved her backpack inside and grabbed her costume and script. She hurried to the auditorium and slipped inside. "Sorry I'm late, I -"

There was no one there. "Mrs. Muller?" she asked uncertainly. "Hello? A-anyone?"

No response. Slightly chilled, Brenda walked out and headed for the attendance office. A small brown spider landed lightly on her arm, and she wrinkled her nose and brushed it off. Opening the door, she looked inside but the only one looking back at her was the gray desk.

Heart pounding, she turned around and saw another one of those brown spiders. She quickly stepped on it, but then another came, and another, and another. They seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, and she couldn't step on them fast enough as they crawled up her arms and on her legs, her stomach, back, hair, and face. Screaming, she tried to push them off, but the halls were teeming with them, packed full until the spiders had trouble pushing through. Their fangs clacked together as they buried her, small brown bodies wriggling, their long legs touching her. Brenda's stomach writhed and she realized that they were inside of her, somehow, someway, and as they consumed her, she let out a last whimper, fear forever frozen on her glassy eyes.

***

The hushed silence of night in the suburbs cloaked the small, innocuous house. A blazing bright moon perched in the sky, its ghostly light almost trickling down and through the dark window. A few strands of moonlight brushed the mumbling sixteen-year-old, but then continued on to the glass globe on the dresser. The globe had settled "snow" at the bottom, and a lone figure, a girl with amber locks, standing on it.

Randy's clock unfroze at 3:16 AM, as did every other one in the house and every other one in the world, regardless of the time zone. He stirred briefly in his sleep, eyelashes fluttering, before sighing and returning to his confused dreams.

Once

2009-07-25T08:40:00.003-04:00

I lay on the cold metal, cheek pressed against its smooth surface. I like metal, everything about it, and even feel a sort of . . . connection to it. It too once stayed innocently in the earth, content among the dirt and grass and wind and trees, before ripped out and processed. Sometimes I talk to the metal. It's a good listener, and understands me. We are brothers, the metal and I. But sometimes, I hate it. A deep loathing churns inside me, until I feel so sick, I want to vomit, maybe I would vomit if I could, but I don't understand it. I hurt the metal at those times. I stomp on it and punch it and try to make it feel what I feel, but I think it already does.

Silently, I stand up and walk over to the end of the metal room, my bare feet gliding over the floor. Surrounding me are four walls of thick, clear glass and I stare through it. A murmuring group of people, some dressed in long, white coats, and others in odd, colorful clothing, hush when they see me. I don't think they know that I can hear them, but it's instinct. When you see a predator, you're supposed to try and hide.

One of the White Coats meets my eyes, before looking back at the crowd. She has curly brown hair that spills into her creamy blue eyes, and just a hint of faint freckles splashed on her cheeks. I've heard them call her "Valeria", and sometimes I wonder about her. Does she go home to a husband and greet her children? What are her children like? How old are they - soft, gentle babies or sullen, scowling teenagers? Is her husband nice, does he treat her well? How would it feel to kill them all?

Valeria. It's a pretty name, almost as pretty as she is. I can't hear her voice too well, but it's musical and lilting. I want it, her voice. I want to capture it and put it in a little cage, to hear it talk to me and sing to me and be scared of me. I want it to hate me and love me, to fear me and feel superior.

It's always fascinating how appearances betray a person. At first sight, Valeria is a lovely young woman, but look closer. Her eyes are cold and there's a hidden edge to her voice. I want her to tell me how she does it. How does she be so cruel and harsh? Did someone have to be cruel and harsh to her, too?

"This is one of the early models," she says, gesturing to me with red-painted nails. Her nails are different from mine. They have a gentle arch at the top, but mine are sharp. They call them claws. "One of our main mistakes was to keep a part of the original brain and meld it with the synthetic one created in the labs. We thought it would help retain personality, but instead it seems to ruin him."

A man, wearing a dark blue suit, clears his throat. "Ruins him how?"

I like his voice, too. It's deep and authoritative. I want one like that, not to listen to but to have. When people hear me speak, they will cower and be frightened and hate me, and dream of taking my voice away but they can't.

Valeria brushes a curl out of her eyes, exposing her vulnerable throat for a moment. My heart quickens. "Well, he has just enough to memory to recall a few remnants of his past life, which fills him with longing and this intense . . . emotion. I don't think he understands anything. This also resulted in having him lose his vocal ability."

"Emotion?" the man asks, eyes dark and mysterious. "Sadness, grief, anger?"

Valeria pauses to think. "Probably some combination of that, and maybe a little hate."

She lies. Her voice changes when she lies. It becomes smooth and slippery, like a snake I held once.

Another woman, in a plain, light pink dress, speaks up. "Doesn't that make him miserable? It might be more humane to kill him."

Kill. I know what kill means. I don't want it, not at all. I gnash my teeth - sharper than most - and pound the glass with my fists. The noise echoes inside my room, but I hit it harder, knowing it won't break but trying anyway. It's the only thing left.

Valeria glances at me and then gives a regretful smile. "Oh, we tried, but it seems . . . well, we just can't."

"Can't? What do you mean?" a third woman demands brusquely, scribbling something on a pad of paper.

The White Coats gave me paper one time and a little stub of a pencil. I saw that I could make marks on it, and it was a strange feeling to be able to see them. I zigzagged all over the paper, and then I realized what the real purpose must be. Stabbing the pencil through the pad, I could make it go all the way through, and then I threw the pencil away and tore the paper into a million pieces.

Once, a long time ago, I could make marks that meant something. But I couldn't remember.

"He's indestructible," Valeria explains. "No matter what we do, he stays alive, so he's forced to suffer until he dies of natural causes."

"How long will it take him to die?"

She shrugs. "We don't know. Now, let's move on to one of the prototypes of the newer version, with a completely synthetic brain."

Her voice trails off as they briskly stride out of the room, the door clanging shut behind them. I am alone in both ways now.

Sinking down to the floor of my room, I rest my head in my hands. Once, there was a special woman, and a special man, and they had a child. The child was a boy, and they called him Johnnie. He liked to play with toy cars and planes, and some days he would just run all over the house, screaming, "Whoosh!" There were no siblings. It was just him, and he had the special woman and the special man and the house and the toys and everything just to himself. And he liked it that way.

The special woman and the special man told him that they loved him, and Johnnie believed them. He never thought that they would lie, because they acted like they loved him. They took him to zoos and to parks, to hiking trips and to a special-special woman's house. Sometimes they bought him good things, like ice cream and cotton candy, and sometimes they made him do bad things, like brush his teeth and take a shower.

Johnnie had friends too. They were boys, and they would share their toys and play together, in the sandbox or in the grass, and sometimes they would the toys behind and go on the swings or the monkey bars. Sometimes Johnnie fell down and it hurt, but then the special woman and the special man came and made it better. And they told him they loved him.

The world was Johnnie and Johnnie was the world, and all was good. But then the baby came. It was a tiny, red little person who screamed louder than Johnnie and cried longer than Johnnie, and the special woman and the special man spent all their time with the baby. They called Georgina and sometimes "sweetie" or "honey", and Johnnie didn't exist any more.

When he screamed louder than Georgina or cried longer than Georgina, they were angry with him. They hardly ever went to the zoo or the park, but when they did, Georgina always came along. And they told her they loved her.

And one night, one night, when all was dark and Johnnie was lying in bed, he heard a noise. He sat up and saw that a huge, huge man was there and the huge, huge man wrapped him up in his huge, huge arms and took him to his huge, huge truck and drove a huge, huge distance away.

Bad things happened. Johnnie screamed and screamed and screamed but they kept hurting him, the White Coats. They changed him, changed his body and his mind and he felt different and they did things that hurt.

And then. Then they took his voice away.

Once, when Johnnie was playing in the sandbox with his friends, a strange boy came and took his shovel away, and Johnnie took it back.

I close my eyes and rest on the metal again. There was a special woman and a special man. There was a baby named Georgina. There was a White Coat named Valeria. There was a world that didn't hear my screaming.

They all took parts of me, until I was nothing, until there was no me left. But soon. Very soon. I will take it back.

A Walk Into the Forest

2009-07-21T09:39:00.002-04:00

The soft, musky aroma of the forest surrounded the two silhouettes, as the sunset burned brightly behind them. Rich oranges and reds were flanking deep purples and indigos, and one of them turned and squinted at it. She was a petite woman, with a slender build and small, graceful feet, just like all the other woman on her mother's side of the family. Her coarse black hair cascaded down her thin neck and shoulders, stopping just past her shoulder blades, and Rachel's fierce green eyes glowed as she said, "It's getting late."

Joey yanked irritably on the leash as Janko tried to pull ahead, and then immediately felt guilty at the sight of the dog's liquid brown eyes. "I know, honey. We'll be home soon." He paused and brushed his dark hair out of his limpid blue eyes.

"We're lost," she replied flatly. "How are we going to get home now, hmm?"

He glanced down at her. "Don't be silly, Rach, we're not - "

"Oh, I'm silly, am I?" she said, bristling. Her soft cheeks grew red and she put her hands on her hips. "I'm silly, for knowing that we're lost and we'll be home late, if we get home at all, huh? I'll tell you what, you think all women are just silly little creatures with double-digit IQs! And - "

Frowning, Joey interrupted, "Now, just a minute, just a minute! I never said any of that! I just said we're not lost, and - "

"Yes, we are!" Rachel shouted, throwing her hands in the air. "Every time you suggest some stupid idea, and then we end up being lost. Every time!"

"This? My idea? Hold on a second, this was not my idea. This was your idea!"

"See, now you're just trying to avoid the blame. You do this all the time, Joey, and I'm telling you, I'm simply sick of it!" She kicked a bush with all her strength, but managed to restrain herself from punching the solid oak. "I wish . . . oh, never mind."

He studied her back, and answered, voice dangerously low, "Wish what?"

"Just - never mind, okay? It doesn't matter."

"Tell me, Rachel. I deserve to know. Come on!"

Whipping around, she glared daggers at him. "I told you it doesn't matter! Just forget about it!"

"Tell me!"

"All right!" Rachel shouted. "If you must know, I was going to say that I wish we never got married."

The silence sizzled in the frosty air, and they both abruptly began walking again, a foot between them on the well-trodden path. Rachel stared determinedly at her scuffed sneakers, while Joey gazed in the opposite direction of his wife. "So this is how it goes a week after our honeymoon, eh?" he grumbled to himself.

Rachel ripped her iPod out of her pocket and stuffed the headphones on, turning the volume all the way up. "We're not lost," Joey muttered, surreptitiously glancing at her.

She hummed loudly, eyes half-closed.

Thunder suddenly cracked through the deep black sky, veins of light criss-crossing through it. As the forest lit up, Joey saw that there was nothing at the end of the leash. "Janko?" he said in surprise. "Janko! Janko!"

Rachel looked at him, eyes wide. "You lost him?" she exclaimed. "You even lost the friggin' dog?"

"Oh, I lost him!" he shouted back. "That's a fine one! Like you weren't next to me the whole time!"

She threw her hands in the air. "So I can't even trust you to keep the dog? What is wrong with you?"

Torrents of wind were flung among the trees, which swayed wildly as rain tumbled down on to them. Biting his lip, Joey replied, "We'll go and find the dog tomorrow. For now, let's concentrate on finding our home, okay?"

"So you do admit we're lost!"

"For God's sake, can you act like an adult just once in your life, Rachel?" he screamed over the rain. "Just once, please? That's all I'm asking for! Why does this have to be so hard?"

Tears burned in her eyes. "I don't know," she sobbed. "I just don't know. I want to . . . I want to have a happy marriage."

She fell into his arms, face turned into his sweater. "All I ever wanted was, was a loving husband, but it's so hard, Joey. It's . . . so . . . hard."

"I know," he murmured.

Just then, light flashed, and he turned his head to it. Breath catching in his throat, his eyes went wide, and his mouth opened in a silent cry of terror.

They were found like that the next morning, in their last embrace, bones rigid and faces pale. Janko was sitting next to them, unharmed but for a few missing clumps of fur, whining and nudging their bodies. As the police carefully pulled them apart, the dog turned and slipped away into the trees, never to be seen again.

Voices of the Lost

2009-07-20T09:03:00.002-04:00

Darcy rolled over on her bed, groaning. The awful, Arizona summer heat seemed like it would press her harder and harder until she just disappeared - if only the stupid air conditioner hadn't broken! Worse yet, in ten minutes she would have to walk the dog outside in that blistering sun. Darcy sat up on her bed and sighed. It was too hot to do anything. Even getting up and walking over to her computer seemed like too much effort, let alone starting reading those idiotic books for summer homework.

Though she wore only a tanktop and very short shorts, those clothes were clinging to her sweaty skin, and she wished that the pool wasn't closed today. How wonderful it would be to slip into the cool water, to feel it caress her skin, and then to dive under, far and away from the scorching sunlight! Darcy could almost feel the gentle waves over her, and she gazed at her tiny pink bikini.

Almost as bad as the heat was the boredom that clung to her, and she surveyed her small, light green-painted room in hope that she would think of something to do. Shrugging to herself, she picked up her sleek black MP3 and put on the headphones. Languidly lying back down on the bed, she let "Tell Me" by Boston wash over her.

As Darcy listened, half-heartedly humming along, she heard something faint in the background. Curiosity raised, she hit the volume button, but though the song became louder, the noise was just as faint. After a few lines, the noise grew less quiet, and she recognized it as the same few words repeated over and over again.

Frowning, she sat up again and listened hard, managing to pick out the word "me", and then something that sounded like "felt". It got suddenly louder and Darcy realized the other word was "help". Help me?

A chill trickled down her spine. Who was saying "help me"? And why? The voice faded away and she lay back down, disconcerted. Another voice suddenly began speaking, someone male, and louder, also shouting for help. His voice was desperate and panicked as he screamed, "Help me! Help me! I'm like you, just help!"

A fly buzzed against the window and she distractedly swatted it. On a whim, heart pounding, she whispered, "Who . . . who are you?"

More voices joined the male one, including the original, all shouting now, "Help us! Help us! You must!"

Some were quiet, resigned whispers, others youthful shouts, and still more were frantic yells. "Who are you?" she asked, voice trembling.

Their voices only grew louder, battling the sudden storm of static that came. "Help! Help!"

Then, just as suddenly as they came, they disappeared.

And Darcy disappeared too.

The Window

2009-07-14T08:24:00.002-04:00

Rain trickled down the glass, glowing as the moonlight shone through it. I perched on the arm of the old, rugged chair, staring out the window. Behind me, someone padded in my direction, feet rasping on the sturdy, wooden floor. "Tara? Is that you?"

I turned around and saw my mother, slightly hunched over, and noticed silver lines in her once lovely, blonde hair. Turning back to the window, I remained silent. My eyes followed every movement outside in the night, every twitch in the grass and every sleek cat's leap. "What are you doing up so late, honey?"

"I'm waiting."

She smiled sadly. I could see how she had been pretty once, long before my four years. Her face had been smooth, smooth like mine, and her hair shining like the brightest gold. My mother loved to dance, and I could see she dreamed of being a ballerina again. She dreamed about many things when she slept at night, but mostly about dancing - dancing, and my father. Sometimes she worried that he was hurt, or cold, or lonely, or sad, and she often had terrifying nightmares where he was lying on the ground, covered in red. Now she sat down on the chair beside me, and I felt her eyes looking at me. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

I frowned, twisting the cloth of the curtains with my fingers. She never saw what I could see. "Daddy."

The sudden sadness that filled her sent vibrations in the air, and my skin tingled. "Why don't you go up to bed? Daddy can visit you while you sleep."

I didn't dream. I only walked in the dreams of others, and sometimes not even that. Sometimes sleep was death. "No. He's coming home."

"Tara? What do you mean?" There was hope in her voice. There always was, that or fear.

I leaned forward slightly to get a better look outside. The rain was slowing, and the drowsy pitter-patter fading. "Daddy's coming home from the war. Tonight."

She swallowed. "Oh, Tara. I'll make you a glass of warm milk, how about that? And then we can all go to sleep."

"I don't want any of that. I'm going to wait for Daddy." I crossed my legs and continued to watch the window. Her hand went gently on my shoulder, as she breathed in hope and breathed out grief.

Just then, a large car pulled into our driveway, two beams of light coming from it. I sat up straighter. "Daddy's home! Daddy's home!"

I jumped from the sofa and raced to the heavy door, pulling it open. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

Three men came into our house, two of them holding something, which they carefully set on the floor. They were talking to my mother, but I didn't listen. I could hear it later, anyway. I sat down on the floor, next to Daddy, smiling joyfully. I knew it would make my mother happy to see him, since she had always longed for him, every day, every time. Something like pride filled me when I thought of how I had gotten him home, pulled him away from the War. It was I who had gotten him home in whatever way would work. Now maybe, just maybe, my mother would think of me when she slept, dream not of dancing, not of my father, but of me.

But my mother, she cried.

Love's Little Requirements

2009-07-13T10:22:00.005-04:00

The room was warmly lit, with the glittering chandeliers swaying slowly, almost imperceptibly, but in time to the gentle, rhythmic music. Malcolm waited anxiously beside the grand, bronze doors, worried she wouldn't show up. Nervously smoothing out the wrinkles in his rented, navy blue suit, the university lecturer hoped that the first girl he'd ever gotten wouldn't blow him off. Around him were a handful of couples and one or two people alone, like him, waiting for their partners. "I should have just asked her to let me pick her up," he muttered under his breath, his deepset, violet eyes studying the glossy floors.

It wasn't entirely surprising that people were sneaking looks at him. With his china-white skin, lustrous, gold hair, and his queer eyes, Malcolm Scott was not an ordinary-looking man. Coupled with his natural shyness and preference for solitude, he had earned many stares, even as a child.

Just then, the door quietly opened, and a slender, beautiful girl slipped in. For a moment, her deep, green eyes searched the room, but when they landed on Malcolm, a lovely smile graced her face. She glided over, almost seeming to float in her simple but nice blue and white dress. For the first time since he'd met her, she'd worn her silky black curls down, instead of pinned up. "Daphne," he greeted her in relief. "You look . . . gorgeous."

She smiled prettily. "Thanks," she replied softly. "You don't look half-bad yourself." Her lips met his in a brief, gentle kiss, and then they parted. For a moment, their eyes lingered, and then Daphne pulled out of his arms. "Shall I get some champagne for the both of us?" she offered.

"No, that's all right. I'll get it. Wait here a moment, okay?" Without waiting for her response, Malcolm walked toward the long table, cloaked in a silk tablecloth. He awkwardly greeted some people along the way, but mostly avoided their gazes. Malcolm was not a social person.

When he reached the refreshments table, he saw another woman, almost as tall as him, with luxurious, straight white hair. "Miss Carr," he said cautiously. "How have you been?"

"Skip the formalities," she replied impatiently. "You always did dawdle, Malcolm."

He shrugged helplessly. "I wish I didn't have to do this," he sighed. "It's just such a shame, Clara."

Her chocolate-colored eyes focused on his own grim ones. "You're not backing out, are you?"

"No, no, of course not," Malcolm answered quickly as he poured the champagne. His hand trembled slightly, and he fervently hoped he wouldn't spill it on her blood-red and ebony-black dress.

She narrowed her eyes. "Good. Because such things as backing out have bad consequences. You know that, though, don't you?"

He bit his lip but didn't reply as he carefully carried the two glasses over to Daphne. "Here you are," he said, a faint smile on his lips. "To the power of love and all it requires."

Malcolm touched the glass to his lips but made sure the bubbly liquid didn't go down his throat. Seeing his hesitation to drink, she paused, with the champagne halfway to her mouth. "Is something wrong?" Daphne asked.

His eyes darted back and forth, and then he sighed. "Well, yes. Can we . . . can we talk in private?"

Uncertain, she followed him into a darkened, empty room, and he closed the door audibly. "Malcolm?" Her voice was frightened.

Swallowing, he reached out with his broad hand and gripped her neck tightly. "Don't make a sound," he warned, voice heavy. "It's easier that way."

"What are you doing?" she asked hoarsely. "Mal, what is this? A joke?"

He didn't respond, but instead placed his glass on a piece of furniture and forced her lips open. Then, in one swift movement, he poured the contents of her own glass down her throat, ignoring Daphne's gasps and chokes. Her body shuddered in his arms for a moment, and she crumpled to the ground, hair strewn about her face.

He stood silently and impassively for a moment, before he burst out the window, landing in the garden. Tears trickled down his face, but Malcolm ran on, as fast as his long legs could carry him. When he reached the split oak, he stopped and slumped on the wet grass, panting.

A few minutes later, Clara joined him. "You did well," she drawled. "Better than I expected, though you could have been more subtle."

And the night fell.

Spheres

2009-07-10T10:41:00.002-04:00

Janie struggled with the uncooperative tent, and grunted, "Marcie, would you give me a hand?"

Her daughter glanced up from her cell phone, and crossed her legs on the transportable chair she was perched upon. "How should I know how to get that set up? Go ask Adan. Wasn't he a boy scout or something?"

The scowling boy glared at his PSP. "The stupid thing broke," he grumbled. "And no, I wasn't a boy scout. It was survival camp."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, big difference. Didn't the counselors have to rescue you?"

Adan flushed. "Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

"No, you!"

"Kids, kids," Janie said, fumbling with the pegs. "Calm down. This is going to work, I know it."

Marcie hit the buttons of her phone harder than she needed to. "You say that every time. It might work if Dad shows up - he is the camping expert anyway, isn't he? But wait, I forgot. He doesn't have time to come."

Throwing his PSP on the ground, Adan yelled, "This is so stupid!" His words echoed in the clearing, and birds flew away, squawking.

Janie gave them a pained look. "Come on, guys. He said he'd come. Maybe he's a little late, but there could be traffic or, or something else that held him up."

"Yeah, whatever." Marcie clapped her phone shut and shoved it in her purse. "Can Adan and I go hiking?"

"Well . . . all right, but stick to the trail, you hear? I don't want you two getting lost."

She grabbed Adan's hand and dragged him, calling, "Sure, Mom!"

As soon as they were out of earshot, Adan whined, "What are we going hiking for?"

"It's better than staying in the clearing, isn't it?" Marcie reminded him. "Now come on, let's go. Maybe there's something interesting in this stupid place."

"What if Dad comes and we miss him?" Adan asked as he sluggishly lagged behind his older sister's brisk pace.

Marcie stopped and turned around to face him. "Don't be an idiot! You know he's not coming."

He stared at his scuffed sneakers, mumbling, "He said he would."

"Yeah, well, Dad says a lot of things. You honestly expect him to come when he didn't remember you turned eleven last month? He didn't even attend my sweet sixteen!" Marcie ground her teeth together and turned away again. "Just . . . give up on him." She swallowed. "It's safer that way."

Adan kicked the dirt. "Whatever. Let's just keep going."

They silently trudged up the path, the searing heat forming beads of sweat on their foreheads. Suddenly, Marcie paused and squinted through the light. "Is that another clearing? There's none marked on the map . . ."

He shrugged and walked into the clearing, followed by his sister, who was still frowning at the map. "'Dan, it's not here. Something must be wrong."

Rolling his eyes, Adan yawned, "Who cares? Just another stupid clearing." Stretching, he noticed a small white sphere clinging to a branch, with a tiny metal hemi-sphere on top. "What's that?"

He slowly walked forward and reached out for it. When his fingers brushed against the soft, slimy surface, it suddenly wriggled off the branch and attached itself to his hand. Wrinkling his nose, Adan attempted to shake it off, but it was like it was glued there. "Marcie?"

"What?" She crumpled up the map and shoved it in her pocket. "Hey, what's that weird thing on your arm?"

"I - I don't know. It's like, stuck there." He looked up, worried. "Can you help me get it off?"

Marcie went up to him and gingerly poked it. "Eww! It's . . . gross."

"Get it off. Please." Adan shook his hand back and forth slowly. "Marcie, I can't feel my hand." Panic entered his voice. "Marcie!"

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Do you want me to get Mom?"

He shuddered. "I don't care, just do something!"

Marcie turned to leave, but couldn't find the entrance. "Um. There's . . . there's no way to get out."

"What are you talking about?" His chin quivered.

"It's like, all dense bush." She swallowed, and then yelped when something cold landed on her thigh. Peering down, she saw another sphere on it, and the spot where it landed grew icy cold, then burning hot, and then she couldn't feel it at all. "One of them got on me, too!"

Trembling, Marcie tentatively wrapped her hand around it and yanked, but nothing happened. When she hesitantly pulled her hand away, she saw the sphere had duplicated and was now on her numbing fingers. "A - Adan?"

"I see it," he whispered, tears trickling down his face. "What are we going to do? How are we going to get out? And what are these things?"

She shook her head. "I don't know." Looking up desperately, she added, "There must be poision or something in them. Maybe they're mushrooms or something?"

"Mushrooms don't have metal on them, d - do they?" Adan hiccuped. "Look! There's more!"

Across from them, a bush was filled with them, and was rapidly turning brown. "Oh my god," Marcie said faintly. "It's - they're - Adan."

Color drained from his face, he held up his bleeding hand. He took a deep breath and screamed.

But there was no one who could hear them.

***

"They strayed from the path, Ms. Houston," the guide explained to the distraught Janie. "Then they fell in the river or somethin' and drowned."

"But they can swim!" she wailed. "They took swimming lessons, I made sure of it!"

He looked at his companion and sucked in air. "Well, I dunno, miss, but that's how we found their - them. In the water."

The two guides locked eyes for a moment, knowing they couldn't possibly tell the mother how they really found the two children - dead in the middle of the trail, just two heaps of dry bones, with even the marrow missing.

The Exodus

2009-07-09T09:56:00.002-04:00

Kylie had spent a lot of time picking out her outfit. The clothes she finally decided on weren't for that day, but a day that would arrive in three weeks. And that day finally came.

She had to be careful that she didn't stand out - she needed clothes that would blend in utterly, until she was as invisible as a houseplant. Luckily, Kylie looked ordinary. Her shoulder-length, straight brown hair matched her dull eyes, and though she was a little on the short side for the role she was playing, being 5'5" for a fourteen year old, she was the best choice to further the Exodus. Even if someone Kylie were seen, with her bland features, it would be difficult to re-identify her. After all, there were thousands of girls that looked like her. Framing would not be difficult at all - not that she had ever had to do that. Kylie was the best, and she wasn't about to let that change.

The plain white t-shirt she slipped on and the light blue jean capris had been carefully worn out, so that they looked like she wore them often. If she had put them on shining and new, then she might as well just leave the tags on - which reminded her of how she loathed giving money to this country, but how else would she be able to complete the mission? It would all be worth it when she lifted the cover off the jar.

And it was such a shame that Kylie wouldn't be able to watch them all die. There would be no time to do that, though. Very quickly, she would have to shove the goggles on, snap on the face mask, and run.

Bending down, Kylie pulled on her white socks with the gray heel and toe, and then laced on her Nike sneakers. Just a regular girl in a small town. Oh, if only they knew. She picked up her beige purse with the silver clasp and slung it casually over her shoulder, before quietly opening the pinewood door and walking out. On her previous missing, she had blown up a bank. It was a small bomb that she had planted, designed only to kill a handful of people and functioned as a warning. Though Chase had been quite displeased later on, it was worth it to be among the witnesses and listen to the screams and smell the fear. Everyone had mistooken her laughter for tears of terror, which had only made her laugh harder. When Chase heard that, he had even threatened to suspend her from further missions, but Kylie could see in his eyes that he would have done the same thing.

It was already warm outside, and only 10:00 too. Perhaps she should have worn shorts instead, but it was much too late now. The sun was blazing in the cloudless blue skies, giving the perfect light to see the tortured faces as she released the virus. Perhaps someone would get video footage of this - a true Kodak moment, she thought to herself sarcastically.

As she turned the corner, she noticed a pair of girls behind her. Suspicions raised, Kylie discreetly slowed her pace until they weren't far behind her, and then stumbled onto the grass. She managed to get a good look at the girls. One was a little taller than her with frizzy blond hair, baby blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her face. She wore a hot pink tank top and tiny, cut off jean shorts, along with large black flip flops. Next to Frizzy was a short, slender girl with chestnut brown curls and flat green eyes, underneath slanting, olive colored eyebrows, wearing a light blue t-shirt and dark green capris, accompanied by red sneakers.

"Oh, are you all right?" Red Sneakers reached down and helped Kylie up.

She managed a smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks." Brushing the dirt off her clothes, she wondered if she should kill them. "Just as clumsy as always."

Frizzy grinned. "I haven't seen you around town, like, ever. Did you just move here or something?"

Picking up her purse, Kylie replied, "Nah, I'm just spending the summer with my grandmother. I'm Kate, by the way. Kate Brown."

"I'm Evangeline Richards," Frizzy said, "but you can just call me Evie." She pointed to Red Sneakers and added, "That's Candace Tanner - she goes by Candy, though."

Kylie smiled. "That's cool. Where are you guys headed?" If they were going to town, then there was no need to finish them off.

"Oh, we figured we just go downtown, hang, you know?" Candy answered, her tiny pearly whites flashing in the sun. A heavy, gaudy gold bracelet swung around her painfully skinny wrist.

"Really? I'm headed that way too! I just came yesterday and thought I'd check this place out."

The girls exchanged an excited glance, and the three began to walk that way together. "How long are you staying?" Evie asked, flipping her wild hair over her shoulder, grimacing.

"Three weeks, so until August." Taking the hint, Kylie added, "I love your hair, Evie. What did you do to it?"

She smiled smugly. "Oh, it's natural. I don't use any, like, dye or anything - I heard that stuff completely ruins your hair."

"I thought it looked natural. You're so lucky; I totally wish my hair looked like that," she praised. Turning to Candy, she said, "And those are really neat sneakers. You have to tell me where you got them so I can get them too and impress all my girlfriends back home."

Candy flushed happily. "Well, see, my aunt brought them back all the way from the city. It was made by a really famous fashion designer, but I forgot her name."

"That's so neat! I'll check them out when I go home. You mean NY, right?"

"Yeah, New York City. Where else?" Candy giggled. "So wait, you live in the city?"

She nodded. Evie butted in, "Tell us everything. The city life must be so glamorous, right?"

Kylie shrugged modestly. "Well, it's not as you know, sophisticated, as you hear sometimes. I mean, it's like, smoggy, y'know?"

Just then, they arrived downtown. "That's a lot of stores," Kylie commented, as they made their way through the small clusters of teenagers and adults.

Evie sniffed. "It's probably not as big as anything you're used to, in the city. We're just a little town of nobodies, right?"

She glanced sharply at her. "Pride is a double-edged sword," she whispered, and then grabbed the small jar out of her purse. Ignoring their stunned faces, she threw it as far and hard as she could.

The glass smashed against the concrete at the same moment she tugged the face mask on and snapped on the goggles. Around her, people started the shriek as the virus took effect, falling to the ground and twitching. Blood dribbled from the corners of their mouths, but she couldn't watch. There wasn't time.

Just as Kylie started to sprint away, she made the mistake of turning her head. She saw Candy's face pale, and though she relished the image of Evie squealing like a pig, something writhed in her stomach. No, she thought in horror. I can't be feeling pity, not now, not me, the best! I am the best!

Gritting her teeth, she darted back and snagged Candy's arm. "Come with me," she snarled, her voice muffled. "And don't slow me down."

Dragging the panting girl behind her, Kylie ran away from the town, and had made it to the warehouse, where she saw Chase waiting for her. As he spoke, she suddenly realized, her heart sinking, that it had been a test. And the unvanquishable Kylie had failed.

"I can't have you hindering the Exodus," he said, his eyes self-righteous, knowing that the power of the mission was behind him. "This is all for the best."

Then it was Kylie who fell to the ground, Kylie who felt the last moment of pain, the last words she heard, and for a brief moment, she wondered whether it really was for the best. Was it really worth dying for an Exodus she would never see? The moral worries that had bothered her for a while were now filling her exhausted mind, and for once, she didn't care if she was turning traitor, for it was her last moments. And they were the only things in her short life that would be entitled not to a mission to destroy the country, but to herself.

Lost

2009-07-07T11:02:00.004-04:00

Her bare feet swing over the gnarled branch and land without a sound on the dusty ground, not even so much as a twig cracking in the still night. Once, a long time ago, she had walked on two legs, but now she felt more comfortable bending over on her hands. As she silently lopes through the disfigured trees, her eyes flash in the gloom, the blue eyes once hailed as "darling" now eerily wild amid the yellow-tinged whites. Her uncontrollable yellow curls stop short at the bottom of her neck, having been hacked off with a sharp stone. Vaguely, she could remember how she spent so much time making sure they looked pretty, but now they were tangled and muddy and wet, but she didn't care.

That time, so long ago. So, so long ago. It hid in the depths of her memory, but she couldn't remember much, and didn't care to try. She didn't think all that much, just acted. But how long ago had it been? But here in the forest, there was no time. There was action, and there was reaction, just a string of incidents. Day passed and night came, then night passed and day came, but in the end, wasn't it all just the same day and all the same night?

As she struggled to grasp the ideas, she decided to stop. Thinking hurt. And there ahead, what was that? She parted the thorny bush, pricking her fingers as she did so, and saw it was only a boulder. Frowning, she suddenly sat down hard on the ground and studied the ruby red droplets trickling down her tanned skin. Once that skin had been rosy pink, and once that arm had been just a little plump. Now the bones showed through the weathered, scratched skin, but what did that mean?

That long time ago, there were people. They lived in a box. No. Not a box. Something like a box. A . . . a . . . it began with an 'h'. That, she remembered. And the people - she didn't remember them at all. She didn't remember any people at all. What did they look like? Were they like her? Did they make noises? Some of the animals in the forest made noises.

A half-forgotten memory surfaced in her mind. She had been sitting on something, a chair. That was the term, a chair. There was something big and flat in front of her, with food on the table. Food! Someone was saying, "Don't put your elbows on the table, Leanne . . ."

That reminded her of how hungry she was. Her eyes sought out something to eat, and landed on a squirrel. Slowly, she crept up to it and then pounced, her sharpened nails digging into its flesh as it squealed in terror. With a crude slash, it went limp, a cry dying on its lips.

The noises the person had made - what were they? What did they mean? She was very puzzled. It sounded like "don't put your elbows on the table, Leanne", so why did she wonder what it meant? It was just a noise, right? Then she suddenly remembered that people made noises that all meant something, they were words!

Words. She hadn't made a word in a while. A long while. She had made roars and screams and grunts and bellows, but no words. Briefly, she wondered if she still could, but then looked down and saw the bleeding squirrel in her hands. How did it get there? Oh yes, she had killed it.

Eyebrows furrowed as she thought about those troublesome words, she brought the squirrel to her mouth and took a bite, the tough, stringy meat dripping with red. Leanne. Hadn't that meant something special? It did, didn't it?

Another memory suddenly came to her. Flames burning the house, acrid smoke everywhere that choked her. She remembered flinging herself on the wet grass, under moonlight just like this, coughing. Then her brother had stumbled out, eyes bleary and confused. When he had seen her, his eyes widened, and then he burst into flames.

She stared at the squirrel, remembering the smell of burning flesh. Remembering running, running, as fast as she can, remembering the screams behind her.

Quickly, she threw the squirrel and darted away on all fours, until she came to the town. It was a poor town, with the wooden houses very close to one another. Everyone was inside sleeping, and she held the box of matches. Eyes glittering in the moonlight, she lit her third match.

8I9Q5 Part 5

2009-06-13T15:38:00.002-04:00

Bennett gripped his shiny chrome computer with both hands, panic rising in his usually calm, icy blue eyes. "This can't be happening!" he moaned. "The computer . . . it must be broken. Yes, that's it."

Frantically, he typed in commands into the dull green screen, the white text glowing. His fingers barely had to brush the keys for the letters to appear, but for once he didn't marvel at the technological achievements he and his lab team had come up with.

The energy source that the computer drew from - and that also served as a regulatory device - revealed that there were, in fact, no problems with the computer. Bennett took in a shaky breath, before returning to the previous page and once more studying Adi's brain map, in hope that he had simply made an error.

But of course, he hadn't. Brain-enhanced men did not make errors, though when he was a young, foolish, altruistic boy he had made plenty; however, now was not the time to dwell on this.

Focusing his frustration and anger onto Ricks, he created a virtual bridge to the other man's computer. Almost immediately, Ricks' face popped onto the screen, looking bemused. "What's wrong?"

"You said Adi was completely controlled!" Bennett shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "You fool!"

Ricks looked taken aback. "What . . . I'm not sure what you mean, Dr. Bennett. Of course Adi is completely controlled. He hasn't . . ." He glanced at the floor, before returning his now unsteady gaze to the screen. "He hasn't escaped, has he?"

"Why do you think I'm contacting you? He has, he has, he has!" Bennett slammed his fist against the desk, shaking the computer. "Fool! Now the creature is out there, a thinking, dangerous killing machine! Who knows how many people it has already slaughtered?"

"I don't understand . . ."

"What don't you understand?" he roared. "Adi has escaped!"

"But how?"

"Because, you blasted fool, you messed up! Do you realize the consequences of this? Or is your brain as screwed as it appears?"

Ricks bit his lip. "He's much smarter than I thought. I think . . . Dr. Bennett, I think he's smarter than us."

***

"So the energy tablets - they make us stupid?" Jaron stared at her, astonished. "All this time, they've been controlling us?"

Lainey nodded grimly. "And we think we have microchips in our brains, too, to regulate the chemicals. That's how . . . that's how we lost Dyan."

Burning tears dripped out of his eyes, and he angrily swiped them away. "Why? How?"

She took a deep, shuddering breath, her own eyes shiny, and explained in a low voice, "She stopped taking the energy tablet, so that she could serve our team better. But when, when the government noticed that the chemicals that well, make people . . . people, where in her brain in larger quantities than most . . ."

"That's when they dispatched the monster for her," he finished quietly. Then, something she said struck him. "Team? You mean, there's more of you?"

"Then Parmelia and I?" Lainey smiled wryly. "A lot more. We form the Resistance. And we want you to join."

The Dew

2009-06-10T20:14:00.002-04:00

The sweet,
the trembling,
the dew that
slides down
the curved
sensuous
blade of
grass, a tear
that rolls
down a smooth
glass cheek
so fragile, so
strong, the
coursing
water
caressing the
river banks
the solid walls
of soil, packed
and firm, unyielding
but only the
gentle touch of
the river can
gradually shape it
until it dies
amid the oneiric
mists, the droplets
that flow, carried
by the breeze
until they
reach the
bright grass
the sweet
the trembling
the dew

Learning for a Letter

2009-06-06T07:35:00.003-04:00

Students sit at their desks, various binders and pens scattered across the surface. A smaller number than usual are doodling or daydreaming; a test is going to take place in a couple days, and the marking period will end in just a week. The teacher begins to explain how to arrive at an answer for a particularly difficult homework problem. A boy tentatively raises his hand, looking anxious. Once called on, he shyly asks if a question similar to this one will be on the upcoming test. The teacher replies that no, this was just a challenging problem he thought would be of interest. Almost immediately, the students’ eyes glaze over and they retreat into their inner world of daydreaming, feeling secure in the knowledge that they are not expected to know this and thus have no need to pay attention.

Later, the students flock around the teacher’s desk, earnestly requesting to see what their grade is so far, and how it will be affected if they get such-and-such grade on the test. As the teacher obliges, there are mixed reactions – groans, stricken faces, triumphant yells, broad smiles – but each is overwhelmingly out of proportion.

It is my opinion that the grading system should be eradicated for several reasons. If I may firstly point out, the original purpose of a grading system was to effectively determine a student’s knowledge, so that one may examine how one has been doing and improve as necessary. While I have no issues with the intended purpose, it is my perception that the grading system no longer fulfills that.

First and foremost, a student’s knowledge is not accurately judged by the current grading system. It’s controversial whether or not knowledge can be measured at all. Upon hearing that a test is to take place, the typical student begins to study, usually two or three days prior to the testing. Not only does this defeat the purpose of efficiently measuring how much has been learned, rather than crammed for in a given period of time, but also does not allow a student to retain this knowledge. I can speak from experience, as can my peers, that this occurs. It takes me at least a few minutes to recall an answer to a question from a test administered a few months ago, even if I performed well on it at that time, and I can scarcely remember even what topics were covered one or two years ago!

Not only is the grading system inefficient and unwieldy, it is hypocritical as well. Teachers hand out study guides and are always giving the so-called “free” assignments of the purpose of raising a grade, in addition to implementing certain grading systems, such as the “points system”, and demonstrating how they make your grade higher, as if it was all some sort of video game where you want the highest score. Students spend so much time stressing over their grade, not because they think they need to improve and aren’t learning well, but because of what their parents and peers will think and say. Does this all not strike you as ironic?

Finally, grades do not motivate students to learn, contrary to popular belief. Instead, it motivates one to cram more, if it motivates at all. You can not make a student learn if she or he does not want to. Even if a student genuinely makes a larger effort to truly learn, how much can really be gained when grades are the only incentive, as opposed to an urge to learn for the sake of learning?
The grading system may have worked in the past, but now, with its purpose distorted, it is no longer effective. It’s time to move on to a better system: no grades or tests, at least in the traditional sense. Lost in the flurry of grades, whatever happened to learning?

The Darkest Heart

2009-05-29T19:36:00.002-04:00

What barren lands are these
the black sea that stretches shore to shore
the eternal bridge of creaking, croaking wood
that spans across the rippling murmurs
the inky, blackest tears of despair

Scraggly weeds that struggle
through the hard, hard soil
cracking through, thriving
amidst the eating, churning maggots

Tendrils of deep green ivy
that swirls around the forsaken walls
how it weeps into the mightiest heart
the strongest shield
the stoutest badge of courage

Dark as it has become, it's always been
ink dripping in the corners
shadows of night that flit from way to where
and stretches of sand that stir the land

Oh, what barren lands are these!
that swirl and tumble in the soul
corrupted, and filthy, who would have thought?
the darkest heart of them all
is a child

8I9Q5 Part 4

2009-05-28T19:47:00.003-04:00

A gentle breeze caressed Jaron's face as he lay on the cool, green grass. Trees stretched up to the sky around him, and a creek trickled by. For all the calming sounds of nature, his thoughts continued to trouble him.

Could what Lainey told him really be true? If it was, the implications were enormous! The government being a conspiracy sounded ridiculous, after all. Jaron had laughed out loud at first, but her hard eyes drilled into him, and he quieted. What she told him fit too well, the puzzle pieces sliding in beside each other, a vortex of knowledge.

He didn't want to believe her. This perfect world...the Utopian society...he loved it all, and enjoyed his life. Wouldn't it be so convenient to ignore the evidence that piled up around him, and continue to believe that his world was safe and secure and happy? But once you know, you have a responsibility. And Jaron couldn't dodge it.

He thought of the classes at school, and the values pummeled into him. Conform. Be like everyone else. Listen to authority. Don't be different. Now that he saw it all in a different light, Jaron realized Lainey wasn't lying.

And the last, final puzzle piece had been slammed into place as she shoved him a photograph, taken with a primitive camera. It was fuzzy and difficult to see, but he knew what it was. A twisted, mangled body. Dyan.

His thoughts turned to the creature that destroyed her, the men that dispatched it, and he loathed them suddenly, deeply. Seething anger shivered in his bones, and a groan escaped his lips. How could Jaron have failed to protect her, how could someone want to kill her, that lovely, bright, cheerful girl? His sister. Hot, burning tears slipped down his cheeks, tears of rage and fury, tears of grief and regret.

Jaron leaped to his feet and swung a fist in the air. He would fight. They could kill him if they wanted to, but he would fight. Jogging out of the arborium, he caught sight of two girls strolling down the street. "Permelia!" he called. "Lainey!"

***

Everything, so overwhelming. Smells and sounds and sights and tastes and feels all crowding in on it, smothering it until it couldn't breathe, but of course it could because of its nature. Every second was spent being bombarded with all the world and all its aspects, every little cell and yapping dog encroaching in its mind.

Shaking its head in pain, Adi darted down the road, sleek as a panther, deadlier than Death itself. More than the over load of sensory information was the hunger. Oh yes, the hunger. The thirst. Clawing at its throat, Adi let out mewls of frustration.

Suddenly. A smell. Blood and flesh and meat, delicious. Adi snarled and leaped upon the human, tearing and ripping. Finally, sweet ectasy, coating everything until there was nothing but joy, nothing but the purest feelings, and at least for a few moments, the awful texture of life was gone.

8I9Q5 Part 3

2009-05-25T08:50:00.003-04:00

The chilling blue eyes glowed, the faint, spidery-thin green lines from the computer screen reflected in them. As Dr. Bennett carefully studied the map of Adi's brain, he noted the rush of the recently-discovered chemical, forehylen, into the section of the brain associated with pleasure and desire. A small, tight smile formed on his face - his "killing machine" had successfully disposed of the girl who had known more than she should have. The one thing Dyan hadn't known was that everyone, save Dr. Bennett himself, had a microchip implanted in his or her brain at birth. Tabs were kept on everyone, especially those who seem to shy away from conforming, which was how he had discovered that she no longer took the so-called energy tablet.

It was brave of her, he conceded, to forgo food of any sort. After all, she lived almost like the anorexics of the past, steadily growing thinner and thinner. But still, bravery is really just audacity, and audacity, rebelliousness, and other unfavorable qualities were the largest mistakes of past societies. When those are allowed, civilization crumbles into ruin, with war and disease. Society is a delicate, fragile fabric, and the slightest disturbance can build up a tremor, then a violent shaking, and all is lost.

People must be controlled. Everything must be controlled. When there is no regulation, there is no peace. That is the sole reason for the energy tablet, which was the perfect way to dumb down citizens' minds.

***

Mrs. Sparks walked briskly into Mr. Hallman's office, the only sign of distress being her nervous, darting eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Hallman," she greeted him.

He raised his eyes from his paperwork. "Good morning. How are you?"

"Well, thank you. And you?"

Letting out a deep sigh, he stood and cracked his neck. "I have seen better days."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir." Biting her lip, Sparks avoided his eyes.

"Is something the matter?"

"Well...yes." Hallman glanced pointedly at the clock. Flustered, she continued, "A girl. Dyan Kipling? She's missing."

He coolly sat back down. "If she is, there is a reason. Thank you for stopping by, and have a good day."

"Oh!" Sparks flushed. "I - I'm sorry."

Hallman, ignoring her, called for his secretary, and began to dictate a letter. "Thank you...thank you for seeing me. I hope you're day is good as well." Sparks swallowed and rushed from the room.

***

The bell sounded, and students calmly left the school, except for Jaron. Looking slightly disturbed, he slipped through the crowd, muttering apologies, which earned him frosty stares. "Lainey!" he cried, spotting the tall girl with dusty brown hair. "Wait - please."

She turned, and then nodded in acknowledgement. "Jaron. I'm surprised to see you."

Before he could reply, she went on, "Perhaps it would be best if we talked somewhere more private."

They weaved their way towards a small niche in the side of the building, something Jaron had never noticed. "Where's Dyan?" he asked breathlessly.

Lainey glanced at the empty courtyard. "Gone."

"Gone? What do you mean?"

She stooped down and wiped up something with her finger. Holding it up, he saw the fingerpad had turned red. "Gone," she repeated.

The word hit him like a stack of stones thrown on his chest. "You're...you're lying. She's not - how could she be dead?"

Smiling humorously, Lainey replied, "Because she knew too much. Let me show you."

Fields of Bliss

2009-05-22T18:37:00.003-04:00

And for once, the Others were free.

They had shed the chains of oppression and now stood in the open expanse of the field, liberty rising among them like fog at the harbor. So unused were they to this sensation that they stood still, uncertain and hesitating.

It was one girl among them, slightly shorter and slimmer than the others, who had made the first move. She had dark chestnut hair pulled back in a tight bun, and gray eyes set in her drawn face. Oh yes, the eyes. The eyes that swirled and brimmed with broiling seas, as filled with mystery and intrigue as a barrel is filled with fish. Jeanne had taken a wavering step forward, and now she hunched over, eyes desperately searching the vast, empty yet full field. Then, in a wild, reckless move, she tore her hair out of the bun, so violently that several strands had drifted to the ground.

But her hair, at least, was free. It hung, a curtain of hidden beauty, resting on her neck and shoulders. Murmuring moved among the rest of the Others as they watched this spectacle with wide eyes.

Encouraged by this, Jeanne ripped away her gloomy, gray cardigan, revealing a sleeveless blouse. She let out a shiver of joy as the breeze caressed her bare arms for the first time. The murmuring grew. She shucked off her shoes and threw them as far as she could, giggling at this marvel. Then, giddily, she leaned over and tore away strips of her black skirt, until the ragged edge reached only half-way to her knees.

Silk sheets of wind wrapped around her, and she let out a screech of elation. Around her, the Others were copying her, removing cardigans, skirts, buns, and shoes. The murmur rose to a hum, then a chatter.

Grass brushed against her bare feet, and she yanked up tufts of it and experimentally threw it in the air. Movement paused to watch this event, before someone tossed a clod of dirt. It smashed into a young girl's face, who let out a squeal.

Soon, dirt was thrown everywhere, the spheres of mud splashed into everyone - their clothes, their skin, their faces, their hair. But then - was it Jeanne, again? - someone leaped upon another and clawed at her face with her hands. Screams of a different sort echoed in the air, high and piercing.

Then all was chaos. All was bliss. Blood splattered the grass, and flew in high, arcing streaks. Yells and cries, grunts and murmurs, all soared.

At last, everyone lay limp, eternally free, eternally chained. Only Jeanne still crawled through the red-stained grass, straining for the liberty, just out of her reach. "One more..." she whispered. "One more..."

But then at last, she gave out, in the fields.

Fourteen

2009-05-21T18:00:00.003-04:00

I pushed open the glass door, my backpack slung over my shoulder, and entered the main lobby, that awful sterile, too-clean smell wafting in the air. A passing nurse cheerily greeted me, "Hey Kelsey! How was school?" but didn't wait for a reply as she strode away.

Dropping my school bag on the floor, I sat down on the hard, garish orange plastic chair, grimacing at the discomfort. I took out a notebook and opened to a clean page, and started to write my English essay, pausing now and then to glance at my research and notes. After a few minutes, I stopped and studied the words I had scrawled on the page: It is important that we save the environment because otherwise plants, animals, and even we could die out. After all, it's not just our planet - we share it with all the other life.

Cringing at my own writing, I tore out the page, balled it up, and tossed it into the trash can. The receptionist glared at me disapprovingly over her rimmed glasses, so I shrugged apologetically. Sighing, I started again. The earth in all its beauty is a precious thing - a jewel in the vast sea of the universe. No. Terrible. I erased it, leaving little shreds of pink, and began once more. How often do we stop to think - no, no, no! Too condescending!

I groaned and let the pen slip from my fingers. How will I ever finish my homework? But then again, what does it matter anyway? Almost angrily shoving it back into my backpack, I let out a low, bitter chuckle. I'm past caring about homework.

Beside my chair was a small little table, with four or five brightly colored magazines strewn about it. On a whim, I picked one up and studied the cover image. A tall, blonde woman with almond-shaped eyes stood next to a brawny, upset man, underneath giant, yellow block letters: WHO DUMPED WHO? Mentally correcting the grammatical error, I flipped through the pages. So-and-so broke up with so-and-so, and this baseball player was found on steroids, and that one died while drunk two nights ago. Exasperated, I threw it back down and slumped over in seat, resting my head in my hands.

"Kelsey? Kelsey!" I jerked awake, blinking drowsily at the nurse before me.

Smiling sheepishly, I mumbled, "Sorry, I think I fell asleep."

"You need to get more sleep," the nurse chided. "I know you teens like to stay up all night long at your little parties, but really. You do have school the next day!" I nodded to get her off my back. "All right, now follow me. He's ready to see you."

She briskly walked down the hallway, and I trailed after her. Soon we reached the pale pink door, which she opened and gestured for me to go inside.

A shrunken, weak man lay in the bed, tubes sticking out of him every which way. Slowly, I approached him, and when I reached the bedside, I quietly said, "Hi Dad. It's me."

He grunted. "Who's that?" It came out sounding like whoozat.

"Me. Kelsey."

Frowning, he thought for a minute. His face uncreased as he suddenly recalled who I was. "Yes, yes." The man coughed. "Where's Sam and Jimmy?" Wheresamanjimmy.

"You mean Scott and Jamie?"

He waved his hand in the air. "That's what I said." Thasutisud.

I pulled up a chair and sat down. "Rachel's watching them, and Clay, too."

The man stared at me strangely. "Who's them?" Whozem.

Patiently, I replied, "Rachel is the babysitter. She stays until six. Clay is the baby."

After a coughing fit that racked his frail body, the man started to ramble about his childhood. He told me in great detail about the farm he grew up on, though I knew he was raised in Chicago. By 5:30, he fell asleep, and I left.

***

I dropped the twenty dollar bill in Rachel's outstretched hand. "See you tomorrow."

Already chatting amiably at her cell phone, she nodded at me and drove away. I closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a few seconds. "Hey!" someone shouted. "Kels! You're home!"

A small, lithe figure darted through the living room, and skidded to a stop in front of me. "Hey," I replied wearily. His twin, Jamie, rushed up behind him.

"We drew pictures in school today!" he announced. Mumbling something along the lines of "how nice", I searched for something edible. "Mine was way better than Scott's."

Scott glared at him. "Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Was - "

Slamming the refrigerator door, I whirled around, clutching the carton of eggs. "Stop it! Stop it right now!"

They sulkily studied their scuffed sneakers. "Somebody's not happy today," one of them murmured.

"You got that right," I snapped, yanking the oven on. The twins stood somewhat still for a few moments, before coming back to life.

Jamie grabbed a toy airplane and ran around, making whooshing sounds. "Boy," he suddenly said, pausing his game. "Clay smells something awful."

Groaning, I stared gloomily at the pan of frying eggs. "Well, I can't change him now. Why don't one of you do it?"

The two protested, but I cut them off. "I never see you doing work around the house. Make yourselves useful for once!"

Around ten minutes later, we were ready to eat our greatly over-cooked eggs. "Eggs for dinner?" Scott asked increduously. "No one eats eggs for dinner!"

"Well, you do now." I stabbed the egg visciously with my fork, and winced as bright yellow liquid spurted in the air.

"Eww," the twins exclaimed in unison. They glanced at each other.

"Can I eat at Bobby's house again?" Jamie cautiously requested.

***

I sighed as I perched on the bed. The laundry was cleaned, the house mopped, the spills wiped up, the kids fed, the baby put to sleep, the kids in bed, and I was ready to go to sleep.

Tiredly setting the alarm clock - which now read 10:40 - to 4:00 so I could get to my shift at McDonald's the next morning, I noticed someone had left the closet door open. The kids must have been playing in here again! I thought.

I started to close the door, when I noticed a small envelope. Curious, I tore it open, revealing a short section of white-lined paper. Written on it in unfamiliar, loopy letters was "Happy 14th Birthday, Kelsey!"

Surprised, I placed it on the dresser and then climbed into bed. Staring at the ceiling, in the dark, I began to weep.

8I9Q5 Part 2

2009-05-17T08:42:00.003-04:00

Jaron grabbed his small, slender pill and a glass of water. The energy tablet seemed as if it held golden swirls of pine resin, but he knew very well from Biology that it was was a mixture of natural chemicals. In the past, as he learned in History, people actually had "meals", where they sat down and consumed crazily large quantities of food. It wasted loads of time, amounting to as much as three hours! Jaron shook his head in amazement as he swallowed the pill. Twenty-first century people had no idea how to conserve time. Things are so much better in the twenty-second century, he decided. Every hour in the day is put to good use - no need to even sleep with the energy tablet, invented by a man named Dr. Bennett.

Suddenly, a short girl with swinging pigtails appeared. "Hey Jaron!" she exclaimed. "Grab me one of those tablets, would you?"

He stared at her strangely, passing her a pill. "Why are you talking and acting so old-fashioned?"

Rolling her eyes, Dyan replied, "Gosh, where've you been? Today's Celebrate History Day, and I'm pretending to be from the year 2015!"

"What are you talking about? 'Celebrate History Day'? There's no such thing!"

She sniffed. "There is in my imagination."

Jaron sighed as he walked outside, biting his lip. Ever since Dyan had begun associating with those two friendless girls at school, Permelia and Lainey, she had been so odd. Society is about conforming, and being like everyone else, and whereas previously she had been normal, now it was almost as if she strived to be different. As her older brother, he could only hope she would learn from his example eventually. It was every citizen's responsibility to correct the mistakes made in the past and to help others do so, after all. Look how much the old people messed up! If it wasn't for courageous scientists like Dr. Bennett and his father, then there would probably still be pollution.

As he walked past the rows of pale blue houses, an idea suddenly struck him. He could convince Dyan that Permelia and Lainey were just not worth it, and she might go back to normal! Better yet, he would talk to those two girls and tell them to leave his sister alone. Yes, that was the perfect idea.

The rectangular gray school building lay ahead, and Jaron pushed the door open. Inside, other boys and girls of varying ages nodded in acknowledgement, those he knew well greeting him. "Hello, Jaron. It's nice to see you again."

He responded politely and moved forward to see his closest friend, saying, "Hello, Aric! How are you?"

Aric smiled. "Very well, thanks. I hope you're the same."

"Yes, thank you." They exchanged a few more trivial questions, before Jaron explained the increasingly worse situation with Dyan.

His friend's eyes widened. "Oh, that's serious! And you say it's started when she began seeing those girls? I've heard many things about them, you know."

"What sort of things?"

"They're not...right in the head, if you catch my drift." Aric tapped the side of his. "Making strange comments. Gestures. That type."

Jaron nodded knowingly. "I see. Then I suppose I really had better get to talking to them about leaving my sister alone."

"That would be a good idea. Would you like me to come with you, or are you all right by yourself?"

"I'm fine, but thank you." He smiled, then turned and searched for the girls. As he walked into the courtyard, he noticed Dyan. "Hello!" he called to her.

She waved back gaily, and started to approach him, but he was already walking away. Jaron must be looking for someone, she thought. Oh well, I have to go meet Parmelia and Lainey anyway.

Dyan walked to their customary meeting place, a hidden niche in the side of the building. It was dark, but secret, and they had roughly twenty minutes before classes started. Waiting, she noticed a dark figure inside, and froze. Had someone found this place? How?

There was a flash of gold, a blurred image of something moving in the air, sparks of pain, and then she was aware of no more.

8I9Q5 Part 1

2009-05-16T08:22:00.005-04:00

Dr. Bennett carefully examined the creature pacing back and forth in the container, which was made of a special glass-diamond material. Gesturing to the animal, he asked, "Did you give it extremely sharp senses, as I requested?"

"Oh yes, yes, of course," Dr. Ricks earnestly assured him. "With its sense of smell, 8I9Q5 can distinguish between individual cells, and can see the tiniest object from five miles away, if there are no barriers."

Bennett's nostrils flared. "No barriers," he repeated, his piercing blue eyes boring into the man in front of him. "No barriers. Do you suppose this...this whatever-you-call-it will be working on a flat, open Kansan field?"

Chuckling weakly, Ricks replied, "No, no, of course not; 8I9Q5 can still see rather far in an ordinary setting. Right now, for instance, he could see microscopic blemishes on your face!"

"I should hope so," he growled in return. "Now, tell me of its other senses. Hearing - how's that?"

"Excellent. A baby can cry halfway across the state and it will know of it."

8I9Q5 tossed its head suddenly, letting out an icy, bone-chilling cry. Rows of small but sharp teeth, occasionally punctuated by large, fearsome fangs, were revealed. As it continued to pace back and forth, sinewy muscles rippled beneath its sleek, glossy black fur. "What's the matter with it?" Bennett demanded.

"It's thirsty," Ricks answered. "Here's a chance for you to see its hunting skills!" Rubbing his hands together, he laughed softly. "This will, without a doubt, astonish you." He turned to his lab assistant, a young, ambitious woman, and said, "Jennifer, release him into GYE 56."

She nodded and pushed a few buttons on a panel. Bennett studied his perfectly manicured nails, a practiced expression of boredom on his face. "You're about to see Adi at his best," Ricks gloated.

"Adi?" Bennett said, raising an eyebrow.

Ricks's face colored. "A little nickname for 8I9Q5. 8I sounds like Adi."

Snorting in contempt, Bennett turned to the container marked GYE 56, where Adi prowled. It was filled with large amounts of plants and undergrowth, almost like a forest. An ordinary looking horse was pushed inside, eyes rolling wildly with fear.

Faster than their eyes could track, Adi streaked across and, in one smooth, swift motion, brought the horse down. There was a flash of claws and fangs, and then the horse fell to the ground, mangled and blood-soaked. Letting out a roar of triumph, Adi bent its head and began to feast.

Wrinkling his nose, Bennett sniffed, "Can't it kill any cleaner?"

"It can, but it never does," Ricks replied darkly. "That thing...it loves to kill."

"A true killing machine, then."

Ricks shifted his position. "No. Not a machine. Machines can't think, but Adi can. This only makes him all the more dangerous."

"I would hate to see it prematurely released, before we could program it to fulfill our needs, and our needs alone."

"Well! That's why we have so many precautions, eh?" Ricks chortled. "But no, don't worry. Adi will never escape. How is it possible?"

Pausing briefly from its meal, the creature looked up, golden eyes glinting.

A Warm Summer Night

2009-05-10T14:31:00.002-04:00

Hot air wafted in through the screen windows as I lounged on my bed, sipping the cool, refreshing lemonade. Outside, the familiar noises of tires rubbing against the rough surface of the road echoed, and I listened contentedly. It was too humid to read or hang out with my friends, so I was perfectly happy to relax, half-lost in a misty daydream.

Suddenly, there was a loud screech as bumper smashed into bumper. There were yells, and then brief quietude, before sirens tore through the air. Jolted out of my thoughts, I put down my glass and shoved my flip flops on. As I pushed open the door of my room, Eddie ran by. "A crash," he called, hurrying down the stairs.

I followed, heart thumping. For a few moments, I couldn't undo the latch on the back door, but it felt like long years. Finally, the door creaked open, and I ran out. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The science teacher at our school had once explained to us that if time ever stopped, oxygen particles would become as hard as iron ones. I could hardly breathe and momentarily wondered if time had indeed stopped.

But the sirens were still sounding their cry, and fire engine after police car after fire engine raced past me, creating a small, short lived breeze. A dark figure streaked past me, and I froze, before realizing it was just the neighborhood cat.

Running, I soon reached the intersection of the two streets, where two smashed up cars stood still. Around me, kids gradually gathered, curiosity painted on their faces. "Look," Sara whispered to me, pigtails swinging. "Isn't that Maggie's car?"

The dark blue car, with its windshield shattered and front terribly damaged, did look familiar. She peered at me. "Are you all right, Kate? You're pale!"

"I...I'm fine," I managed, blood pumping and ears ringing. "Is that really her car?"

Sara nodded confidently. "Yeah, I know her car. Cheap model." Glancing around, she leaned closer. "I think there's something wrong with her, though. She's so...weird. You know what I mean?"

I swallowed. Amid the shrieking sirens, there was silence.

The Gift and the Giver

2009-04-26T15:17:00.004-04:00

The sidewalk is ingrained with years' worth of filth and dirt, and now one more layer of water is sinking in. The road encroaching it is filled with as many puddles as potholes, and as cars pass, foul rainwater lurches out, splattering unwary pedestrians.

One man wears a long, black coat that almost touches the top of his grimy brown boots, with an upturned collar that shadows most of his face. Slightly frightened, weary brown eyes peer out, blinking suddenly as he is sprayed with water. His hair, already disheveled to say the least, is now drenched and a considerably darker shade.

He stumbles along, his ragged appearance and clumsiness giving off the impression that he is drunk, most probably after losing a game (or twenty) down at Vegas. People push past him, disgust flickering on their faces as they press their children closer to themselves. Suddenly, the man falls to the ground with a subdued cry. Instinctively reaching out, his stubby, grubby fingers brush the arm of a woman in a bright pink, flower print dress.

She lets out a squawk of surprise and automatically scoops up her daughter, who squirms and peeks over her shoulder. The woman turns and glowers at him, icily asking him, "Just what do you think you're doing?"

Scrambling to his feet, the man apologetically says, "I'm sorry, I fell and my fingers touched your bag."

He stares into her eyes earnestly, dripping wet. Grumbling, she snarls, "So you're a thief as well as a liar. That's very fine. You'll get your reward for that, mark my words."

"A thief I may be on occasion, but a liar I am not," he replied simply.

The woman sneered, then turned and marched away. Dressed in a plain, navy blue dress and patent leather shoes, the little girl glanced at him, wide-eyed, as a small, glowing orb landed in her hands.

He winked and then saluted her, and she solemnly saluted him in return, before the crowd swallowed them.

My Angel

2009-04-12T10:34:00.002-04:00

I built her with the whitest snow
the clearest ice
the brightest flames
I built her with the softest clouds
the shiniest metal
the prettiest piece of sky
I built her with the sharpest glass
the loveliest feather
the sweetest nectar from the reddest rose
I built her out of dreams
and out of the sweetest chocolates of all
I built her out of my heart
and out of love
I built her

She soared across a sky of hope
She nestled safely in a cloud
She flew down and laughed in wonder
as her fingers skimmed the trembling grass

She marveled as she hugged a tree
felt the rugged lines that braved so much
She kissed a baby's little toe
and carefully caressed a flower's petal

She held a cold, smooth, black stone
and stroked its worn surface
She closed her fingers one by one around it
and cooed softly, cradling the stone
Then finally she opened her fist
and the stone was a stone no more
but a white, white dove
She smiled as the whitest dove of all
spread its wings and flew
away away away

She whispered secrets to the grass
and listened as they whispered ones back
clapping her hands in the purest joy
and laughing a sweet, untainted laugh

She laid a finger on a dying sapling
She sang a little song
and watched in admiration as the sapling
grew big and strong

She watched in awe as a beetle
crawled across her finger
She brought it close to her heart and whispered:
"Prettiest creature of them all."

She circled around an old, old man
Who lay, eyes closed, breath hard,
and strained,
and slow
She kissed his wrinkled, weary cheek
She held his tired hand
and then his eyes opened wide
his breath quickened
he leapt right out of bed and
strangest thing of all
he danced!

She sang with the birds
She jumped with the frogs
She listened with the rabbits
She ran with the horses
She flew the butterflies
She whispered with the wind

And then one day she told me
She said she had to go
I pleaded with her
begged her not to leave
But she shook her head so sadly
and said she had no choice

She said good-bye to the animals
and to the trees
and the bugs
and the grass
and the clouds
and the skies
and then finally to me

She said to remember
times sweetest of all
She said to be brave
and joyful
and happy
and sad
She said to be determined
and do what you must
She said to recall
that our hearts are all the same
that words can hurt
and smiles can heal
She said to sing
and to dance
to laugh
and to smile
And finally she whispered
She will always be with me
in my heart
with my dreams and my love
to guide me
and teach me
to show what's right and what's wrong
to love me

She flew up, up, up
into the promising sky
and gave me one last look
a smile resting on her lips
a tear dropping from her crystal eyes
"Don't forget," she murmured. "Don't forget."

And then she disappeared
a small white dot
in a big blue sky
a small white dot
forever gone

I wept a tear
and then another
falling down my cheeks
and landing on the crying grass

And then I put my hand on my heart
and felt warmth encompass me
felt her smile
felt her laugh
felt her love, most of all
And I knew

She was there

My Angel