“Miss, where do you want these groceries?”
“Um, in the kitchen. On the counter, but not next to the sink. I don’t want them to get wet,” Panphila subconsciously patted down the imaginary creases in her skirt, then stopped, brushing back her hair and calling out to the ShopRite delivery boy. “Wait! Let me show you the spot.”
She wedged herself between the boy and the kitchen doorway, pointing a manicured talon at the counter.
“There,” she said. “Right there. On that counter.”
“Okay,” the delivery boy said, trying not to sound as annoyed as he was. He put the grocery bags down on that counter, and flexed his reddened fingers in relief. Panphila’s kitchen was white and gray, in no varying shades. The counters were white marble, polished to a shine, the oven, sink and refrigerator metallic, the walls a stainless white, and the blinds white and dustless. Everything looked as if it belonged on display in Home Depot, except without the smell of of wet paint and wood shavings.
“Is that everything?” Panphila asked, while she slinked around the boy and began poking through the bags.
“Everything you ordered. That’s it,” the boy said.
“Okay,” Panphila responded, her long, beaked nose not leaving the insides of the bags. “Thank you. Goodbye.”
“Uh, okay,” the boy said, and stepped quietly out of the kitchen.

*

An hour later, Panphila sat in her living room, reading a collection of poetry by Emily Dickinson. It was not - however - a copy of Dickinson’s original works, but the edited versions of her poetry done by her family after she’d died. The groceries were all properly put away, however Panphila had nearly thrown a fit when one of her eggs was cracked and she had to throw it in her compost bin. She hated starting the week with anything but a fresh dozen eggs.
But, reading soothed Panphila. It simply soothed her to be occupied at all, while sitting in her living room. She would sit on her plastic-covered couch with her back straight, and the white porcelain lamp to her left on, and the cream porcelain lamp to her right off. The television was always off, because Panphila had only ever used it to watch the news with and ever since her father’s death, she didn’t care much for the news. And besides, without the television, there would be no reason to keep the entertainment center which was what her yellow, porcelain ducks sat atop. Robbie had never liked those ducks. But, the television stayed, as did the ducks, and the white carpet, and the curtains the color of baby corn, and the old clock carved in the shape of an owl that hung above the arch leading into the dining room and ticked the seconds in the loud silence of Panphila’s reading.
Panphila glanced up from her book to that clock. It was not yet ten till four. At ten till four Panphila had to start walking to the mechanic’s shop to pick up her car at ten after four. The alternator had gone bad, so Panphila had been without a car since yesterday evening while it was being replaced. It’s why she’d had her groceries delivered that week. Tuesday was grocery day but Panphila always drove about twenty minutes away to her preferred ShopRite which was much cleaner and less crowded than the one near her house. She couldn’t have driven there today without an alternator, so the groceries had had to be delivered. She’d ordered them online last night, after she was told she wouldn’t get her car back till the next day.
Panphila looked at the clock again. It was quarter to four. She marked her place in her book and laid it down on the endtable to her left, turned off the lamp and put on her shoes.

*

Panphila dusted off the chair before she sat down, waiting for one of the mechanics to wait on her. She held her black purse tightly in her lap, and looked up at the clock. It was eleven after four.
The door leading out into the garage opened revealing the loud whirring and screeching of moving metal. A man, wiping dark grease onto his jeans, entered the room as well and went and stood behind the desk with the cash register and the computer. Panphila stood up and walked over, with her purse still in a vice-grip.
“Hi, how’s it going?” the man asked. He looked like a coffee drinker, not to mention his skin was the color of coffee with hazelnut cream. His hair, however, was as black as the grease on his pants.
Panphila started to say, “It’s -”
“You’re here for the Hyundai Accent?” The man cut her off, then stopped. He laughed,
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not used to people actually answering that.”
“Yes, I’m here for the Accent,” Panphila answered tightly.
“Okay,” the man replied, turning back to the computer. “Panphila Drakos...” He clicked a few times, focused on the screen, then looked up.
“Panphila,” the man said again. “That’s an interesting name.”
“It was my grandmother’s,” Panphila answered, defensively.
“What does it mean?” the man asked, curiously.
“Daughter who is loved by all.”
The man nodded in approval. “Wow. So, are you loved by all?”
“Are you a mechanic?” Panphila asked, snippily. “Or a therapist?”
The man went back to the computer screen. “My name means ‘Of the victorious people’. My family was not victorious, though.”
Panphila tapped her foot impatiently.
“Okay, so you owe $400 for the alternator. Debit or credit?”
“Debit.”
Panphila swiped her card, but it didn’t go through.
“Other way,” the man said. Panphila tried again, this time successfully. The man printed out her receipt and wrote something on the back of it before handing it to her along with her keys.
“I parked your car in the front,” the man said.
“Mm-hm,” Panphila replied, turning and heading dutifully out the door. Once in her car, she drove off immediately, making it home by four twenty-seven. It wasn’t until she was parked in front of her house that she pulled out her receipt to make sure it was correct. It was, but on the back was written, “Nicolas” and a phone number.

*

Panphila sat on her couch, absently sipping a cup of tea. A strand of black hair fell from her bun. She turned on the TV. A crime drama was on. Sirens roared on the screen and Panphila listened, drinking her tea.
She remembered the sirens from the night her father had died. Red and blue lights had mixed in her vision, blinding her with purple so she didn’t realize she was seeing her Babas at first, the mangled man being wheeled past her on a stretcher. Robbie had been with her, his hand on her shoulder. He’d been so calm.
“Yes, that’s my father-in-law. This is his daughter. No, he doesn’t have any other family. Sugar, are you okay to ride in the ambulance?”
Panphila turned off the TV and picked up the phone. She pulled the receipt out of her pocket and dialed the number on the back of it. It rang twice.
“Hello?”
“This is Panphila.”
“Oh, I didn’t think you would call.”
“Then why did you give me your number?”
“I hoped you would call - “
“Aren’t you supposed to ask me on a date now?”
“Yeah, so, do you like Indian food?”
“No.”
“Greek?”
“Really?”
“Italian?’
“Why not,” Panphila sighed.
“Friday night? I could pick you up around seven?”
“Okay.”
“Where do you live?”
“6523 Blanche Street. And, actually, get here fifteen minutes early. I need you to help me with something.”

*

Nicolas, it turned out, cleaned up pretty nice. When Panphila opened the door at six forty, he stood there in a light blue dress shirt and pants, a tie, a shave - the usual. Panphila wore a black dress, slimming and tight but still modest.
“You’re five minutes early,” Panphila said, frowning.
“You said to come early.”
“I said six forty-five.”
“Would you like me to go back to my car and knock again in five minutes?”
“Just come in.”
Panphila closed the door behind Nicolas when he entered, then stood with arms crossed, tapping her foot.
“Those are some nice ducks,” Nicolas commented, cocking a curious eyebrow at Panphila’s porcelain ducks.
“I’m trying to decide what to do with my television,” Panphila interjected, ignoring him.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know if I should smash it myself or let the trash truck do it for me.”
“Smashing it yourself would be more fun. For me at least.”
Panphila frowned. “Just help me carry it out.”
Nicolas opened the front door, then grabbed one end of the TV while Panphila grabbed the other. They hoisted it up, then outside, and finally eased it down on the curb. Panphila stood back with her hands on her hips, considering the lopsided television.
“Well,” she finally said. “What should I use to smash it?”
“I have a tire iron in my trunk,” Nicolas offered.
“That’ll work.”
“Just let me move my car before I get it out.”
Nicolas took his car a few houses down the block, then walked back to Panphila with a tire iron and a smile. He held the tire iron out to Panphila, then pulled it back when she reached for it.
“First, what did this TV do to you?”
“My ex bought it.”
“You know, you’re not supposed to talk about your ex on the first date.”
“You asked. Besides,” Panphila added. “ I’ll never mention him again.”
“That’s fair.” Nicolas smiled and handed over the tire iron.
Panphila shattered the screen first. Then she beat the body of the TV, crushing and mangling it into an unrecognizable mass. Robbie would have been cooly disapproving, not angry or horrified. Babas would have laughed at seeing his daughter bash at this television in a tight dress and heels. When Panphila stopped, she stood back and held the tire iron out to Nicolas. He walked towards her, taking it back while laughing.
“I think your neighbors might be moving soon.”
“They’re allowed,” Panphila said, unable to stop the small smile that stretched on her face.
“Are you ready to go now?” Nicolas asked.
“Yes. I am.”

Sassy

          I didn't hear anyone knocking at the door. I didn't hear the door open. I was napping in my room when I finally woke up to my mother yelling,
          "Sam!"
          I rolled out of bed, quite literally rolled, and hiked up my pants as far as they could go. Last year they'd been two sizes too big for me, now I could only squeeze into them on a good day.
          "Samantha!" my mom screamed again. "Come downstairs!"
          "Yeah, Mom! Give me a minute." I brushed my hand through my hair once or twice, then headed downstairs. I wasn't prepared to see Zeal. I wouldn't have come down if I'd known he was there. I wouldn't have come down if I'd know anyone was there aside from my mom. And I didn't even recognize Zeal for the first few seconds I looked at him. Somehow, he'd gotten more gorgeous. College had given him greater muscle tone, a copper complexion and two more piercings. I'd gotten the freshman fifty.
          "Sassy!" Zeal said when he saw me, and pulled me into a tight hug, kissing my hair. His arms no longer wrapped far enough around my waist to tickle the sides of my belly. My throat tightened.
          "Hey," I said dryly. I noticed my mom had left the room. I was horrified and relieved. If she had stayed, I wouldn't have to face Zeal by myself, but now that she was gone I only had to be humiliated in front of one person. Besides, I hated my mom for letting Zeal in and tricking me into coming downstairs.
          Zeal pulled back to look at me and brushed a strand of hair out of my face. I was burning.
          "My beautiful, beautiful Sassy," Zeal said, his thumb rubbing against my cheek. "I missed you."
          And that's when I started sobbing.

The world was full
and I danced all day
and sang to the birds
and held my Father's hand,
talking to him endlessly.

The garden was life,
the wind tickling my ear
with words from the air
and the ground held me,
keeping me close and stable.

The tree was beautiful,
with vines for leaves
and fruit that dripped,
hanging like droplets
from the vines.

The serpent was quiet,
it only whispered
and hissed
and slithered around me
till I was comfortable in its squeeze.

The fruit was sweet
like honeysuckles
or bee nectar
or ripe cherries
or the smell of fresh roses.

The fruit was bitter,
like the feel of thorns
or like bile
or thirst
or snake's venom.

I was exposed,
my Father knew
but I covered myself anyway
hoping I could hide my shame,
myself.

He was enraged
and betrayed.
He spoke like the mountains when they'd formed
and wept
like all of the waterfalls in Eden.

The curse was a pit
with so much darkness
I couldn't see beauty
and jagged glass
that pierced my opened eyes, then my womb.

The skins were a gift,
He stitched them Himself.
They protect me from the glass
and even now, when I wear them
I hear his faraway voice.

Hold it up to the light

like a color slide

watching rainbow spots 

like fruity pebbles

dance and move and 

illuminate.

You'll see all I have to tell,

if you try.

Pick me up and spin me around,

and watch my smile,

my hair

illuminate.

Gold and red

like waves of sunshine.

Just take the time

And hold me up to the light.

*The first two lines are taken from Billy Collins' "Introduction to Poetry". The rest, is mine.

Chlöe

          It's been awhile since I've put anything up here, so I decided to put up an excerpt of a longer piece that I'm working on. I'm not sure if this will be the exact beginning of the piece, but it will be in the beginning. I think it's pretty good for a start and I hope you like it too.

*

          “You wanna do what?” Chase asked. He and Rob were sitting on the floor of his room, playing Xbox. Their eyes made fervent darts across the TV screen but their thumbs moved faster. They were leaning against Chase’s bed, which hadn’t been made in – well – ever, and occasionally swatted at the colony of flies that occupied the room.

            “I want to star in the school play this year,” I repeated.

            “Dammit!” Chase yelled, throwing down the controller. Rob chuckled victoriously.

            “Did you hear me?” I asked. Chase sighed and turned to me.

            “School play?” he said, as if the play was what smelled like month-old Monster. “You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

            I shook my head. “Nope. It looks really interesting. It’s not some boring old rehash of Broadway shows long gone. This year it was written by a student. And besides,” I shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to act.”

            “Only wussies care about that kind of thing,” Chase sneered. “And you just said it yourself. You don’t know how to act, why would you get picked? And to be the star, of all things?”

            I leaned my head against the giant bosom of a swimsuit model on the wall. I felt my throat closing but I tried not to let it show in my voice.

            “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got some secret acting talent or something.”

            “Clo, I doubt it. You? Act?”

            I let out a sob. I hated myself for it.

            “Here comes the waterworks,” Rob sighed. “Again.”

            Chase stood up and came over to me, taking me in his arms. I let out a couple more gentle sobs before regaining control of myself, and pressed quietly into Chase’s chest.

            “I guess I wouldn’t be any good at acting, huh?” I asked, finally.

            “No,” Chase answered. “So forget about this play thing. Okay? I just don’t want you embarrassing yourself in front of other people, okay?”

            “Okay.”

            Chase let go of me and sat back down. “Sit down here with Rob and me.”

            “Just don’t cry on me,” Rob warned, wrinkling his nose.

            I sat in between them and laid my head on Chase’s shoulder while they went back to their game. I watched as they marched around in the game world, shooting off every living head. I wondered if the heads were me.

Forgive Me

          "Brant?" Cordelia said.

          "Hm?"

          "How did your mother die?"

          Brant stopped poking the fire. He stared into it.

          "She was killed by a river elf. A Turkis River Elf," Brant paused. "She was visiting their village to sign a treaty of peace. The first one ever made between river and fire elves. She was approaching the village with her guards and some idiot sentry thought they were coming to attack. He shot her twice before he was stopped." Brant sighed, continuing.

          "A war nearly broke out because of it. But, the leader of the Turkis River Elves at the time, handed the boy responsible over to my father in exchange for his cooperation in continuing with the treaty my mother had wanted. The boy was publicly executed and the treaty signed."

          Brant stopped, letting out a deep breath. He returned to poking the fire.

          Cordelia couldn't look at him.

          "I'm sorry."

          "It's not your fault," Brant said.

          "How can - " Cordelia shook her head. "How come you don't hate me? How can you - " Cordelia stopped, trailing off. 

          Brant looked at her, confused. 

          "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

          "You don't hate me? For what they did to your mother?"

          "Why would I?" Brant asked. "You had nothing to do with that."

          "What about the Turkis River Elves? How could you stand living among - "

          "Cordelia," Brant cut in. "It's not their fault either. It was a tragic mistake, my mother's death. I don't hate anyone because of it. Not even the guy who killed her." Brant whispered the last sentence, as if the words were so new to him that he didn't have the confidence to say them louder.

          Cordelia kept staring at him.

          "How can you forgive so easily? I still can't forgive your people for standing by and watching while mine died, " her voice choked. "I still can't forgive you for not doing something about it." Cordelia started crying, her tears dripping haphazardly to the ground while her shoulders shook.

          "I'm sorry," Brant said, holding his arms and shutting his eyes. He couldn't watch Cordelia cry. 

          Listening was worse.

          "Why didn't you do anything? Why didn't you try?" Cordelia sobbed.

          "Because I'm a coward," Brant answered bitterly. "Because I've grown up in a world of power, politics and manipulation - not one of justice or compassion. My gut reaction is to do what will look best. I didn't even do that. I just puked. I'm supposed to be the next leader of the largest civilization in Reich auf Glas and when my power was really needed - I puked. I didn't try to rally together my father's troops to fight the dark fairies, I didn't try to swim over myself. I didn't even try to defy my father - " Brant was in danger of tears now too, he was talking so quickly that he was gasping. "I'm a coward, Cordelia. A disgusting coward."

          Brant stood up quickly, storming away from the campsite while Cordelia cried. He punched a few trees while he walked, leaving fist-sized scorch marks. 

          He should have done something. Something. He didn't even tell the men to stop shooting at Cordelia while she swam away. He just watched. Watched and retched. Why had he been such a coward? He was the prince of the fire elves! One of the most powerful people in Reich auf Glas! How could he be so weak?

          Brant stopped - just before bursting an entire tree into flames. He was being a coward now. He'd left Cordelia just to cry by herself. Even if she hated him, why wasn't he trying to comfort her? 

          Brant turned around and ran back to the campsite, following his scorch marks. He found Cordelia, wandering just a bit away from their camp, also following the burn marks on the trees. She was still shaking and gasping, with red eyes and a wet face.

          "Brant," she choked.

          Brant grabbed her, pulling her close.

          "I'm sorry," He murmured, over and over. Then, 

          "I love you."

          Cordelia's sobs continued. "I believe you," she said. "I want to love you too."

          "It's okay if you don't," Brant whispered, rubbing Cordelia's hair. "You don't have to."

          "I want to," Cordelia persisted. "And to forgive you."

          "Okay," Brant said. "Okay."

Cleansing

I came home today after helping friends paint their house for a few hours, exhausted. That didn't matter. I ate dinner and left again, walking to Wawa to grab a coffee and a blueberry muffin. Then, once I got back home and settled in, it was about 8 o'clock. I've been writing ever since. Well, not entirely. I did draw for a little bit while the thunderstorm was going on because I couldn't leave my computer plugged in for fear of lightening bolts and whatever mysterious damage they cause to plugged items. I also listened to my iPod while doing both of these things. It is now 2:12 and I am still going strong on caffeine and creative energy. Which is surprising, because I had planned on being completely drained mentally, emotionally and physically by now. It was meant to be a cleansing process, to create and pour everything out of myself until I had nothing left to give and collapsed on my bed. Clearly, accomplishing this in six hours was a huge underestimation on my part. Either way, I've created some really awesome writing tonight and some not so awesome writing. I will definitely post one of the things that has been produced tonight, and as for the drawing, it goes with the piece that I will put up in a few minutes. However, this drawing is not finished, I've been attempting to do it right for months now, and it'll be a miracle if I ever get it done, so don't get your hopes up about seeing it. I don't know how much longer I will stay up tonight. I would like to go to sleep, but I wonder if all the caffeine in my system would make that pointless. I will stay up a bit longer to post what I wrote, and then see how I feel from there. I hope you like this one, I personally think it's pretty powerful and I love it. However, I'm biased, so don't tell me if it sucks. Or at least say it nicely, if it really is that awful. Enjoy!

Toz

             Toz paused before pounding his fist against the door. His former mentor, Galen’s, words rung in his ears.

            “Don’t go back there.” He’d said. “It’s been 14 years since they left you with me. They won’t even recognize you – much less except you back into their family.” Toz’s forehead creased in frustration but he shook the memory away. Galen was nothing but a senile, old sorcerer. What did he know aside from magic? He certainly knew nothing about family. Toz’s parents would be delighted to welcome him back. He rasped against the door with his knuckles before self-consciously patting down his golden-brown hair. There was the sound of many feet and a chorus of small, curious voices. Toz could hear a woman scold,

            “Hush up! Whoever it is won’t want to be bombarded all at once!” The door creaked open slowly and a disheveled woman with wispy brown hair and a red splotched face stood before Toz with a crowd of young children gathered around her skirt. Toz suddenly felt too tidy and shook his hair a little. The woman gazed up at Toz with a suspicious expression.

            “What do you want?” she asked, looking Toz up and down. Her eyes rested momentarily on the silver band on the index finger of Toz’s left hand.

            “Don’t you recognize me?” Toz asked, hopeful. The woman raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. A small knot of regret formed in Toz’s stomach.

            “I’m Toz. I’m your son.” The woman’s expression changed to a look of surprised realization.

            “Toz! You must forgive me for not recognizing you! I mean – I haven’t seen you since you were a baby. Now look at you! Come in! Come!” The woman rushed Toz into the modest home. She brushed off a chair and sat him in it before pulling up one for herself. Toz counted six children altogether, scuttling about excitedly after their mother. They were all younger then him. Could they all really be his siblings? The youngest, a little girl with gray eyes, seemed to look right through Toz. The woman leaned forward, scrutinizing Toz. She seemed ready to interrogate him.

            “You're certainly doing well for yourself.” She pointed out, eyeing Toz’s nice clothes and again his ring. 

            Well, having a princess for a girlfriend hasn't hurt my pocket, Toz thought. He didn’t say this out loud though.

            “How has the sorcerer training been going?” the woman asked. Toz snorted lightly.

            “I’m not learning from Galen anymore. I’ve been traveling for the past couple years.”

            “Really?” the woman questioned, with a tone that didn’t seem as interested as it tried to be.

            “Yes,” Toz sighed, deciding he wouldn’t bore her with an account of his travels. “How have things been with you?” The woman laughed,

            “Well as you can see I’ve gained plenty of mouths to feed since you’ve been gone! May I ask, did you get that ring on your travels?”

            “No.” Toz practically moaned, annoyed that everyone always had to ask about the ring. “Galen gave it to me. It protects my mind from being invaded by magical beings, like other sorcerers and soul-seers.” The woman nodded.

            “Did you also get those clothes from Galen?”

            “No. I got these when I worked for the royal family.”

            “My son worked in the castle?” The woman exclaimed. “What did you do?” She leaned forward in her seat.

            “I was a jester.” Toz coughed. A jester. He could never get over how stereotypical and undignified a job that was for a sorcerer.

            “You certainly got paid well, didn’t you?”

            “I suppose.” Toz wished she would quit questioning his fortunes. So what if he had nice clothes and a silver ring? Wouldn’t she be just as happy if he’d shown up in rags? When she leaned back and sighed contentedly to herself that she had a rich son, he doubted it. Toz stood up to leave.

            “Where are you going? You’ve only just arrived?” the woman asked, standing as well.

            “I only wanted to stop by for a brief visit,” Toz lied. “I really need to be going now.”

            “But you’ll come back, right?” the woman asked, her voice edgy. Just then the girl with the gray eyes stumbled into Toz’s leg. She hugged him.

            “Daddy,” She sighed. Toz bent down and looked into her eyes. They stared back at him blankly.

            “Do I look like your daddy?” he asked softly.

            “Look?” The little girl’s face scrunched up in confusion and she giggled, “You’re silly daddy. I don't look. I hear!” Toz inhaled sharply. He closed the girl’s eyelids with his fingers and she giggled again at the strange action.

            “Do you like flowers?” Toz asked.

            “They smell pretty.” The girl sighed at the pleasant thought.

            “They look pretty too.” Toz informed her.

            “But I don't look!” the girl exclaimed indignantly.

            “Are you sure?” Toz asked as he allowed her to open her eyelids. She squinted drastically.

            “It hurts!” she complained. The woman gasped,

            “She can see! You healed her!” But Toz was already out the door and on his way down the road.

Melenia's Dream

          "Father?" Brant questioned, dismounting his horse.
          "Yes?" King Regan answered.
          "We traveled for a week to look at a river?"
          They had traveled nearly nonstop for an entire week with a regiment of soldiers, all who were now off of their horses and gazing over the massive river before them. Some of them joked around by spitting and kicking dirt into the water. The Saphir River was legendary for its purity.
          "Of course not, Brant," the king replied, dismounting his horse as well. "We've come here to watch a much more glorious sight."
          "And you still won't tell me what it is?" Brant asked, skeptically.
          "That's why it's a surprise," the king said, chuckling. "You'll like it, son. Trust me."

***

          Brant lay in his tent, boredly tossing a flame in his hand. He had a tent to himself, unlike most of the regiment. Not only that, but his tent was entirely decorated in red and gold, with a woven carpet, and pillows and sheets of silk. Brant leaned against a couple of these pillows now, wishing he could be at home, training for the magmaball tournament. His team was the first co-ed team in the league - a political statement his father hadn't entirely agreed with, but his sister, Almira, had for once supported him in. They had to do well in order to prove that co-ed teams could work and that women could hold their own against men both physically and magically. Brant was also the youngest member of a magmaball team in league history. It was a lot of pressure.

          But, Brant was used to dealing with pressure. He'd grown up in the public eye. He knew how to handle it.

          Brant heard a soldier walking around quietly, right outside of his tent. He was irritated. He hoped the soldier hadn't come to tell him his father needed him for something, or to come see whatever it was that was such a great surprise.

          Links of ice formed around Brant's ankles and elbows, chaining him to the ground. That wasn't a soldier. A fire elf one, anyway.

          Brant tried to break away in vain, the flame in his hand disappearing. Then, he tried to yell but with the first sound he made, his saliva froze too, locking his jaw into a helpless, open position.

          The opening of his tent rustled and a river elf girl entered silently. She glared at Brant, her eyes the cold blue of the ice she'd used and her skin like night.

          "Don't scream, or I'll freeze your blood next," the girl hissed. The ice in Brant's mouth returned to liquid. 

          "Why are you and your men here?" the girl asked.

          "I have no better idea than you," Brant answered, spitting out the remaining shards of ice.

          "Don't lie," the girl said sternly. "I can tell when someone's lying."

          "Well, clearly not, because I'm telling the truth," Brant said, smartly. The girl looked at him hard, then turned away in frustration. 

          "Yes, I can see that." The girl sighed and looked hard at Brant again. "Then tell me what you do know."
          "I'm eighteen and hate fish, which is probably what we'll be eating most of the time we're here. I might take my horse back to the forest and do a bit of hunting," Brant said. The girl glared at him.
          "Tell me what you know about why you're here."
          "Nothing."
          "You're hiding something."
          "Even if you know that, what are you going to do about it?" Brant said. He instantly melted the ice binding him, and rushed at the girl. He could have escaped earlier, but he always found it more useful to let the enemy think they were in power for a bit. But this girl was still in control. She was quicker than Brant had anticipated, and dodged him.
          The girl pulled water out of what seemed to be nowhere. Brant breathed and his throat chaffed at the dryness of the air. He readied flames in his hands.
          Then a buzzing noise filled the air. It deafened Brant and the girl, and they dropped their weapons and covered their ears. The whole tent was vibrating with the sound. Simple, constant buzzing.
          Gradually the buzzing noise grew further away.
          "What was that?" the girl asked frantically. She was staring at Brant with horror. He just stared back.
          "Brant!" King Regan called from outside of the tent. Brant, without thinking, rushed out of the tent and into his father before the king could enter and find the river elf girl.
          "You're excited," the king commented suspiciously.
          "What is it, father?" Brant sighed.
          "Come with me," the king said. "All the men are at the riverbank." King Regan led the way and Brant ignored the subtle movement at the entrance to his tent as he walked away.
          All the men were at the riverbank. Many stood around anxiously, staring out over the water. Some moved about nervously and a few looked sick. The king was glowing with excitement. The men parted to allow Brant and his father to stand in the front.
          "Listen," the king said. There was still a slight buzzing, off in the distance - then silence. It stayed silent for about a minute. Then there were screams.
          Terrible screams traveled across the water, loud enough that it sounded like the river itself were wailing. There was darkness on the other side of the river and it seemed to seethe and writhe with a power of its own. Brant's eyes widened with realization.
          "Dark fairies?" He turned to his father, his voice cracking on each word. King Regan smiled widely. Brant felt bile rise in his throat.
          There was a splash from further down the river and a torrent of water propelled through towards the other side.
          "A river elf!" Some of the men yelled. They reached for their bows to shoot her in the water, but she was gone too quickly. Brant hoped she didn't make it across in  time. There was no way she would survive. But maybe she preferred that to watching her people die.
          Brant puked into the Saphir River. He wasn't the only one, but more blood polluted the ancient, pure waters than vomit that night.

Bad Omen

          Melenia listened. She heard crickets playing their nighttime orchestra. She heard an owl and a frog, singing in low tones. She heard the growing rustle of every breeze and the liquid movements of the river. She couldn't sleep.
          "Aiken?" she whispered, hoping he was still awake. He was laying with Caleb curled up beside him. Caleb was a cat tonight, black with white spots. Aiken rolled over slowly, away from Caleb.
          "Hm?"
          "I can't sleep," Melenia said, sitting up and leaning against a tree.
          "Why?" Aiken asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes.
          "It's really loud."
          "It's always loud!" Aiken said. "It's never bothered you before. You're used to these sounds."
          "Not tonight. They stand out tonight."
          Aiken propped himself up on his elbow. "Something else is bothering you. Go ahead and tell me so we can sleep."
          Melenia pulled her knees close. "That dream I had the other night... it was too real. I've never even met a river elf before. They all had blue eyes and they didn't blink - they just lay there - bloody and vacant - "
          Aiken touched Melenia's arm.
          "It was a dream. We'll be at their village in a couple of days and you'll see that they're fine."
          "But - "
          "It was a nightmare. Do you believe me? There's no way the Dark Queen could send an attack like that without the river elves finding out about it. They would have been better prepared. They couldn't have been massacred like that."
          Melenia sighed. "When you say it, it makes sense - but I still don't feel right about that dream."
          Aiken thought for a minute.
          "Go look at the stars," he said, finally. "Violet taught you how to read the sky, right? See if there's any ill omen."
          Melenia stood up. She stepped onto her shadow, materializing it beneath her and allowing it to lift her slowly above the treetops. She looked up at the sky. She couldn't see any stars, nor the moon. The sky was a black mass. Her heart tightened and she descended.

Bone Meets Angel

          Bone tiptoed into the quiet house, silently shutting the door behind him. The house was dark and neat and motionless. He was the only conscious presence, the only movement and breath in the thick loneliness. He loved it that way.
          He poked around a bit, looking for the kitchen. Then, he stopped. Silverware was hit or miss. Some people had the really nice stuff you could sell for a good price and other people didn't. Bedrooms were where the best stuff usually was. Antique jewelry, expensive watches, small electronics - all easy to carry and easy to pawn. Bone turned around and headed for the stairs.
          There was sound upstairs. Light breathing and occasional snorts told Bone which closed doors were bedrooms. He carefully turned the knob to one, peeking inside. A girl was asleep in a large bed, her blonde hair plumed over her pillow. Her mouth was slightly open and a tiny trickle of drool ran down her cheek to her pillow. On the wall behind her bed, the word "Angel" arched over her in blue letters. Bone shook his head, holding in a chuckle.
          He went first to her dresser. On top of it there was scattered jewelry, lip gloss, a hair brush and a hand mirror. Bone picked through the jewelry, leaving the ones that were clearly worthless and pocketing the things that had promise. Bone glanced in the hand mirror and saw the girl standing behind him, with a scowl and a large textbook raised over him.
          Bone twisted around quickly and managed to dodge the textbook, but the girl dropped it, deciding her fists were more useful. Now, Bone was a spectacular thief. He had a flawless record of breaking into the most tightly sealed houses, stealing the best stuff and never getting caught. He'd never had to fend for himself in a break-in or run away before now - which had been an extremely good thing because there was no way he could win a fight. He was thirteen, short, scrawny and pale. Every item of clothing managed to be too big on him and he had chronic raccoon eyes due to his insomnia. When messing around with his brothers, Rat and Pierce, he always lost. Now, he was up against a really angry girl that was taller than him and judging by her muscle tone, worked out.
          The girl had Bone pinned to the wall in about two seconds.
          "You have till the count of three to come up with a good explanation or I'm calling the cops!"
          "We'repoorandneedthemoneyandmysister'sblindandmybrother'sgirlfriendmightbepregnant andwecan'tafforddiapersandnewclothesandstuffontopofeverythingelse!"
          The girl raised an eyebrow, looking Bone up and down. Then her eyes widened and her grip on him tightened.
          "You're a darkling," she said with wonder. "I didn't notice your clothes before because it's so dark. I thought you were just some idiot on a dare or something."
          "No, I'm just an idiot that should have thought of that first," Bone replied, trembling. The girl shook her head, laughing.
          "You'd never pass for a pureling. I would have noticed anyway, as soon as I paid attention to what you were wearing."
          Bone was in fact wearing a black hoodie - a hand-me-down from Pierce, with sleeves completely ripped to shreds - a pair of jeans, cut at the bottom and held up by a tattered belt because it was far too big for Bone, and a dingy, stained T-shirt, though the girl couldn't see that. A pureling would never be caught dead in worn or re-used clothing - as proven by the girl's perfectly fitted silk pajamas.
          Bone wondered why the girl hadn't called the police yet. And why she wasn't scared. Not that he was intimidating or anything - clearly she was the one in power - but most purelings were terrified of darklings. That's why they'd built a whole wall to separate the purelings and the darklings - as if just living in close proximity to darklings might tarnish the riches and luxury of the purelings.
          "Now, what was all that you said was your excuse for stealing my stuff? I barely caught half of it," the girl questioned. Bone sighed. He might as well, clearly his only hope of getting out of here was in pleasing this girl long enough till her grip on him loosened enough for him to make a dash for it.
          "Well, we don't have a lot of money - clearly - and we need to steal in order to survive. My sister, who is blind, just moved in with us because Ma died and now Blade, my brother's girlfriend, thinks she's pregnant and we can't afford a baby on top of everything else."
          "That's quite a sob story you have there," the girl snorted.
          "It's true," Bone said, glaring. The girl didn't look convinced. Bone hated that. The only time people ever doubted him was when he told the truth. He should have lied to the stupid girl.
          Then she let go of him.
          Before he even had time to realize she'd done so, Bone took off. He ran down the steps and out the door, hopping over the porch railing and sprinting down the street.
          The girl didn't pursue him, locked the front door and went to sleep without calling the cops.

Arranged Marraige

          Brant punched the air, blasts of fire flying from his fists. They hit against the training dummy, leaving scorch marks on its chest.
          "You're training really hard," Adelaide commented, her head resting on her fist. She sat on the black, rock bleachers on the side of the training room. "Is there a game coming up?"
          "There's always a game coming up," Brant huffed, keeping the fiery punches going.
          "Well, when is the next one?"
          "In three days," Brant answered. Adelaide sighed and sunk her chin in between both of her palms.
          "Well, I won't be hearing from you for three days then, will I?"
          Brant stopped and looked at her.
          "What do you mean? I'm right here. We're talking, aren't we?"
          "No," Adelaide said, shaking her head in her hands. "We're not." Brant dropped his head in defeat.
          "What do you want to do, then? Should we go somewhere else? What do you want to talk about?"
          "Brant, you're going to need to be fully ready for the game. Go ahead and keep practicing, we can talk another day." Adelaide stood up and brushed off her dress.
          "No, it's not a big deal. I'll go change and we can go somewhere else," Brant protested.
          Adelaide stared at him hard.
          "Do you really want to?" she asked. "Or are you just trying because if you don't you won't be fulfilling your duties to your kingdom?"
          Brant couldn't answer. Adelaide headed for the exit and stopped there, turning around.
          "I'm sorry, Brant. I'm in a mood today. Forget what I said. I hope you guys win."

A Wrinkle in Time

          Yesterday I started re-reading Madeleine L'Engle's "A Wrinkle in Time". I forgot how much I loved that book. I read it a few years ago, so now reading it again, I more easily notice its flaws, but most of them are stylistic and merely my opinion. The book feels somewhat rushed to me, especially in the progression of relationships, like the one between Meg and Calvin. The two quickly become friends and something more - not quite lovers, but romantic - shortly after meeting. However, I suspect that L'Engle didn't accidentally make the relationship so easy. It seems stylistic to me. I think that L'Engle may have been trying to get across a point about soul mates, or just relationships that are meant to be. Calvin and Meg's relationship moves quickly out of a natural ease, rather than an impatience, which makes me believe that there is a connection between them that was already there, even if it can't be explained.
         Also, I think my favorite thing about "A Wrinkle in Time" is the perspective Madeleine L'Engle gives. Not necessarily Meg's perspective, but the way the book makes the reader look at the world. That's what I like most about it. It makes me look at the world in a more supernatural way, recognizing the things I can't understand and accepting that just because I don't understand them doesn't mean they don't have explanations. This is a point that is stated outright, I believe by Meg's mother, early in the book. It's a freeing truth that allows my imagination to fly in a way that it hasn't in too long.
          I look forward to finishing the book soon and finding out what happens to Meg's father (I don't remember, I read the book too long ago).

Pilot

          I'm a writer and lately I've been neglecting my writer's notebook. I've kept one for years, and have filled up numerous physical notebooks, but lately I haven't been using my current one like I should. Part of the problem is that I keep losing it, so I've decided to make a blog instead. I'm changing things up, which I think is what I really need, and it's harder to lose a blog than a notebook.
          So, forgive the sporadic nature of my posts. They will be sporadic and random in every way: frequency, length and subject matter. But, bare with me. I'm sure it won't be that bad.