It starts as most things between handsome boys and shy girls do - with a crush.  I'm walking to AP Latin. The crowds in the corridors are booming with excited pubescents hurrying along in bright lavender bomber jackets. It's basketball season, and everyone's beaming for the match this afternoon. I'm not. Obviously. I rarely ever beam. It's not a word to be associated with me. I snark at most. And I'm snarking up a storm currently. People keep bumping into me. Smelling too much like teenagers and cheap cosmetics for my liking. I have to wait for the crowds to disperse in order to make it to the classroom or risk squirming between the clicks. The nerds don't mind with the crowds. They sort of form a line and just march out in sync. I'm almost jealous. By the time I make it to class, I'm five minutes late, and Mrs Peters is looking at me with clear disapproval. "Basil," she greets. "Do you have a late slip?" The class barely looks my way. They have a blackboard of pre-written nouns to jot down, and I'm just a few extra writing minutes for them. I'm about to make an excuse. My tongue is already curling with the words when Adrian walks in behind me. I know him. Everybody knows him. He's in the top social circle at school. Best friends with the board of director's son, the student council president, the basketball team's captain. He has a lot of well-known, rich best friends. Though he, himself, is neither rich nor overbearing. He's vice captain of the debate team. His parents own a bakery, I like their donuts. He's handsome but in an elegant, aquiline way. Not really the buff blonde Adonis type the girls here prefer. He knows me too. I see his eyes blink in recognition as he stops just short of tumbling into me. His bag is hung over his shoulder, as he sways, it swats into my side a little. "Sorry Basil," he says to me casually, moving forward to greet Mrs Peters and plead for forgiveness. I blink at his back. "Sorry I'm late. The basketball team's got banners blocking our way from the entry all the way to the pools." He smiles disarmingly, and though she's still frowning, she waves us both to our seats. I'm a bit peeved. I'm sure I would've gotten scolded, even with an elegant excuse, but mostly, I'm just curious. Adrian Winters knows my name. Why. I ignore the soft heat on my cheeks and take a seat at the back of the class. Adrian's had a seat saved for him by Melissa Drake, head cheerleader. I watch him. I can't help but. Even as I scribble out my notes, my eyes keep drifting over the width of his shoulders and the soft edges of his spine under his cashmere top. I know I'm a bit strange. It's rude to stare, as my nan would say, but it's a nasty habit I've never grown out of. I can't quite stop myself anymore. I'm a watcher. I watch people. I have little else to do. I don't really have friends. Everyone at Blackthorn High has a colorful inner life. It's a cesspool for drama and scandal. I've avoided all that carnage and as a consequence I'm left alone. I don't mind it very much. It's fun being an observer. A fly on the wall picking apart the stories that drift along the gossip spread. I'm sure most people have seen me. Could summon up a vague picture of me if given a description, or perhaps recall the first syllable of my name. I've worked with some on group projects. Others, I've had run of the mill incidents with. Bumping into them. Borrowing a pencil. Offering some gum. There's being aware of my prescence, and there's knowing me. No one knows me. Not with any form of familiarity. So it's odd that Adrian Winters, who runs with the golden league of peers, looks at me as though he knows my face and calls my name as though he's said it before. As though we've interacted. It rubs me in an odd way. Not in a bad way. I doubt anyone could be upset getting attention from Adrian. He's sweeter than most. Kinder. He tugs at the loose hair at the back of his neck when taking notes in Latin class. It's cut shorter at the back, with all his curls on top. It's not terrible to be noticed, now and again - but it's strange that it's happened in the first place. A bit like an itch that I don't know how to scratch. Latin class passes dully. The two girls ahead of me are talking about who they're going to take to the game tonight. My eyes still drift over to Adrian, his dark brown curls that lay tidy and coiffed on him. His jeans are cuffed neatly at the ankles. I glance up at the clock. Twenty minutes left. I glance back at him. His head has turned. He's sat right at the front of the class but his eyes are on me. Chocolate brown and curious. He smiles, a barely there thing. Just the tilt of his lips. He looks away. I don't. I couldn't. He's caught me. It seems Adrian Winters is a watcher too...it sets my teeth on edge. Not the fact that he looked at me. But that he looked away so quickly. It makes me feel antsy, stupid. Like another teenage dirtbag caught in my hormones. Which, fair. I am one. But still. It's just an overall upsetting feeling to be at this point in my existence. To want a beautiful boy for no other reason but that he looked at you a bit too much and his lips quirked and your eyes couldn't look away from him. Like most calamities...it starts with a crush. And how many terrible things could be avoided if humanity was void of things such as illogical yearning. Romeo and Juliet wouldn't of died. Anne Boleyn would still have her head. I wouldn't be sat at this stupid basketball game. In this stupid bomber jacket looking out at shiny wooden floors and trying to catch a glance at a lean boy with brown curls on the other side of the stands. He's sitting next to Melissa Drake again. She'd finished her cheer performance before the game had started and then headed up to sit with him, still in her purple skirt with her white pompoms at her feet. Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders. He smiles at her and turns back to the game. I sip at my grape slushie, pulling my hood up over my head. He's an odd one. No normal seventeen year old looks at Melissa Drake in her cheerleading outfit and then looks away less than second after. Inanimate objects sway in her direction. He does give her attention. He leans into her space. Smiles. Laughs. But it's all a bit too cold. I want to be upset about it. I find him cute and the greedy part of my brain that's laid claim on him is telling me to be jealous, to want to fight for him. Which is madness honestly. Practically hilarious considering I wouldn't stand an inch of a chance, but I can't even focus on the greedy feeling churning in my tummy because he's just so...confusing. I can't help but feel that there's something off about how he acts around her. Maybe they have bad blood behind the scenes. Or maybe they're exes and the news just never made its way into the public. I doubt it though. Melissa's known for wearing broken hearts like trophies. She's the queen bee of queen bees. The feature of every man's wet dream and nightmare combined. Like a sexy, cheerleading Freddy Krueger. It would be admirable, honestly, if she didn't absolutely terrify me. There's a loud beeping as the Blackthorn boys score. One of them is hanging off the opposition's hoop hollering. The stands break into screams and yells. It's like there's a fire and they're all about to die. I stay seated. My gaze trails away from the sweaty jocks hugging it out and back up to the stands. Melissa has made her way down  and is joining her friends in a very synchronized, acrobatic dance while singing some commerative jingle. My eyes flick away from her. Adrian is sat in his seat, one leg crossed over the other. He's clapping, a bright smile on his face as he looks down at the team. I wonder why he's not standing. Why hasn't he run down like some of the other teammates' friends? The cheers continue around us, getting louder and louder. But Adrian simply sits. He stops clapping. Hands falling onto his lap. His smile slips off like silk on skin, like it was never there. No one's looking at him, besides me. Everyone else is focused on the winning team down below. He frowns. A bored, cold expression falling over his polite features. His gaze travels around, it's not open curiosity. He looks annoyed. At the stands. At the people. Our eyes meet. His expression doesn't change but he squints at me and tilts his head as if he doesn't understand why we're staring at each other when everyone else is focused on celebrating. I don't look away. Neither does he. He raises two fingers to his temple and mimics a gunshot. He smiles, almost meanly at me. I slurp at my slushie, enjoying the show. *** Distance makes the heart grow fonder. That's how the saying goes. I argue, that distance makes obsession burn brighter. The heart is an innocent thing, I'm sure it takes pleasure in pining away at a far-off lover. Obsession, on the other hand, is a beast. And beasts grow feral. Hungry. They grow desperate. These are all thoughts that parade around in me during the weekend. Now that I've gotten a taste of Adrian, of his soft fake smiles and unadultered attention, I want more. I want everything. It's very problematic, considering we don't run in the same social circles. Well, I don't run in any social circles, but never mind that. It's maddening. I truly can't stop thinking about him. He comes up in the randomest of moments. During a family lunch. While I'm napping under an orange tree, trying to enjoy the sun. While I'm washing my hair. While I'm trying to fall asleep, at night, in bed...It's all very stressful and crazy. I wrote his name down as an answer in one of my English comprehension tests. He's even an impediment on my grades. He's driving me to the brink of insanity. But I feel as though mild insanity is a normal part of the teenage girl experience. This ugly abyss in my mind that grieves for beautiful things I can't stake a claim on. I might consider therapy. I am considering it, as my legs take me into my driver's seat and through the roads leading onto Maple Lane. I'm seriously considering it. Because Adrian Winters lives on Maple Lane. Number 12. The front of his house is pastel pink, with a cupcake drawn on the sign above. His parents bakery - the Sugar Fairy. It's cute, kitchy. A bit ominous looking at 2 AM with no other cars in the road. Thank God, my car's fairly inconspicious. A little silver Atos, I'd inherited from my older sister when she'd upgraded. I park in front of number 11, the lattice fencing gives me sight into Adrian's backyard where there's a rusty old swing. White paint is peeling from the bricks and I can clearly make out the large windows that line the top floor of the house. There's only one light on. The middle window. I can just make out the faint silhouette of navy sheets on a double bed and a large dark cupboard, there's a glowing lamp near the window, probably atop the desk. This is stalking, I realise very quickly. It's not so much reaching insanity as it is very insane and probably mildly illegal, but I'm already here. It'd be a waste of petrol to just drive back. And the prices went up recently. I promise myself to look into the therapy as I settle into my seat, turning on the heat. In the dash to my car, I'd brought along my algebra homework and a bag of chips. Apparently my subconscious had known I was in it for the long run. I get started on the homework, making it a fair way until my eyes dart up to the window again. The light's still on but I haven't seen anyone, even while I was tracing the corners of the room. Which got my mind to wondering what teenage boys did, up at 2AM, with their bedroom lights still on. Which led to a whole other branch of unhealthy thoughts. Of which I send my serious apologies to Adrian for. But then the mystery was solved, when he stumbled to his desk. Shirtless. Tits out. Well, not tits exactly. But an exquisite chest. Supple. His hair was dripping. Little drip, drops onto his collarbones. My mouth went dry, must be the chips. Salt and vinegar. I chucked the empty bag alongside my homework to the back seat and leaned forward over the steering wheel. He truly was very handsome. Lovely. His cheeks were flush, probably from the heat of shower. His hair was a shade darker than usual, like melted chocolate. I sat there very long, just staring. My eyes wandered to my dashboard clock. Why was he showering at 2 AM? I threw my head harshly against my steering wheel, my forehead aching. Oh. Teenage boys. Right. I slumped down in my seat, eyes catching the metal shine of my phone. The morality vs immorality of taking a picture shot through my mind like flash paper. Like a forest fire. It would be very very wrong. Harassment. Perversion. I took a picture. I took several. The disgust with myself being smothered by the greedy little monster who was happy with these stored memories and moments of him. He drifted off eventually, my eyes sad to see him go but consoled by the arches of his bare shoulders and the unmarked, creamy skin of his waist. While he was gone, I looked up numbers for therapists in the area. He was gone long enough for me to jot down a few in my notes. Then a half an hour passed, my homework was finished, my chips only crumbs. And I was growing ansty. The greedy little monster growing curious. The light was still on. Another half an hour passed, and the small sane part of me argued that it really was time to be getting home - that he'd probably fallen asleep with the lights on. But the sane part of me was a liar. I could see the edges of his bed and I caught no glimpses of pale feet or ruffled sheets. Tommorow was Sunday, I was free to sleep in. I chewed on the tip of my pencil, eyes trained on the window. The garage door swung open with a cloud creak and I jumped in shock. The top of my head hitting my visor. I hissed rubbing at the skin as light flooded into the road. The door stood open for a few moments but there was no rumble of an engine. My Atos was parked in the shadows of Number 11 but I still flinched lower in my seat as a figure left the house. It was Adrian. His face was obscurred but I could tell by his height, by the width of his shoulders and the size of his steps. He'd changed into a dark gray hoodie with black sweats and sneakers. He stood at the entryway, staring off into the woodland clearing on the other side of the road. A part of me was worried he'd spot me. A part of me wanted him too. Both parts were quickly silenced by the ominous pool of dread that washed over me as I witnessed him go back into the garage and return, dragging an object rolled up in several black bags and tied with rings of duct tape. The object was clearly very heavy as he could barely lift it. He struggled to lift it and instead started dragging it by one of its tapered ends over the road and into the clearing. I let go of the breath I'd been holding and immediately, a large swell of nausea filled me. I could spot feet poking out the end of the wrapping and one cold, blue hand. He hoisted it up over his shoulder and a white cheerleading pompom dotted with red fell to the ground. I grabbed at the chips packet and breathed in the vinegar scent, letting it sooth the urge to boke all over the seats. He dragged the body deep into the forest line on the other side of the road. His figure, dissappearing into the trees and shadows. He came back fifteen minutes later, legs muddy and a thin layer of sweat covering his brow. His face was visible from this side. Pale. Nervous. His eyes were wide, hands shaking by his sides. He picked up the pompom. His breaths were heavy. He ran into the garage and came back out with a shovel. My eyes went wide. Just as he reached the treeline, he turned back, his eyes tracing frantically across the road and falling onto mine. He saw me, tilting his head curiously to the one side. His mouth pulled downwards, eyes glazing with coldness. His lips mouthed around one word, "Basil?" My heart fell flat against my ribcage. He saw me.


Winter and Summer were born from the same bang, raised by the same Sun, abandoned by the same Moon, and moved onto the same Earth at about the same time. There was a Spring and an Autumn once, too, but as the temperature rose like the tensions between the first two, Spring and Autumn shrunk to the background.            At about the time Winter discovered how to employ ice, Summer decided that drastic action ought to be taken.            “She’s killing everybody.” In the throngs of January when ice was at its thickest, Summer rounded up the other seasons for an impromptu intervention. “All the people and all the plants. The entire Eastern hemisphere is starving!”            “Doesn’t this happen every year?” Autumn questioned.            “It’s much worse this time around, now that she’s gotten ice. But it’s been getting worse every year, worse and worse and we can’t do anything about it.” Summer crossed her golden arms. “This is unacceptable.”            Spring shrunk in the corner, saying nothing.            “Why don’t we just ask her to stop?” Autumn added.            Summer shook her head. “She has nice. She’s too temperamental to listen.”            After Winter danced around, tossing ice across the globe, Summer crept slowly behind, warming the world with the soft touch of her hands. People and plants rejoiced alike, basking in the newfound light, the warm temperatures, and the flowering sprouts.            They kept on this way for a few weeks, until Winter, clever and quickly bored, taught herself to harness the wind.            The frozen blasts nearly crushed the flowering sprouts, but Summer wrapped them in her glowing grasp and protected them from the worst of Winter’s blasts.            “You really could just tell her to stop,” Autumn suggested. “That would save all of us some time.”            “If you’re so confident, do it yourself,” Summer commented, distracted with her baby plants.            Autumn joined Spring in the corner.            Then Winter coined a new term: precipitation. She pelleted the Earth with hail crystals like the organisms were her own personal targets and wrapped the whole thing in an impenetrable blanket of sleet.            Summer sighed. Winter was being irrational and disgusting. Did she not understand what the seasons were meant to do? The job of a season was to cycle out so that specific crops could grow and specific species could flourish, in rotation, allowing for the perfect balance of an ecosystem—why was she sucking all the life out of them? Freezing and icing was not the answer, Summer figured, and as the one closest to the Sun, Summer figured it was her job to undo Winter’s errors.            Summer has just finished warming up a city in Mexico, brightening it up for Christmas, when Winter rudely barged in and coated the whole thing in a jarring mess of snow.            “Did you have to?” Summer gasped. “You and your ugly snow?”            “A blizzard,” Winter corrected, as if that made the situation any better. “A full blizzard, aren’t you pleased?”            Summer didn’t answer. Could Winter not see that the corn was squished, the roofs leaking, and the people unprepared for such a tragedy? This was unreasonable. Summer was not granted enough time for this.            Summer held an emergency meeting of the seasons—excluding Winter, of course; Summer couldn’t bear to see the bare coldness of her empty eyes—and paced in front of them, explaining why they had to kick Winter out.            “You can’t get rid of a season,” Autumn stated, rubbing her sharp, analytic fingers through her crackling maroon hair. “That’s not how it works.”            “We’ll decrease her power,” Summer compromised.            “Like you’ve done with me?” It was the first phrase Spring has spoken for a long while, making a permanent home for herself in the corner, ringed with flowers.            Summer nodded slowly. “Yes.” Then she corrected herself. “But I have full intentions of giving your power back. Winter’s will be taken away forever.”            Autumn scrunched over. “And who gave you this authority?”            Summer sighed again. What did give her this power? Probably her supreme competence, and the fact that she had been the only one helping the people so far. But she had on reason that trumped the first two. “I’m closest to the Sun.”            Autumn and Spring didn’t respond, because they knew, just as Summer did, that the Sun was the center of their world and the unquestioned decision-maker. If the Sun favored Summer, then the seasons ought to as well.            Summer commanded her two subordinates like a general of troops. Spring had a surprising knowledge of nature’s balance and padded the Earth with a blanket of clouds and carbon, while Autumn…Autumn had not skills other than tossing leaves about, but it was better than a flurry of ice particles.            As the new year rose, the global temperatures did as well. Winter’s slot was over, and Spring’s fell away, and Summer was left with a population of people rejoicing the pleasant lives they had been given.            The pleasant lives given to them by herself, Summer reminded her subordinates. Herself with their assistance, but really, she was the one in charge. Summer felt herself growing and glowing like the Sun as the Earth swelled with increases: increases in people, increases in plants, and increases in happiness.            “You’re killing everybody.” Winter barged in and stomped next to Summer, her very presence darkening the area by a few degrees.            “Actually, I caused a net population boom-” Summer corrected, but Winter cut her off.            “You’ve caused a pandemic. Great job, Summer,” Winter mocked. “And now the Earth is burning, too. You really want to burn our home?”            “Well at least I’m not freezing it!” Summer argued.            “Excellent.” Winter’s voice had barely risen. “You shouldn’t be freezing anything because that’s my job.” Winter poked Summer in the chest, a cloud of snow spattering the ground. “I freeze.” She removed her finger. “And you re-heat.”            Summer poked Winter right back. “Correction: you kill, and I revive. Except I’m not interested in reviving. Why revive when you could just keep alive in the first place?”            “But you’re not!” Winter sounded exasperated. “The world has been taken over by pesticides! If you don’t give me a chance to get rid of them naturally, they’ll grow rampant! They’ll plague the population—there is a plague in the population!”            Summer sighed. “The only plague here is you. You and your harsh storms.”            “I can tone it down,” Winter defended, holding up her hand and releasing a soft cascade of snow, the crystals brushing against the ground like feathers of a fallen bird. “See how beautiful that was?”            Summer shook her head. “That wasn’t beautiful.”            Winter clasped her hands. “I’m not asking you to agree; I’m asking you to compromise. This is not sustainable. Couldn’t you at least do away with the extra carbon?”            Summer shook her head again.            “So it’s a power-trip?” Winter accused. “No; you don’t actually care about the people. You just want to look like the best.” Winter almost looked like she was going to melt. “You don’t even really care about my blizzard. It was a good one, too-“            “You are being ridiculous. Thoroughly ridiculous. Right?” Autumn and Spring nodded loyally to Summer’s proclamation. “Your blizzards are ridiculous as well—you can’t be trusted.” Summer tossed her hands in the air and the clouds parted to reveal a bright ray of the Sun. “I need to do everything because nobody else here is competent. I’d rather an entire continent burn in oil than let one of you be in charge!”            Winter closed her eyes and stepped back to some Northern, grey country that lived in perpetual precipitation. “No wonder the Sun likes you the best.”


Somebody once said: To be subjected to indifference is worse than being the object of hatred. Those words always stuck with me, but I never fully grasped what they meant until now. Until now… as I lay in a fetal position on the sofa in my apartment, nursing a heartache brought about by my own obtuseness… by my own stupidity. I smothered my face in the sweatshirt she’d forgotten, sucking in her scent like a drowning man, and angrily cursed my inability to bridle my juvenile longing to feel needed, to feel desired. Why had I allowed myself to fall for her? She was way out of my league; I should have known better! My fists clenched so tight they hurt! I sobbed long and hard into her sweatshirt, glad I was alone. Contrary to popular opinion, misery does NOT want company. The first time we met was on an unusually warm February day. I was skiing at Camelback Mountain and had stripped down to my tee-shirt after my first run down the slopes. “Nice arms!”, came a pleasant female voice from behind me as I was pole-pushing myself towards the line for the ski lift. I twisted my body around to glance back and saw a very attractive woman catching up to me. I assumed she must have been talking to someone else, and so I turned forward again to see who the lucky guy was. But then a small but strong hand grasped my right arm from behind, just above the elbow, cold fingers causing an eruption of goosebumps as they squeezed my bare arm; “No, silly. I meant you, not someone else,” she said with a grin as I turned and looked down into the most stunning blue eyes I had ever seen. I remember feeling all the blood rush out of my body and to my face, intent on humiliating me. The approach of this beautiful woman had knocked me completely out of my comfort-zone. This kind of thing NEVER happened to me; to my friend Troy, yes, but not to me. The only time a pretty girl had ever approached me out-of-the-blue was at a convenience store to… wait for it… to ask if I could spare a few bucks so she could buy cigarettes. It's not that I consider myself homely; I just know that I am not the prettiest tool in the shed. And that thing she said about my arms-- I don’t even work out! Sure, I play hard, and I do heavy work with my hands in construction which gives my arms and shoulders a lot of definition, but muscle-bound I am not. The pain in my chest deepened as I recalled that beautiful day. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t STOP thinking about it, about HER, just like when somebody tells you, “Don’t think about the pink elephant.” The next thing she said to me should have clued me in as to what might happen, what would eventually happen. Ahem! Where were all those red flags and alarm bells when I needed them? But I was helpless before her, like a sheep being led to the slaughter, when she asked, “Do you mind if I ski with you? My ex-boyfriend is here, and I don’t want him to bother me; he’ll leave me alone if he sees me with another guy.” I was painfully shy, she was so pretty, and I feared that an opportunity like that would never come along again. A little voice inside my head started screaming at me, DON’T DO IT… SHE’S USING YOU!! DON’T… DO… IT!! “Sure, no problem. Glad to help!”, I said back to her. What else could I say? That I would rather ride the lift alone than be than be stuck together with her on the same chair for the whole ride up to the top of the mountain, rinse-and-repeat, for the entire day? Which, I am ashamed to admit, was exactly the fantasy going through my head at that moment. So, I was cornered; I could either be rude and regret that moment for the rest of my life, or I could indulge my fantasy. The hateful little voice in my head then told me I should fall onto the pointy end of one of my ski-poles and get it all over with right then and there. Too late. Before I knew it the chairlift had swept us off the ground… together, I should add. Oh, remember how I said I was shy? Yea, exactly: It occurred to me that I was going to have to engage in something called “conversation” if I hoped to prolong my fantasy. We’d already exchanged names on the ground, “My name is James. What’s yours?” “Don’t laugh when I tell you,” she had answered, starting to giggle at herself already, “my name is spelled L-i-e-y-a, pronounced Lie-ya, like the way a New Yorker says the word ‘liar’ without pronouncing the ‘r’ at the end.” We both laughed out loud. Meanwhile the little voice in my head was having a field-day: LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE! DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU! But my brakes had failed back at “Nice arms!” She had made me laugh so easily. And by laughing at herself, she was telling me that she didn’t take herself too seriously. She had put me totally at ease. Conversation came without effort. I don’t even remember what we talked about. It was much too soon that we were getting off the lift. We checked our bindings as we prepared to head down the mountain. Here comes the test, I thought to myself as my stomach tied itself up in knots wondering if she was going to ski with me or if she would drop me for the next guy who came along who had ‘nice arms’. “You want to go first, and I’ll follow you?”, I said. “Yea, that would be great. But do you mind waiting for a couple minutes? That’s my Ex over there,” she said, pointing to a guy in a bright yellow ski-bib who had his back to us as he started down the mountain. “I just want to make sure we don’t run into him on the slope or end up anywhere near him in line at the bottom.” “No problem.” We skied together for the rest of that day. We talked about all kinds of things; we laughed about all kinds of things. And we skied together again four more times over the next couple of months before ski season ended. She had this way of making me feel so good about myself whenever we were together. And I provided her with plenty of laughs too, at my own expense. She started referring to me affectionately as her “little dork” whenever I would deliberately do something silly. She had coaxed me out of my shell without me realizing it. We continued to see each other most weekends until her spring college semester ended and she returned home to Syracuse for the summer. When her college classes started up again in the fall, we made plans several times to get together, but something always seemed to come up, and we only saw each other a couple of times. Fall was usually the busiest time of year for me with work anyway. December came along, which had me booked for a Colorado ski trip during the Christmas/New Years holidays, while Lieya would spend the holidays with her family in Syracuse. At the last minute, however, something came up on my end, forcing me to bail out on Colorado. I would have to settle for a long ski-weekend at Killington, Vermont with my younger brother. I had thought of calling Lieya but decided against interrupting her during her family-time. My brother and I drove to Killington on the Thursday before New Years weekend, arriving just as a major nor’easter snowstorm was getting under way! Super excited, we were first in line for the chair-lift Friday morning! Snow was falling, twelve inches of fresh powder already on the ground with another eight inches forecast to accumulate by the end of the day. It was one of the best days of skiing my brother and I ever had! Then, Saturday morning woke us up to brutal conditions: clear blue skies, but a temperature of minus 5 degrees Fahrenheit and forty mph winds. We had come prepared, however, with masks and goggles designed to cover everything so that not even one little patch of skin would be exposed! We were still stoked from the day before, despite the conditions. At lunch time, the warmth of the ski lodge had us lingering after we finished eating, reluctant to head back out to the punishing cold. Several tables away from us, through the lunch-crowd, I noticed a guy wearing a yellow ski-bib. I was wondering why it looked familiar when suddenly, my brother blurted out, “Isn’t that Lieya? I thought you said she was staying with her parents for the holidays?” “Where?” My brother then pointed to where I was already looking. “Next to that guy wearing the yellow ski-bib. He’s got his arm around her.” As my brother was speaking, the crowd parted, allowing me line-of-sight to a face I will never forget. It was Lieya, all right. She was talking, laughing, and smiling with Mr. Yellow-Bib, carrying on and pushing her hair back with her hand the way girls do when they are interested in the person they are talking to. I bet she told him “Nice arms!” too. She had no idea that I was staring at her… until she did, and then we locked eyes with each other. I could tell the moment that recognition struck her; it visibly shook her to see me looking back at her; she obviously thought I was in Colorado. She recovered quickly, though, looking down to pretend at fussing with something in her lap, and then she proceeded to carry on with Mr. Yellow-Bib as if she had never seen me. I jumped up out of the chair I was sitting in, feeling hurt, betrayed, lost, unsure what to do. My stomach was in knots, and my heart was starting to ache. I decided to head over to their table. My brother jumped up, alarmed by my reaction, and grabbed me by the arm to restrain me. “What are you doing?? Leave it alone! She’s not worth it!” I turned back to my brother and told him, “I am not looking for trouble. I am looking for confirmation.” Upon which I continued towards Mr. Yellow-Bib’s table. The pain in my chest was building. I stopped in full view of both of them, ostensibly to check something on my phone. Lieya looked up at me then, or rather, she looked right through me, as if I wasn’t even there. How was that even possible? I had to get away; I hurried to the men’s room and found an empty stall. Her betrayal was so nonchalant, yet absolute. My heartache became an intense, crushing weight that made me want to cry out; I tried to scream but couldn’t; I tried to breathe, but couldn’t. I remember thinking: so, this is what it feels like to die from a broken heart.

And then I woke from my nightmare. The scream which had been trapped exploded from me as I jerked awake in bed. I was overcome by an intense feeling of relief when I realized it had all been a bad dream. I let out a muffled sob as I took stock of the familiar, comforting surroundings of the bedroom. “Same nightmare with Mr. Yellow-Bib?”, my wife asked me with concern in her voice. I didn’t need to answer. “Don’t worry,” she said as she snuggled closer and kissed my arm exactly where she had grabbed it from behind so many years ago, “I could never leave these nice arms.”


I don't recall the precise moment I was led into this predicament. What was now had turned into what was then, my reminiscent world has turned into an undefined murk of a shadow. When was it? When I hindered the seeing of this world: my home, my work, the outdoors, all of it. Was the sky always accompanied by clouds? The setting of the sun, what color was it? Did grass have a particular shape? Was my inquisitive manner ever so constant? When did I begin these probes? And why do I hear the voices of others? Now, do not think of me as absurd. The voices truly do belong to people, as far as I can tell with their deafened speech. Perhaps they linger in a closed off place of some sorts. It is only an assumption, I undoubtedly have no real idea of where the voices could be coming from. For the world I dwell in; is dark. Dark as in pitch black, as in I am blind in it. Whether I close or open my eyes, it is all the same. It wasn't always so tenebrific. As I had recalled before, I saw color once.

I confess it is rather tiresome. The place I reside, it's not familiar to me. I have nostalgia for this 'nature' I dream about. I fantasize about my 'home'. Never have I had delight in a sunless scene. So what led me here? I know for certain; I would have never visited voluntarily. The most I have done is talk in this never-ending mind of mine, and even that can be tiring, so I cease to think. Alas, I can never go on without thinking, or I'll forget how to. The emptiness can be more alluring than others think it can be. This vast black space is always here. It hugs me with silent comfort.

The voices. It was timeless before they appeared. It was so sudden, I thought they had materialized, considering my solitary state. I admit I felt tremendous blissfulness, I would rather feel accompanied than see the light again. You would be surprised at how much satisfaction one gets upon hearing the simple steps of feet, or the most enjoyment of listening to conversations. Oh have I yearned for something, anything, that rebels against this unending night.

So this began; my hearing of voices. There were doubts from time after time, that the sounds are not legitimate. In the end it did not matter, I would be content either way. It is not as if I abhor engaging, I precisely can not. I have neglected my speech for such a time that I have forgotten how to speak. I also do not know of their whereabouts. I can not pursue, for I have forgotten how to walk. Walk. I don't think I have legs...absurd! Perhaps I do, but I do not see them.

If someone had challenged me; and questioned the types of conversations I was listening upon, I would say, 'an array!' It was the arguments I cherished, mainly because it fancies my hearing. I have learned of these voices, one named Will and another named Alm. They seem to have a fondness for another, or that the very least get along. It wasn’t until recent events they had argued about money. Money...ah yes, I remember. Something about retrieving deodorizer and a pest specialist. I pity my dear friends, it seems they are in a predicament, as am I.  I have forgotten how troublesome the land of light was. These voices reminded

me. Everyday something had struck down and soiled my time, now I only have peace. Quite the irony I believe. I remember fighting for peace constantly, and now there is no struggle at all. If I am mistaken, I feel as if I am waiting on something, on somebody. Will they find me? Or shall I remain in this endless and starless daze. How would I be found? I feel as if I am blocked by a wall. Nothing comes through and nothing comes out. How long has it been? I...can not recall. Oh! But it is a joyous day, my ears have gathered a sound. My friends have come to visit. So I stopped thinking, and listened.

A distant door swings open from a twist of a nob. Heavy yet quiet footsteps tred on the floor. The floor is nowhere soft, each step is audible, even on tip toe. The smack of something hits another surface. Then a creek from something that now carries weight.

"Work never seems to end…" an airy voice sighs. It's Will.

The continuous tapping or clicking can be heard. A random sound that continues then stops, continues, stops, then continues once more.

The sound is rather calming, even if it is unbeknownst to me. The sound lasts for a long time. I even like the random grumblings that come from Will. Whatever it is he doesn't seem to like it, but he does it for such a time! He is confusing.

The soft yet loud footsteps enter the room, "How long have you been at that?" It’s Alm's voice.

"Oh, give me a few more minutes and I'll be there," says Will. Steps slowly pace around the room, some sounding stronger than others, and some sounding distant. "Well, the two specialists are here, I'm giving you a heads up. So be ready." Alm says before stepping away from my ears.

Will stops, a shutting sound can be heard. The rolling of something gets pushed and heavy steps move then stop. Two unidentified walking patterns are headed in my radar, both walk similarly and both walk heavier than Will. Was it guests? I can feel Alm's footsteps accompanied them.

"What's the problem ma'am?" "My fiancé and I have been living here for about 9 months now, we have had smell problems before. We thought it could be a dead rat. So we waited 3 weeks and the smell was gone, but then 3 months later another smell appeared! We waited again and there was another smell. We thought it was best we'd have it checked," Alm says.

"Why it is nearly next year! Why'd you wait till then to call us?" "Look can you help us or not?" Will says. A grunt was made and the walking of footsteps became louder and louder until a bang ringed my ears. "Here," says Alm.

Two heavy footfalls feel like an earthquake. Then a cutting sound? I am not sure, but it is loud, it is right by my ear. "Urgh! I can smell it already!" Complains Alm. "It's like animals loving dying here!" Cut cut cut. The sound of...sawing, that's the word, stops.

"That don't smell like an animal" "How..how long has this been happening?" It is quiet for some time. "Well..this happens every 3 months like I said..but we

haven't decided to call until the new year was over" Alm speaks slowly. The sound of sawing began again, but it became frantic and louder. Saw saw saw.

Until it stops, the cutting, the sawing.

It's strange..I don't understand. I have waited here, for more than a year? It felt

longer. And yet my light was restored within an instant. I thought my reunion would be grander than this, my friends, guests. Why do you stare wide-eyed at me? Be pleased, for you have found me. You found me.


Something like a chirp from a cybernetic pigeon awoke Ethan The All-Knowing from his midday slumber. The corners of his mouth were crowded with Cheezo dust and drool, leaving a damp neon orange trail down his cheek and onto the open pages of a densely inscribed tome beneath him. Damn he hoped that wouldn’t stain. He checked his phone, huh, his last customer left a review. He opened the Yodel app and was aghast to see a single star hovering over a single word. 'Scam'

Incensed, Ethan let loose a series of guttural utterances, something more than words but less than a whole sentence. The air around him sizzled with primal energy, heat poured from his body in waves until the page he was studying began to smolder. ‘For all the saints in hell!’ he muttered. His wordless fury took form, hanging like a poorly dressed deer, visceral chunks of pulsing energy dripping into a shape resembling human, provided you had only heard about humans from a madman. Ghastly proportions stretched the small figure to a hitherto unthinkable shape. Its left half was massive and muscled like an auroch, its right side pitifully weak, leg too short to be of any use. The figure lacked any definition beyond the muscle tone, just a grayish blob glowing softly with an inner light. It listed to the left its sinister arm knuckle walking toward Ethan. Its head was oddly shaped, constantly in flux shifting from one geometric absurdity to the next. It glared at him, fractals breaking as it spoke. ‘Your request.’ It buzzed with what Ethan knew to be disdain but he needn’t the creature like him, merely obey.

Ethan absentmindedly checked the ring on his right pinky finger, the gem's touch was familiar as he assured himself of its presence. “I seek justice! A Mage of my caliber cannot bear these outrageous slings and arrows.’ (The polydjinn deftly avoided the spittle produced by a high caliber mage.) ‘My very livelihood has been made the butt of society’s joke for the last time. To the Battle Cruiser, Gycillius!”

The creature Ethan incorrectly named was older than could be accounted for by mundane measures, its best estimate had it well into middle age by the Big Bang and in given all that time it would not refer to a 2003 Dodge Neon as a battle anything. Though the polydjinn would admit it bore a striking resemblance to the Engines of the Beyond but only because it was plastered with ‘enchantments’ of dubious quality. The bulk of it seemed to be aluminum foil with puffy paint spread into a parody of runic script along the slowly rusting chassis. The result was garish and reflected an unforgiving sun to everyone within the visible spectrum.

 ‘And who shall bear the brunt of your misanthropic tantrum this time?’ It asked as Ethan poured his prodigious bulk into the compact. ‘The deli wench who according to you has been shorting your egg salad order for weeks?’ Ethan huffed, partially from disgust but mostly from exertion as he settled into the seat. ‘Are you suggesting a Mage of my caliber cannot properly ascertain the volume and mass of 16 oz of egg salad? With mine own eye do I see her grubby paw weighing the scale. I say nothing as courtesy until her downfall is advantageous to me.’ The car sputtered like a beast tired of the specter of death as the engine struggled to come to life. Ethan muttered and looked expectantly at the polydjinn. With a perfect simulacrum of a human sigh the creature of infinite wisdom and unassailable power hot wired a Dodge Neon. The polydjinn pushed aside the empty take out containers and distressing number of socks to sit on the cracked pleather seat. ‘Is it the valet at the hotel who laughed at your bumper stickers?’

‘If you mean Chet, who snickered at the wards of protection I entwined with the resonant frequency of my Arcane Battle Cruiser, no. He shall be dealt with at a later date. But know the Dagger of Isosceles hangs above his neck! Now get me Gregory!’

The polydjinn’s head shifted several planes beyond Planck’s constant and brought up the shape of a rotary phone. ‘Dialing’ it said, ringing softly.

The young man in a plaid jumper answered exactly the way someone wearing a headset would, with polite indifference. ‘I.T. this is Greg, what is your emergency?’ ‘Gregory my boy,’ Ethan shouted. The polydjinn had told him he didn’t need to shout but Ethan did things loudly or not at all. ‘A crime has been committed but the fool was sloppy and signed his work. Your skills are needed! Find me DongSlayer420xxXxx from Yodel!’

Greg sighed, he didn’t know how this maniac kept finding him. ‘What do you want Ethan? My brother wants his GameBox back by the way.’

‘Don’t live in the past Gregory, the GameBox was essential to my traversal of the higher realms! Now do the thing!’ While traveling at a speed that could only be described as inadvisable at best, Ethan had taken this time to open a bag of chocolate covered pretzels and with great care and no small amount of skill he waggled his hand in a complex arc. The pretzels danced their way into his mouth with grim choreography.

Greg knew if he didn’t his dog would start speaking sideways Klingon again. ‘Is that a capital D in DongSlayer?’ With a new heading the Dodge Battle Cruiser made a surprisingly elegant U-turn at the nearest intersection, effectively blinding any pedestrians facing East. ‘Huzzah, my friend, you will be welcomed in the great halls with mead and women!’ The polydjinn did not tell its master it had ended the call after they had gotten the address.

Being older than most of the cosmos, the creature ignorantly called Gycillius had a unique perception of time, weeks passed in seconds, days lasted years. When Ethan spoke it fondly remembered the infinite void and cursed every second of forced consciousness it suffered.

Their final destination was a small house with a small porch and a small dog next to a large man. ‘Of course, the fog of realization lifts, this poor boy had a viscous discharge of unknown origin oozing from his chakras. Of course being of the unenlightened caste he would not perceive such danger. In his arrogance he besmirched my name and denied my vast and vexing abilities but no longer! No one scoffs at my unguents! Go Gycillius, be my wrath.’ The immortal polydjinn waited with limited patience for the child locks to disengage. It shambled its lopsided gait to the porch. ‘Show no mercy!’ Ethan said, stretching to close the passenger door.  The dog began yapping a tattoo onto the air as the man on the porch recognized the pair, you don’t forget a 400lb wizard and his misshapen minion. ‘Gary, your friend is here!’ He called as the small dog sniffed industriously at the polydjinn eventually deciding it was good enough to urinate on.

‘He’s not my friend dad! He’s my nemesis!’ A pale figure in black shouted from the upper window. ‘Your invisibility cream didn’t work and my socks won’t shut up. I want my money back!’ The boy popped out the window again holding aloft a large crystal, it hummed softly in his hand. A peal of thunder erupted through the calm skies. The polydjinn’s head formed an intricate mandala as it matched the harmonics of the crystal before it, once attached to the proper wavelength the creature easily crossed the distance between himself and the boy, solid walls be damned. Gary was frightened as the half heavily muscled creature was creeping towards him until it closed its sinister hand cleanly on the boy's face for merely a moment. The boy slumped immediately as he received the full weight of existence for a fraction of a second. The acne-scarred face of Ethan appeared before him in all its patchy-bearded glory. Words big as mountains crushed his psyche as he was left hollow, knowing only he must update his Yodel reviews. The creature that was not called Gycillius returned to the Neon and to Ethan nervously rubbing his pinky ring ‘With all of Hell’s might I banish thee back from whence thou came!’ The creature began to fade into blissful nonexistence, ‘Unless you want to hang out and watch me do karate?’ The polydjinn sighed cosmically.


It wasn't the intensity of the feeling but rather the existence of it that scared her. It was foreign, alien, and raw; something she had never felt before and something she'd never ever imagined experiencing. She wasn't sure of the steps she had to take next or how she would deal with it, but the only thing that she was sure about was the euphoric feeling that ran through her veins. But she snapped out of it, she had to. As much as she wanted to relish this feeling of pure, unadulterated joy, she had to work on her feet and handle a situation that she hadn't handled before. Many described her to be as adaptable as water, but right now she could feel herself drowning. She could feel the panic set in as she scratched her Gemini tattoo and felt her palms sweat. Her heartbeat was now starting to quicken with every passing second. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was an accident, wasn't it? She had to do something and whatever it was, it had to be fast. Time was passing and by the looks of it, he had stopped breathing a long time ago. CPR, seven pumps, and then stop. Or was it 14? Either way, she placed her shaky palms on his chest. She couldn't feel his heartbeat as she started the compressions but she blamed it on her numb hands. Love is supposed to make your heart skip a beat, she thought bitterly, but not stop your heart entirely. It was his fault, after all. If he hadn't pushed her, touched her, released the beast within her, he would still be alive. Probably enjoying the last sips of his red wine with her, polishing the night off with some dessert and a kiss. She told him that he was going too far, he knew what he was doing himself. But he took pride in it, smirking with every flinch that was caused by him to her. Maybe he thought the shivers were of anticipation and not of fear? She had to stop wondering about his philosophy and what was going on behind that delicious mop of brown hair because there was only so much you could ask a cadaver.

She sat on top of him, just the way he would've liked it, and decided to try and revive him again. She knew her efforts were as useless as his advances had been but she had to snap out of it. He wasn't coming back to life, and that was something she couldn't change. After all, it was her bare hands on his neck. Not scratching the skin but pressing hard on the jugular and trachea to blow the wind out of his body. She got up, staring at his lifeless, but gorgeous, body and walked towards the dinner table. The food was still somewhat warm, but the candle was beginning to melt. It hadn't been too long since the entire exploit had occurred. Time had slowed down or rather paused for her. She could still feel his warm hand in places she wishes it had never gone. She sat at the table, on the same chair where she'd spent the last hour laughing and feeling warm after consuming glass after glass of the red wine he'd opened especially for her. The night wasn't supposed to go this way, but if there was one thing she knew, it was that life threw her curveballs at the least expected times. She hadn't anticipated committing a murder when she'd put on her red dress and had carefully done herself up for him. She had anticipated certain other things, things that would've made her face glow with heat during some other time. But something had snapped. The sound of the clock ticking had started to grate her nerves, and she knew she had to get out of there faster. She couldn't walk away and treat this travesty like something trivial. There was a time of death, clear signs of strangulation, his skin under her nails, her DNA all over his body. The night wasn't supposed to go like this.

The bottle had a quarter of wine left inside, which she took as a sign of optimism; the bottle half-full or something along those lines, she thought, gulping the remains. She rarely needed liquid courage but there was always a first time for everything. Something animalistic and malicious had been woken up inside her, and the cogs in her brain had started turning. It was an easy way out; burn the entire place down. Checking her bag, she found her box of matchsticks, something she had placed in her bag on an impulse. He had put up a fight; her legs were scarred and there was blood dripping from her hands and legs. Mementos that would never go away, she thought, dusting herself off. She knew exactly what she had to do and the fact that he lived in the dingiest of places just helped her. The gods had conspired for this to happen, her unbecoming, the death of this sorry excuse for a man, and her finally discovering her life's true path. Men. She felt like she was a creature of the night, as stealthy as a cat with her kill and exit. They always say that you should let your impulses take over once in a while, and sometimes they knew what they were saying. The euphoria was back, and so was the feeling of satisfaction. She never knew something like this could be satisfying but watching the light go out of his eyes satisfied her in ways that no man would ever be able to. Unless, of course, he was one of her victims. She collected herself, proud of the fact that this date was planned verbally and there was no real way to prove that she was here. She would, of course, find herself at his apartment tomorrow, mournfully crying to the cops about how she misses him and how she can't believe that this had happened. If there was an apartment to come back to, she was sure she would put on her best act.

This felt like second nature to her, as she collected herself and reapplied her lipstick. One last kiss, she thought and bent down to place a kiss on his cold cheek. She'd probably miss him, but that wasn't the reality. He was her first kill, and she'd always remember him and the warm feeling of his body going cold would never leave her hands, no matter how many others would experience the same fate as him. She opened the door to leave and turned back to look at the pile of her so-called problems. She pulled out a matchbox from her clutch, lit a couple of matches at once, and threw them in. His house had always been a fire hazard and that made her work easier. Smoke started engulfing his little one-bedroom apartment.

It looked gorgeous from a few streets across, she noticed. The fire melted the evidence of her ever being there. It felt cathartic in the best way possible and she knew that this was the start of something great. Funny how it was always him to say this with conviction and she never believed the poor bastard until now.

The night wasn't supposed to end this way, she muttered to herself while walking down the street, but who said the night had ended? It was still young and she was still riding the high from finally becoming a woman and growing into something she never imagined herself to turn into. Her eyes were fixated on the sight of his burning apartment, with no siren sounds echoing the city yet. She knew that she didn't have three hours, because even though the gods were smiling at her, she realized that this was real life and she had set his entire apartment on fire and someone ought to notice. The most she had was an hour before the authorities got there but it was enough time for the entire thing to beautifully unfold on itself and carefully throw her out of the picture.

Her gait, her appearance, and the hour of the night earned her catcalls and whistles from almost every man on the road. She bared her teeth in response, and the men mistook it for a smile. She was a creature of the night, just not in the way the men on the street imagined her to be. But she let their imagination run wild, gently smiling to herself. They would never know the truth unless they tore their eyes from her, pulled themselves out of their fantasy-addled minds, and actually took a look at her.

Everyone wears masks and disguises themselves, but she had mastered the art of showing every aspect of who she actually was without getting caught. The palm-sized ‘Gemini’ tattoo on her neck was practically an autobiography – a footnote into there being more to her than what she showed the rest of the world; there was another side of her, another face, facade, mask, something she donned whenever she did what she was best at: men. One of her hands was still wet and dripping from the liquid it was coated with. She scowled to herself but winked at a taxi driver whose eyes were fixated on her skimpily clad body. Without a word, she climbed into the back of the cab telling the taxi driver her location in the huskiest voice she could muster.

The ride was long which gave her plenty of time to think about what had transpired a couple of hours ago. Her body was still sticky but she bore the scratches that ran the length of her thigh and back with pride. She had finally done it and had savored every little second until it ended. That’s when the emptiness and feeling of deflation set in but there was a euphoric high to balance that out.

“Fun night?” The pot-bellied taxi driver asked, slyly winking at her through the rear mirror. He reached out to adjust it so as to get a better look at her. Shifting in her seat, adjusting her dress so that there was very little left to imagine.

“You could say that…” She smirked. Could he be her next conquest? He seemed easy and desperate, and she was addicted to the feeling she had felt a couple of hours ago. It didn’t hurt that he resembled her father, with his balding head and his empty, grey eyes. This way she could work out the anger towards her father and quench the thirst that dominated her senses. Killing two birds with one stone, she thought and giggled at the little pun. Who said murder lacked humor? She checked her phone. The screen was cracked. When did that happen? Another memento from the best night of her life. She hoped that the scars would remain, as a badge that proudly proclaimed that she had finally become a woman.

Enough, she told herself. Reminiscing could come later. There was an easy target in front of her and knew that even if she didn’t put in the effort, she’d get what she wanted but the tease thrilled her more than the act. She wiped her hand on her dress (wearing red had its perks) and slid her hands across the taxi driver's back. His eyes widened and she moved closer, her hands draped around his neck. She could feel pulse-quickening and Adam’s apple bobbing. A soft moan escaped his mouth and she grinned to herself — the feeling of euphoria was back. The cab had already come to a halt, the driver knowing, or so he thought, what was about to happen. He couldn’t believe his luck when she climbed into the front seat and onto his lap.

She could feel his breath hitching and quickening, with her arms still around his neck, as he slithered an arm around her waist. She scowled and started placing her hands around his neck. Softly, at first, and then tightening her grip with every passing second. This is the part she enjoyed. Locking her manic eyes with his confused ones, she briefly felt sorry for him — he reminded her of a puppy and she didn’t want to strangle a puppy to death — but she definitely didn’t mind the murder of men like him. His arm started clutching her waist even tighter as tightened her grip, pressing down on Adam's apple with her red, glossy nails. He was almost there, almost dead; she could practically see the light slowly and surely fading from his eyes; she didn’t take her hands off his neck even when his eyes rolled back and his breath was long gone. Instead, she stayed there for a few minutes, savoring the feeling.

This wasn’t as satisfying as the first one. At least the first one had put up a fight and turned it messy and difficult for her. But that’s what they all say, the first murder is always better than the second one. A few more minutes passed. She got out of the cab, retrieved her clutch from the back seat, reapplied her lipstick, and placed a visible kiss on his cold cheek. She stood there examining her handiwork when the feeling of emptiness returned- the high of murder only stayed that long. Ignoring it, for the time being, she checked her surroundings. She had been impulsive with this kill, letting her emotions and instincts take over her, not caring about witnesses but thankfully it was a deserted area. Hopefully, no one had seen her and even if they had they wouldn’t have guessed what she’d actually done.

She struggled with the hood of the cab for a while, her hands were sore and sticky but she had to eliminate all the evidence. Once it opened, she pulled out a matchbox from her clutch, lit a couple of matches at once, and threw them in. Smoke had started making its way around the car and it was very obvious that it would explode. She had to get home soon; two murders were enough for a first-timer. She would return the next morning to see the carnage, the murderer always returned to the murder scene anyways.

As if someone had pressed a rewind button, the scene went back to the way it began — with her walking alone on a dimly lit street. Only this time she would actually go home instead of seeking out her next victim. She was a creature of the night, just not in the way the men on the street imagined her to be; in the way that she was her own instrument, and murder was her art. But she let their imagination run wild, gently smiling to herself. They would never know the truth unless they tore their eyes from her, pulled themselves out of their fantasy-addled minds, and actually took a look at her. And that pleased her a lot.


My faithful readers, In the pages of this monthly column, I have revealed to you the mysterious doings of some of the most curious and eccentric persons on this earth. Over the years of your faithful readership, you’ve followed along on my adventures in meeting such elusive characters as the Bayou Swamp Preacher, the Magician Salesman, and the Mob Exorcist. Although I’m proud of my chronicles thus far, there had been one particularly evanescent figure of great importance who had evaded my attention…until now. Join me as I regale my encounter with the mysterious ghost writer known as Mr. De Ville, exposing his true nature and fulfilling a family destiny of mine that stretches back generations. As one becomes enlightened about the literary world, it does not take long to recognize the impossible pace at which many well-regarded authors publish new works. It was this realization that fed my intrigue of the shrouded world of ghost writing. Surely, a profession that encourages comparisons with specters must guard some shadowy personalities worthy of my column. To find such intrigues, I once again elicited help from my contacts in the dark, digital spaces that underpin our society. After a few weeks of plodding developments, I finally was afforded a lead regarding a man hiding under the alias of a Mr. De Ville. Subsequent investigation revealed this man to be the uncredited author of several infamous biographies, the subjects of whom had a strange habit of dying mysterious deaths before their life stories had been published. A lack of criminal investigations into these matters led me to assume that Mr. De Ville had somehow acquired powerful allies in high places. This gave me pause as to whether to continue my investigation, as any damning details I surfaced would surely haunt me after publication. However, I had a hunch that this Mr. De Ville may be the nefarious figure whose exposure would alleviate some darkness in the world and cement my rightful place in my family’s legacy. After much internal debate, I found the fortitude to carry on. Details were sparse on the man, even from my associates of questionable character, whose powers of recommendation rarely led me astray. I was ultimately blessed with an address, a domain in a rural part of upstate New York, deep in the forested bosom of the Adirondacks. Reluctant to make the drive without confirmation of identity, I sent a letter addressing my desire to interview the ghost writer. To my surprise, I received a return letter in just four short days. In the letter, a man who identified himself only as Rene, revealed that he was Mr. De Ville’s assistant, and conveyed his employer’s desire to meet with me at his residence. An invitation with strict conditions for meeting was followed by a harsh warning of discretion, promising the utmost legal action for any public revelation of my planned visit. I took the threat seriously, based on my earlier assumptions, and told no one, despite the obvious risks it posed to myself. The day before the proposed meeting, I made the long drive from the city to the small town nearest Mr. De Ville’s supposed residence. I stopped for the night at a dilapidated motel near the highway just as a fierce storm whipped up. Sleep evaded me that night. Thunder crashes and sweaty nightmares awakened me constantly. In one fleeting moment, I felt the presence of someone in my room, prompting me to grab my trusty cane and raise it above my head, shouting like a fool into the empty darkness. A more cautious person may have regarded the nights’ disturbances as terrible omens and abandoned the campaign, but I am not such a person. The journey from town took me along progressively degraded roads, from smooth highways to bumpy gravel roads, to barely passible dirt paths that appeared untraversed for years. Rene had suggested I bring along printed directions, for there was no cell service in these deep woods. I was glad to have followed his advice, for I was nearly lost multiple times even with said assistance. The unmarked dirt roads curved and branched endlessly into a disorienting maze amongst the sea of trees. I began to fear that I would arrive dreadfully late for the meeting, if I arrived at all. Deep in the evergreen timber, the light of day struggled to penetrate the thick tangle of branches. I had been driving nearly all day, and the fuel light flashed a warning. Fortunately, I had brought along an extra container of gas. As I parked, a premature, thick darkness overtook the woods. I kept the key in the ignition and the headlights on. Without my cane, I leaned on the car as I filled the tank. The forest was eerily quiet. Two glowing eyes appeared between the trees up ahead. The glowing orbs seemed to sit atop some tall creature. As it moved through the trees, the eyes lowered to the ground. Walking into the headlights, the eyes belonged to a snarling wolf. It approached slowly; its sharp incisors revealed. I felt frozen, paralyzed, from some otherworldly fear. The wolf stalked to the side of the car. It’s eyes locked with mine, and it’s snarl retreated. The wolf backed away and returned to the headlights, trotting a few paces before stopping and turning back, as if expecting me to follow. I fumbled putting the empty container away and hastily returned to the car. I proceeded hesitantly, slowly rolling behind this fearsome lupin as it guided me through the darkness. After some time, it stopped and let out a blood-curdling howl, before dashing into the thicket. No sooner than the wolf abandoned me, than I spied several specks of flickering orange light in the distance. Like a moth to flame, I followed the light of the lanterns until coming to a rest in front of a manor so out of place in these remote woods that I could barely register my belief. The large gothic mansion screamed of Victorian excess. A grand, stone staircase led up to an imposing wooden door fit for a castle. Ornate carvings danced along all its awnings. I hobbled up the great stone steps and breathed a deep, calming breath. As I reached for the ornate door knocker, the door flew open. A squat, bespeckled man with patchy, wispy hair greeted me. “Mr. Helsnig, I presume?” “Oh…uh, indeed…but please, call me Abe,” I said, as he motioned for me to come inside. I crossed the threshold as I spoke. “I assume you are Rene, whom I corresponded with?” “Ah, of course, Abe. Yes, I am the one who wrote to you. How was your journey? I’m afraid the path here can be quite cumbersome for those unaccustomed to the…” My focus on his voice faded as I absorbed the scene before me. A soaring cathedral-shaped ceiling overlooked a looming balcony, with two spiral staircases descended like twisted metal skeletons. There were no windows to be seen, with the gloomy space lit only by dwindled candles mounted along the peeling walls. It was even more ghastly than I had expected, even for such a supposedly eccentric person. I struggled to shake away the goosebumps that prickled my skin. “Please, follow me into the library where Mast…er…Mister De Ville awaits your company.” Rene had walked to the doorway between the staircases as I gawked at the room. He looked impatient, as I’m sure my late arrival had inconvenienced him. The metal tip of my wooden cane echoed through the empty room as I stepped towards him. I caught Rene looking at it suspiciously. “May I ask, for what use does a young man like yourself have with such an aid?” With much effort I withheld my annoyance and responded politely. I gave a brief explanation of my illness in youth, which had led to my current hindrance. Rene led us around a dark corner and down a narrow hallway. From a doorway at the end, I could see a dark silhouette illuminated by the dancing light of a fire. Rene hurried ahead and disappeared into the room. A deep, booming voice said “Ah, yes, send him in.” Rene reappeared and motioned for me to approach. The grand library awaited me. A roaring fire crackled in a cavernous hearth along one wall, flanked by two wooden chairs with intricate carvings along their frames. The room reeked of ancient books, which sat piled on sagging wooden shelves extending from floor to ceiling. Against the far shelves appeared to be a rusted and tattered hospital gurney. “For my treatments, Mr. Helsnig.” The voice materialized suddenly behind me, giving me fright. I turned to see a tall, pale man looming over me. A black shawl draped from his gangly shoulders. “Ah! Mr. De Ville, it’s nice to finally make your acquaintance!” I struggled to calm my voice. “Are you alarmed by my appearance?” He inquired. His blood-red eyes piercing mine. “No,” I lied, a sheepish attempt to convince us both. “Albinism is a rare and strange affliction, one of many I suffer from, but I’ve accommodated with my unique dwelling.” He raised his arms, gesturing at his mausoleum-like estate, the shawl hanging like giant wings. “Please, Mr. Helsnig, join me at the fireplace. You have travelled so far, and I presume you have many questions to ask of me.” He moved gracefully, as if floating, taking a seat beside the fireplace. I joined him. The hot flames on my face thawed the chill of dreadful nerves. “Well, Mr. De Ville, shall we start with your craft? How does one go about telling someone else’s story, in the manner of their voice?” “Ah, yes, well over much trial and error, I’ve found that it does not suffice to simply listen to one’s story, no matter how brilliantly they can orate the intricacies of their journeys.” De Ville gazed intently into the fire as he spoke. I spied flames dancing in his eyes, and I could swear it was not merely a reflection. He continued with a patient elegance. “I shall perform a demonstration for you tonight, but first, let us hear your other questions.” My concentration wavered as I considered his intentions. I scrambled to collect my thoughts as I continued. “I must say, I’ve marveled over your work, and with your powerful prose, surely you could have fame and fortune if you so desired. Why this profession? Why seek anonymity?” De Ville turned his gaze to me, and his severe expression alerted me that I had struck upon a sensitive subject. “True power lies in the shadows, Mr. Helsnig!” A bitter tone rose in his voice. “Be not foolish enough to reveal oneself to the masses, for you only invite injury. Better to thrive in the darkness.” I let a grave silence settle before I continued. “Pardon me, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must ask. Why invite me to your residence?” De Ville turned to me. White lips wrinkled like maggots pursed into an amused smirk. “Why, haven’t you already guessed? A young man as well traveled and full of experiences as yourself, I’d be a fool to not wish to tell your story. How fortunate am I that you sought me out!” A tremor rang through my heart. De Ville smiled big, and I saw his fangs. Before I could react, the sound of quickening footsteps behind me followed was followed by a dull whack to the back of my head, after which the world went black. I awoke with a blinding headache. My body was strapped down to what I could only assume was the hospital gurney I spied earlier. Sensing a tingling in my right arm, and I lifted my head to see a dark red tube snaking from it. “Ah, I see you’ve awaken!” Mr. De Ville, or whatever name this monster went by, was staring at me from across the room near the fireplace hearth. Rene shuffled over to me and attended to a bandage on my head. “I do apologize for that nasty whack on the head. Rene is a good Familiar, but he tends to get a bit carried away at times with his duties.” After changing my head bandage, Rene bent down and was rummaging with something at my side. Upon standing, I saw him holding a bag of blood, my blood, and he shuffled quickly over to his master. The monster’s eyes lit up and he clasped the bag with his long, bony fingers. He seemed to rise into the air, afloat with pleasure. “Now, Mr. Helsnig, you shall witness my process! In the blood of my subjects, I can taste their personality, smell the successes and failures. I imbibe the very essence of their life. With this, I can flesh out their story as perhaps no one else can.” As the monster lectured, I worked at my wrist restraints. One was loose enough that I hoped to pull my arm free. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of having to dislocate my shoulder to do so, but the alternative was even more unpleasant. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Helsnig, as to regale me with your life story while I sip on your most vital of fluids. Your cooperation will result in a peaceful death, as you slowly weaken and fall into that irreversible sleep after me having drained you completely.” I yelped as I forced my shoulder from it’s socket, nearly fainting from the pain. “Please, do not struggle my dear subject, it only delays our work. Must I appeal to your sensibilities as a writer to convince you? I shall write for you the grandest biography that one could hope for!” Realizing they had not suspected my plan of escape, I played along. “Yes…okay….I will tell my story.” “Excellent,” the monster exclaimed with a hissing sound. Opening his mouth wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw, he bit into the bag of my blood. After a moment, Rene rushed to his master and grabbed at it. “Master, pace yourself!” The monster pulled his mouth away and licked my blood dripping from his chin. “Ah, yes, I can get carried away, ahem…now please, continue…cough, ahem.” The monster lurched into a coughing fit. It clutched it’s throat and glared at me, it’s eyes aflame. “What have you eaten!?” “Ha!” I laughed, stalling for time as I wiggled my wrist free. “You have doomed yourself with a taste for blood!” “Master!?” The familiar yelled, grasping at his side. The monster doubled over, hacking a terrible sound. The familiar turned to me, anger flashing across his face. “What have you done to my master!?” “Hahaha!” I couldn’t contain my glee. “The monster’s throat burns from the garlic and colloidal silver that flows through my veins!” I slipped my hand from the restraint and untied the other. Free of my bondage, I grasped my cane leaning against the bookshelves. Upon seeing my escape, the familiar charged at me, no doubt intent on carrying out deadly revenge. With a swift dodge of his advance, I spun round and swung my weapon, catching him right at the temple with a sickening thud. He collapsed limply to the floor. My heart thumped; my vision tilted as the loss of blood lightened my head. I steadied myself with my cane, sucking deep breaths. My eyes desperately scanned the room for other threats, but the only remaining appeared to be the once great monster who was now reduced to a pitiful heap on the floor, coughing and wheezing and spasming like a caught fish. “Who…haaack….haa…..who…are…haack…you?” The monster weakly rasped. “Face me and I’ll reveal my true self!” I ordered, kicking the monster. It feebly dragged itself to a slumped position against the wall. My blood seeped from the holes burned through it’s throat. “Spare me….haak…and…haack…haaack…I shall…give…..haaack…eternal life!” “Ha! Spare me the offers of your cursed eternal life! My family of mere mortals can live forever through the deeds that each generation visits upon the damned!” I slipped off a protective metal cap to reveal the sharp end of my wooden cane. Standing over the monster, I raised it high with both hands. The monster hissed and threw up a hand in a futile attempt at deflecting my blow. “I shall cast you to hell for your undead deeds against the living! For my true name is Abraham Van Helsing the 6 th , and I continue that which my great, great, great grandfather began so long ago!” With all my strength, I drove the sharpened point through the monsters hand and into its chest. It released a horrendous scream. Fire spontaneously burst forth from its chest and quickly consumed the entire body. The flames of damnation burned quick and hot, quickly reducing the monster to smoldering ash. When I finally peeled my gaze away from the glorious death, I noticed that the Familiar had slipped away. I followed his trail of blood out a back door, where the tire marks in the dirt revealed that he had escaped. I resolved to track him down, for he would surely lead me to another monster. My dear readers, as I have now exposed my identity, my column shall take on a different tact. I may have downed a king of the shadows, but there are many others who lie in wait to take the throne. I do hope you will continue to follow along as I hunt them all. Sincerely, Abe Helsnig, aka Abraham Van Helsing the 6th


I don't even know what the big deal about sunrise is. The sky is all red and smudged, and the clouds look like curdled milk. Disgusting curdled milk. There's also a big yellow dot in the middle. And everybody seems to make such a big deal about it. "Tracy." I turn and look at him, he starts to play with his fingers. "Yeah?" I nod sarcastically. "I didn't mean to," he says genuinely. "Didn't mean to what? Tell me that you're getting married? To some brunette in all the way Greece? That you are taking a boat in two sunsets? That your parents from Germany are coming to see it? That you are spending more than a million dollars and stupid carved angels and crystal cutlery? That she loves you? -But you don't and come to Ohio, meet a girl at McDonald's, and tell her you love her over a Double Cheeseburger?" "I know." "You know what Luka? You know what?" I'm yelling now, every part of my face turns red. "What. Do. You. Know?" "I'm sorry okay? I'm sorry. You don't know how hard it is. My parents never thought good of me. I was their disappointment of a son. They wanted a son who would talk about books like War and Peace and eat roasted asparagus. But instead, I am a boy that searches for fast food joints and steals cars." "Steals cars? You steal cars?" "Yeah." I look away, back at the yellow dot in the distance that becomes bigger and fuller, hiding behind the clouds. "I don't even know you." I look at his eyes. They're brown. Ordinary leather jacket brown. "We're still getting to know

each other. " "Yeah. Yeah, two days before you leave in a small, cartoon-looking boat like some fairy tale." "I do know one thing about you, though." He hands me a burger, "I know that you love a good Quarter Pounder." "Luka. You know that it's not healthy." "And as a good boyf-... I mean friend. I know that you deserve a burger right about now." "Ok." I smile. "And of course. I did not forget." "What?" I ask. "A peach Crush. One of the worst soft drinks that I've ever even tasted." He laughs. "Ok," I repeat. It's hard to be mad. So I smile and look at the big yellow dot in the distance. "Y'know," he grins, "It would be good if we could sit down somewhere." "Yeah, maybe you could steal a car or something from this parking lot." "Right. What about that teal convertible over there! Besides that RV." I poke the bright red straw through the top of the plastic lid, "Sure let's do it." I grin sarcastically. He starts to walk over to the car. "I thought that you were joking!" I yell over. "I never joke," he says, still walking. -20 YEARS LATER- Most forty-year-old women on my street have a family. Two kids that they send off to school while they stay at home making cheeseburgers and salty water-based mashed potatoes. Their husband spends his hold day with his head in the newspaper, only saying a set of sentences repeatedly, "Yes, honey" or "I agree" or "How outrageous". Time and time again. I spend all day reading Animal Farm, so many times that I've memorized the opening speech. So lonely that I laugh at out loud every time I see a deformed peach because it is the most exciting thing in my day. I sit on the porch, watching through the yellow-lit windows. Families eat their meals. The woman laughs and a kid smiles. A biker rounds the street occasionally. The moon slowly comes into view. Mundane as ever. Big, white, and obnoxious. I see a car come round down the corner. It's a convertible. Teal. Shiny. Like a 1950s movie one. I peer through the foggy window. All I see is a tan-coloured oval. The car parks under a precariously hanging maple tree. A man walks out. He's tall. His eyes are an ordinary brown like almost any other man on the street. He holds a paper bag with a big yellow M plastered on it. "Hi." I wave, my hand hanging awkwardly in mid-air. "Hi." "Who are you?" I pause, "and what are you doing at my house?" He doesn't respond. "Is this a joke?" A pull my zip-up hoodie over my shoulders. "I never joke." he grins. It's Luka. Funny. German-American. Leather jacket Luka. I don't react. He's calm, so that means I have to be calm. It cannot be one-sided. The teal colour of the convertible glints in the moonlight. I watch the hovering of the big white spotlight on the convertible, the shadow of the maple layers on it. Creating a painting. "Here's a peach Crush." he starts to hand it to me, then stops, "I assume that you've figured out who I am by now." I spot some white hair above his forehead.

"Yes. I have." I put the Crush beside me, pulling the cuffs of my hoodie over my white knuckles. "You love peach Crush. Have you grown out of it?" He sits down beside me on the porch. I'm angry. He can't come at 8:30 on a Wednesday day night. He can't stop time. It's not fair. With my thumb, I make circles on my palm. Stay calm. Stay Calm. "Nope. I haven't. First, I need to know if you're married or not." "I'm not." "Good." I poke the straw into the styrofoam. He passes me a Quarter Pounder wrapped in plastic. "Here." "I'm not eating that," I restrain the smile that's pulling my mouth upwards, "not until you tell me why you're here and all background complications." "She divorced me." All of a sudden the air crackles with tension. "She knows that I don't love her. That I love someone else." he continues, "She kicked me out. Her father owns the house that we shared. She is going to raise the child on her own."

I place my cold hands on my cheeks, trying to cover the embarrassing beet-red tone of my cheeks.

I choke on peach Crush and cringe as it goes down the wrong tube. "A kid? You have a kid?" "Yes. A kid. In her family. It's a custom. Every married couple

needs

to have children. I had nowhere to go. So I put together all the money that I had left. From selling cars." "Selling stolen cars. I assume?" He looks away. "So that's a yes, right?" I smile, patting his back with the large plastic cup. "And I bought a flight from Greece to here, Ohio." "Where are you living?" I ask. "Sunnyside motel. Homey place." "Sounds fishy." "It is. Very fishy." "Eek." I laugh and watch the moon float above a couple of faint stars. "I came here to see you because I loved you all along." he itches the back of his head. "Don't go all romcom cheesy on me." "Trust me, I won't." "So. Are there any more foreign relationships? Any arranged marriages? Any angry parents?" "Yes. But I'm not sure about the last one." he laughs softly. "Pass me the Quarter Pounder."


Aly was running late for her potions examine. Her friends Caleb and Nancy helped with the studying; she'd really need to pass in order to get her magicks license. If she did, she'll be able to perform advanced magic and make high-level potions. Aly always wanted to work in the family's apothecary shop but in order to do so, she needed to take the magic examine...all of them: spells, incantations, and potions. She'd passed the others with flying colors but she needed to pass potions to work in the shop. "Please let them still be there," she pleaded. Aly climbed the steps to the examination room of her high shool. Hidden in Webster High was a magic school for witches, wizards, and any magical beings in-between. Alison Mayes was a witch and her friends were magical too; Caleb's a wizard and Nancy's a witch like Aly. She'd knew them since childhood...well Caleb actually. Nancy was later on in 4th grade. "You're late, Ms. Mayes," her examiner said. "You were supposed to be here 5 minutes ago." "I know, Mrs. Thorne, but there was a power outage last night so my alarm clock didn't go off." "Excuses, Ms. Mayes. If you are going to be successful in life, you'll need to learn how to manage your time wisely. Do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am." "Good. Now, let's begin. On the table are various potions. You'll need to make them correctly in order to pass. One mishap and you'll fail. You have 2 hours to complete." Mrs. Thorne said as she left the room. "No pressure." Who was she kidding? It was plenty of pressure. "Okay, Aly, relax and everything will be fine." She began brewing the potions right away: one was for healing, one was for bringing luck and fortune, and lastly, one for protection. After she was done, she'd poured them into the color bottles. Mrs. Thorne came back and inspected them. "Well?" Aly asked. "Did I pass?" "Don't know. I'll have to take them to the Council to be examine. You'll wait for the results a week from today." "A week?" What is she going to do until them? "Yes, a week. You're free to go." A week flew by and it was a good thing because she was going stir crazy about the results of her tests; she was like this the last time for her spells and incantations tests. She was with her friends at the mall when her parents called with the results. "Really? Yes, yes, thanks for the good news." She hung up and relay the message. "That's great, Aly," said Nancy. "Yeah, you definitely earned it," said Caleb. "I know. All that work as finally paid off. This calls for a celebration. Ice cream is on me." Aly went to the mall's ice cream parlor while they waited outside. "Well?" asked Nancy. "Well what?" asked Caleb. "Aren't you going to tell her?" Caleb blushed because he knew what she was referring to. "There's nothing to say, Nancy. Besides, I don't want to make things awkward between us." "Awkward? Uh, hello, you're in love with her, Caleb. HOW could you not tell her?" "It's complicated, okay?" "How complicated can it be? You two known each other since you were in diapers." "Exactly, I'd never expected to fall for Aly that fast." Caleb and Aly were close and be inseparatable but it wasn't until recently that he notice 'things' about Aly and the attraction that he has towards her. He'd recalled his sweaty hands and racing heart a few months ago and that's when he'd finally realized that he fallen for Aly; he just hope that she realized just how special she is to him before it's too late. "How hard is it to say the words, 'I love you' to her?" "Very hard. I get nervous just thinking about it." Nancy shook her head. "Don't think, Caleb, just go for it. Who knows? Maybe she has feelings for you too." Caleb doubted it but he said, "Okay." Aly returned with the ice cream and passed them out. "Cheers," she said. "Cheers," they said. Weeks went by and Aly was working at the shop when Caleb walked in. "Hey, Caleb, what's up?" "Nothing, just walking around." "Walking around, uh? I know you too well for that lie. Seriously, tell me what's really going on." "Okay, you caught me. I came here to tell you something." "What is it?" she asked. "I wanted you to know that..." He paused for a moment until he said, "...that my grandmother loved that healing salve and wanted to know if your mom would share the recipe with her so she could make it at home." "Okay, I'll ask her but I'm not guaranteeing anything so don't get your hopes up." "I understand, Aly. So, I'm going to go and I'll catch up with you at school on Monday." She had a feeling that he wanted to say something else but she let it slide...for now. "Uh, okay. See you at school." He waved good-bye and left, leaving Aly confused. Later on that night, she was doing math homework when Nancy called; she sounded exicted when Aly answered. "What are you so happy about?" she asked. "Duh, about you and Caleb." "Me and Caleb, what?" "What do you mean 'what'? Didn't he tell you?" "Tell me what?" "Unbelievable, he was supposed to tell you that he was in love with you." She was supposed to mumble it but Aly heard. "Caleb is what with me?" "Oh, did I say that out loud?" Nancy asked. "Uh, yeah, you did. You said that Caleb is in love with me." "Yes, I did and it's true. You two have know each other for the longest and it was bound to happen. So, do you feel the same way about him?" Nancy's question caught her off-guard. Of course she did but didn't want to say anything out loud. Her heart started to race. "Well...maybe." "Well, you need to figure it out and tell him. In fact, both of you need to say something soon." Nancy hung up, leaving Aly to her thoughts. Over the weekend, Aly went through the motions and debating on whether or not to tell Caleb. On Monday, she made her decision and decided to tell him. She met him before school started. "Caleb, there's something that I need to tell you." "Well, I do too." They confused at the same time and was shocked by what the other one said. "What?" he asked. "I like, no, love you, Caleb. Always have...I just didn't know to say it." She felt stupid by not saying something. He smiled. "Well, that's a relief. I guess this between us is offical." "I'm relief too." "We can go to the movies as our first date." She smiled too. "I loved that." They kissed, sealing their new relationship. Both of them had a feeling that this was going to be a very interesting experience between them. The End.