22 years of logical thinking told her that it was an impossibility, a fluke, a non-item, it wasn't real. This flutter of the pulse. The tightening of the chest. The catch of the breath. It was nothing. A purely outstanding case of emotionally random behavior. Simply because it only happened when Lady Fortloy was in the room had nothing to do with it. The fact that the Lady's smile made her weak in the knees was pure coincidence. The fact that she stammered like a bumbling buffoon anytime the woman had anything to say to her was simply a matter of the lack of proper air in the room. It was nothing. It would always be nothing. It--

"Pardon me, milady."

What was she doing? No, no stop it you fool! Turn around right now! Turn and walk--

"May I have this dance? That is, if you are not otherwise engaged?"

Of course she is you idiot! Stop! St--Oh god, that smile. Those eyes. Quick, stand up straight, look presentable.

"Of course Fred, I'd love to."

Hand on her waist. Take her hand. Dance. Under the moonlight, everything looks simple.

"You are way too good looking to be a cop."

"I suppose that's good, considering I'm a lawyer."

She's older, late 40s early 50s, not old, but older. She's pretty in that kind of uptight way, still-blonde hair down around her shoulders, eyes hidden by tinted glasses. Not really my type, but hey, I'm not picky. She's a little too attractive to be a lawyer too, but she's dressed for it. Nice clothes, good manicure, expensive attache. So what the hell is she doing at Brookvile lockup talking to some shoplifting punk? She should be schmoozing with the who's who, or driving around in a fancy car, not talking to some little messenger.

She looks up at me and gives me this smile that makes me think of those wolves on the discovery channel. "My thoughts exactly."

To the outside world, it lookes as if she were gliding through the crowd on wheels. The young woman with the rain soaked, jet-black curls and wild eyes. Overcoat tattered and worn, patched in a couple places. Pale. Gaunt. Sad. She slips through the crowd with one purpose in mind. One target set. The woman in the black dress tangoing with the man with the blond mustache. Revelations of being the other woman rise in her like something rising in the depths of an ocean. She continues on her journey dogmatically, until she comes to a halt in front of the couple and tremblingly taps the woman's shoulder. The woman in the back dress turns, prepared to say something sharp before her features blanche and her dark eyes grow wide. She utters a singular name, breaking the young woman out of her daze. Aggressively, she takes the woman's elbow, pulling her away from the man with the blond mustache.

"Ouch, you're hurting me!" The woman's voice is sharp, but muted, not wanting to cause a scene.

"You hurt me long ago." The young woman intones, pulling her towards the restrooms, also not wanting to make a scene.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" The woman demands, yanking her arm out of the young woman's grasp.

The young woman turns, eyes blazing, jaw clenched. "You know what that fucking means, Roxanne. Is this what you've reduced yourself to? Whoring yourself out to the highest bidder? What'd he pay? A maserati? A condo? Fucking blood?" The young woman's face is extremely pale, save for two crimson spots on either cheek. The fury emanates from her like a flame.

"Shut up," the woman snaps, her own face paling, "you don't even have the slightest clue as to what's going on."

"Oh, I don't?" The young woman hisses, stepping closer, taking a hold of the woman's elbow again.

"Ouch, you're hurting me! Stop it!"

"Tit for tat. Physical for emotional." The young woman leans in even closer, mere inches from the woman's face, so close she can see herself reflected in the obsidian irises. "I saw you with him. I saw you, in the hotel, fucking him." Suddenly, with the admission of the heart of her anger, the rage dies in the young woman's eyes. Her face falls and she sees herself the way the woman in the black dress sees her. Hurtful. Overcome with rage.

The woman in the black dress opens her mouth to speak, but it's too late. "It-It was nothing."

The young woman in the tattered overcoat heaves a sigh, suddenly looking much older and very tired. "I'm done. I'm fucking done. I cried to the depths of my heart for you, Roxanne, but I'm done. I love you. I've always loved you, but I guess that wasn't enough for you. Well fine, you're free. You don't have to lie anymore." And with that, the young woman was done. Walking through the crowd looking paler and more human than before.

10TH MESSAGE. RECORDED AT 9:59 AM

how could you? three years of pure, faithful commitment, three years that i could've spent doing anything else and this is how you repay me? by sleeping with your shrink? your FUCKING SHRINK?! are you out of your goddamn mind? i mean really, YOUR SHRINK? i knew you had problems. that's why you were in fucking therapy, but jesus christ, you're fucking your shrink? well you know what? FUCK YOU! aw, goddamit, of course it has to start raining-don't you think this is over, goddamit. 'cause it's not. i paid for that apartment, honey. i want you and all your stuff out of the apartment BY TOMORROW! (long pause) i just can't believe this andrea. i thought we were making real progress, but i guess we were just walking in goddamn circles. jesus. have your stuff out by tomorrow, or i'm throwing out or donating it or something. just...just be gone and out of my life.

END OF MESSAGE. TO REPEAT MESSAGE, PRESS ONE. TO SAVE IT PRESS TWO. TO ERASE IT PRESS THREE. FOR MORE INFORMATION, PRESS STAR.

A waltz. That's what she promised as the carriage sped off. A waltz to end all waltzes. The music sways upward from the cabaret downstairs, a delicate French waltz, fragile as porcelain and sweet as rose wine. The princess sighs, her head resting on the Pauper's shoulder as they dance and turn in perfect time with each other. A marriage failed, a child lost. Time was a cruel thing.

The Princess stopped being a Princess long time ago. Her husband used to call her his "Queen", but it was never the same. Every time she heard his saccharine nasal tone, another face would slip into her mind. All angles and sharp corners. Bold green eyes and a thick black mane. A harsh face, softened by a barely seen sweet smile. Confessions whispered in the dark, only panting breath and nimble lips felt.

The Princess leans closer into the Pauper, reveling in the sharp sweet scent of herbs and spices. The Pauper had taken an apprenticeship with an Apothecary, only to soon outdo the Master. The Pauper was the Pauper no more. As two faces rise, emerald orbs meet silver depths and the nearly never seen smile once more softens such harsh features. The moon smiles down on the two once-lovers and sighs in contentment at a job well done.

your breath weaves in and out of my dreams like a daisy chain. the smell of indigo cotton sheets and your rose petal soap keep me afloat when i take off. you never believe me when i tell you that you hum in your sleep. little tuneless lullabies, nasal and sweet, a siren song to my dreaming self.

i'm a creep.

i creep along.

she's out on a walk again. she does it every tuesday at 4:04 pm. along with her daughter and husband and dog.

she smiles and it's like the sun came out.

she laughs and the world cracks a smile.

i hate myself for this.

i hate myself because of you.

you slut.

you whore.

why'd i ever meet you?

why'd you treat me like you cared?

why'd you talk to me?

tell me about your day.

tell me about your life.

you bitch.

fuck you.

fuck your husband.

fuck your daughter.

look at me, why don't you?

i love you.

"Small world, isn't it?"

That only showed me how good of an actress she'd become. She sounded all friendly, but I could see the fear in her eyes. Hear the thoughts going through her head. The same thoughts we all thought at some point. Is Billy around? Will I get in trouble? Will he come after me? What will Billy think? I was so sick 'a hearing his name, even in my thoughts. I wanted so bad to just grab her hand and run 'till I came to a place where no one had ever heard of Billy Boy. But I knew, deep down in my heart, there was no such place. So I just put on a grin.

"Small world indeed. How you been, Donna?" Our smiles were so fake you coulda put a price tag on 'em and sold 'em as Halloween masks.

"Fine, fine. Been real busy." She looked nervous, fingering her shopping bags like trip-wires, waiting for the moment to bolt. The light from the awning she was standing under gave her dark hair a halo, but made shadows of her eyes. Devil-Angel, I guess you could say.

"And...how's Billy?" And we got to the point. I knew Billy'd been keepin' a real close eye on me ever since I left, but I never seen him. I always wondered what the hell he meant by sending her out here.

Her head shot up like it was on a goddamn spring, those big blue eyes all wide and scared. "B-Billy's fine, Jimmy. Why ya asking me?"

I shrugged, pulling my collar up. The rain was getting real bad, and I was too nervous to join her under the awning. "Figgered I'd be polite for once."

"You ain't plannin' nothin', are ya Jimmy?" Those eyes were still scared, but it was a different kind of scared. The scared where you really don't know what's going down, but you know it's gonna be bad either way.

I shook my head. Nah. That wasn't me. Forgive and forget and get the hell outta dodge. That was my motto. If only I'd taken her with me.

you smell like sex and there's the barest whiff of fear coming off of you. but your hands stay on my hips as we sway in time with the music. the drumline follows our ragged heartbeat, the guitars giving you a rhythm to breathe with. the fear's getting stronger now and i can feel myself grinding harder, never taking my eyes off of yours. those eyes, those sapphire depths. i fell in love with those eyes when i saw you across the room. i had to have you, right then and there. nothing else mattered except those eyes and getting you as close to me as possible. the fear's completely taken over at this point, but i won't let you go. you're trying not to show it, how cute. but i can feel your heart racing as i drag a singe finger up your spine. your chills make me smile. your eyes widen at my lupine grin and i feel a rush.

after all, fear is my dessert.

My Love,

It's been so long since I've seen your face, I've almost forgotten what your smile looks like. How your laugh sounded. What you smelled like in the morning. But worry not, I'll be home soon. As I sit here, out under the stars, I can't help but remember that night. Out on my father's barn, sitting on the roof. We saw a shooting star and wished we'd be together forever. My heart aches for that night, Dear One. To once again hold you in my arms, under the stars, under the Goddess' watchful eye. We were so innocent, so full of life. War was something we'd never heard of. Pain and violence were far away nightmares, weren't they? Oh, how you looked under the moon, and how I loved you.

How I still love you. Are the little ones doing well? They've probably grown so much I'll hardly recognize them. My two strong boys. I hope they're helping you. I'm counting down the days until I can hold you in my arms again. I promise, the days will fly on the western winds and I will come home to you soon. I promise, dear one.

Your Beloved.

Miss, I found this letter in the pocket of the jacket I picked up in the scrap heap after a battle. It was addressed to you. I asked around, and the field doctor told me about a soldier he'd found, injured badly and half delirious, rambling about starlight and lost wishes. He told me your name was the last thing the soldier said. I figured it was only the right thing to at least send you the last letter. My deepest apologies and condolences.

Corporal Reigert Wespend

My name is McKenzie Staplewald. I was born June 14, at Windworth Hospital at 3:44 AM EST. My mother, Laura Staplewald was eighteen at the time of my birth, and my father was 24. I was (and stayed) an only child.

I led a relatively simply infancy. My father was completing his residency in the neuroscience wing of the aforementioned hospital, and my mother was leading the life of a child prodigy writer. We lived in a cozy little house at the edge of town, with two dogs named Sassy and Witcher, and didn't have a TV.

Things however began to change when my third birthday loomed and I still had not yet begun speaking. I stayed completely silent most of the time, and wouldn't even both crying over many things. I was a happy, but quiet child. Much to my parents' dismay, the rumor throughout the town was that I was a bit...soft in the head.

Convinced the townsfolk were wrong, my parents journeyed into the big city to have me tested. The doctors initially told my parents that i was healthy, both mentally and physically, that some children just waited a while before they began speaking and more often than not, it turned out all right in the end. Still, they insisted that i be tested somehow, to give proof that i was all right.

The doctors ran a series of tests and told my parents they'd call with the results.

Two months went by, and I still had not spoken. At this point, my parents had lost all hope and were resigned to having a rather slow child.

Then, on the eve of my third birthday, the doctors called with the news of my tests.

I had an IQ of 190. The highest IQ recorded to my knowledge was somewhere in the mid-200s.

Needless to say, my parents were pleased.

i'll skip the boring stuff, and give you the results.

I have been a concert pianist since age six, a concert violinist since age eight. i've been able to read since i was three, write since i was two, and correctly solve any math problem since fourth grade. I read melville when I was eight, Freud when i was ten, and got deeply into goethe and rand when i was in eighth grade.

Despite this, i endured a normal education, albeit at a school for the gifted, but a normal education nonetheless. I entered my senior year at age sixteen and was on the fast track to graduating as valedictorian, when i decided to try and kill myself.

my parents divorced when i was five and my mother moved to kentucky. my father remarried two years later to a violinist named anna.

i wouldn't want you to think i'm bragging or anything. I'm simply trying to provide the exposition to which my situation led.

so, now you know why i'm sitting at this desk, writing with a blunt pencil in this damn composition book instead of getting ready to enter harvard or something.

At 8:22 PM EST, on Saturday, April 21, I, McKenzie Staplewald ingested approximately 19 3/4 sleeping pills, washed down with a cold glass of 2% milk. At 8:46 PM, my stepmother, Anna entered my bedroom and found me on my floor, unconscious and not breathing. Failing to revive me, she called 911 and then my father.

i was transported to Ringwald Community Medical center, where my stomach was pumped until 9:15 PM, at which point the meds had been removed and I was allowed to retire to a reserved room. I had strange dreams regarding my Calculus teacher who was admonishing me for forgetting to turn in my homework, despite the fact that my pet dinosaur had eaten it.

At 10:24 AM EST, I awoke to discover that i had not succeeded in killing myself, but was in fact very much alive and in quite a bit of trouble with my father. He informed me that I was to be committed to the Windhaven Psychiatric Center until they deemed that I was mentally stable enough to return to my household and continue my daily life.

Two days later, on April 24, at 3:45 PM EST, I was presented with a packed bag and my stuffed bear and was carted off to Windhaven Psychiatric Center, at which I now reside.

I live in room 424, it is a private room, though sometimes I do wish I had some company.

Not often though.

i often think about what i am missing. A nice home, a nice family, nice friends, nice boyfriend, nice school, nice grades, nice car.


You may be wondering what would tempt me to commit suicide. the answer is simple. have you ever had the chance to have as much of something that you always wanted? say, ice cream for example. say you were given the chance to eat nothing but ice cream whenever you wanted. nothing. but. ice cream. now, at first this would be marvelous, it would be lovely, it would be superb. now wait two weeks. it's not so wonderful now is it? you hate ice cream, you can't stand to look at it. the very thought of it makes you sick. you would do anything rather than eat ice cream again, wouldn't you?

there you have it. after sixteen years of eating ice cream, i couldn't stand it anymore. i had to get out. i had to stop it. and the only way i could think to do that was to permanently end it.


It is now August 17, 4:25 AM, and I can't sleep. I was presented with this book on June 14, for my seventeenth birthday by Anna, the only one who decided to show up.

I failed my senior exams, and so, once I return home, I am academically obligated to repeat my senior year.

My friends have abandoned me, as has my family.

The only thing left to me in this world in my stuffed bear and my intellect.



And so....long live the Smartest Kid in Maine.

Sprained Ankle: a common injury where one or more of the ligaments of the ankle is torn or partially torn. The most common cause of an ankle sprain is applying weight to the foot when it is in an inverted or everted position. This causes the ligaments within the ankle to be stretched and will sometimes tear.  Symptoms may include pain or tenderness, swelling, bruising, stiffness, and inability to walk on the injured joint. Treatment usually includes the RICE method: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation.

Michaela's propensity towards reading her father's old medical textbooks had caused her quite a dilemma. She knew precisely how to treat a sprain ankle in record time, but seeing as she was in the middle of the woods, writhing in pain and grasping her injured appendage, she had come to dreary conclusion that she would have no real way of using aforementioned medical know-how. With her entire left leg throbbing like a toothache, being miles from home with no method of communication, (she could clearly see her cell phone sitting atop the counter as she went out the door.) Michaela Whitearrow was royally screwed. That was it, no more great outdoors for her, it was going to be inside, all the time. For a moment, she briefly considered the possibility of becoming an agoraphobic, but decided the stigma would be too much to handle. Maybe just an eccentric recluse like Bob Dylan, or Emily Dickinson, or Greta Garbo. A bird called somewhere in the distance, startling her, which in turn caused her to jolt her leg, which caused what felt like a red hot poker to be shoved up her leg.

"Dammit." She growled forcefully, trying to make herself feel better. It wasn't working. So much for enjoying the wonders of nature. Whoever decided that the best way to heal was to spend time in the country deserved to be shot and burned. She was wet, she was tired, she was in pain, and she was pretty sure there was some sort of animal excrement under her right knee. To make matters worse, she could see the beginning of the sunset behind the trees. It was still bright, but she knew it would be dark soon enough. Being mid-November, Michaela was wearing a semi-heavy jacket, but she possessed enough common sense to realize that even November got cold at night. She had to come up with some sort of plan.

Option One: Scream like a banshee and hope someone hears her and helps carry her to safety.
    -Downsides: Possible hoarseness and chance that no one will hear her.
    -Likeliness of succeeding: 36%

Option Two: Lie in wait for someone to come along and find her. The fact that she was missing was sure to be noticed by someone, though her grandmother was already mostly senile and her grandfather was deaf as a stone and the nearest neighbor appeared to be the town ten miles away.     
    -Downsides: Never being found and being eaten by wolves, bears, or rabid chipmunks.
    -Likeliness of succeeding: 14.5%

Option Three: Get up and hobble (in excruciating pain) to the nearest residence and ask for help.
    -Downsides: Chance that the nearest residence were some sort of inbred neighbors to those freaks from deliverance and liked to chop up teenage virgins with chainsaws. Or that the nearest residence would in fact be her grandparents' house, which she estimated was about three or four miles from her current location.
    -Likeliness of succeeding: 43.9%

Quickly going over the numbers in her head, Michaela frowned. Even against her own wishes she was logical to the bitter end. This was not going to be pleasant in any sense of the word. Wriggling a bit to get a feel for how painful this experience was going to be, Michaela had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from howling in agony. It felt as if someone was banging at her ankle with a ball peen hammer. She had to go on however, waiting in the quickly darkening forest wouldn't lead to any sort of happy ending. Teeth clenched, lips clamped shut, and eyes scrunched closed, Michaela pressed onto the ground, lifting herself inch by agonizing inch. Her leg felt like it was on fire and her teeth were perilously close to breaking the skin of her lips when she heard someone clearing their throat from somewhere above her.

Visions of crazy psycho chainsaw-wielding killers flashed through her head, tempting her to scream in fear and beg for mercy, but common sense quickly overrode. Still, just in case she would open her eyes, only to meet her death, Michaela only opened one eye, reasoning that if she did see her death, she would only see part of it, given the disparity between the two eyes. Instead of the inbred cousin of Leatherface, Michaela met the gaze of a tall, thin, dark-haired woman dressed in a long black coat. She was looking down at Michaela with an expression of bemused boredom. Suddenly conscious of her exposed, recumbent position, Michaela longed for the ability to curl up into a ball or some sort of nonchalant pose, instead of the awkward half-leaning posture. Unfortunately, her current state of injury disallowed any sort of sudden movement requiring extended movement of her legs. In the absence of physical response, Michaela opted for verbal. But, the surprise of actually meeting someone who might be able to help had stilled her tongue.

She smiled sheepishly, "Um, hi." The woman remained silent for a moment and the realization hit her that this woman still might be some sort of crazed serial killer, but the fact that only 8% of all American serial killers are women did a bit to comfort her. Michaela opened her mouth, intending to ask for help within the confines of one sentence, but once her jaws expanded, a seeming waterfall of words tumbled out. "I seem to have fallen and I think I twisted my ankle. I'm pretty sure I didn't break it, but I think I sprained it. I was taking a walk and I was jumping down from that boulder and I landed wrong. I was only out to clear my head for a little while. My sister died like a month ago and my parents dropped me off today to 'recuperate' while they take care of everything. I'm not quite sure how this is going to help me, considering I'm staying with my grandparents, (the Smiths?) and they're both deaf and senile. They're kinda far from here and I left my cell behind and I wasn't sure that I could make it to their house, so if you could help me out, I'd really appreciate it. I'm not a psycho or anything, I swear."

Michaela's eyes widened in shock at the flow of information that had just popped out. Her face flushed with embarrassment and she laid her head down on the ground and closed her eyes. That was it. She was done for. How that had come out, she had no idea, but now that it was out, the silence in the air pressed down on her like a blanket. Within the darkness of her eyelids, Michaela heard a soft chuckle, and cautiously peeked upwards. The woman was smiling thoughtfully, though in the dim light it was hard to read the vague nuances of her countenance.

"My house is only a little ways away, if you think you can make it that far. You can ice your ankle, and I can drive you to your grandparents house afterwards." As if to seal the deal, she knelt, extending her hand.

She could refuse. She could lie there, shake her head and say she was fine, she'd be able to make it before nightfall. She could also get eaten by wild animals. Michaela decided to forgo these painful options and took the woman's hand. With some effort, she was able to get on her feet. Giving a pained smile, she hopped awkwardly, accepting the woman's offered arm. In this position, they were able to amble at a semi-steady pace through the darkening forest. The woman remained silent as they made their way along some unseen path. Michaela, embarrassed enough at her sudden outburst, vowed to keep her responses down to yes or no answers.

"Thanks for helping me out back there, I really appreciate it. I dunno what I would've done if you hadn't come along. Probably been eaten alive by a rabid chipmunk or something. My name's Michaela by the way." Where on earth were these words coming from? With her luck, she'd blab again and spill her soul about how she wet the bed in fourth grade at Jenny Waterkin's tenth birthday party. It had to be the pain. There was no other explanation. Michaela Whitearrow always knew when to keep her mouth shut, it was her redeeming feature.

"I'm Lara." The woman, Lara, seemed unconcerned with Michaela's vomiting streams of dialogue. "I don't think I've ever come across a rabid chipmunk out here. Just some nasty blue jays."

Both the forest and the travelers remained silent for the rest of their journey. Michaela was concentrating on not further aggravating her injury and keeping her mouth shut to say anything of importance. She did get a chance to admire the scenery, despite her discomfort. It was beautiful, the way the sun shone through the trees, the vibrant colors of the last remaining leaves. How the pine needles and leaves crunched underneath their shoes. Perhaps the great outdoors weren't so bad after all. If she did decide to become a hermit, this place wouldn't be half bad.

"Well, this is it. It's not much, but it's home."

Michaela looked away from the family of squirrels she'd been watching to gaze up at a beautiful log cabin. It was two stories, with a little chimney and a wraparound porch. A wooden rocking chair sat at the corner, a flannel blanket thrown over its back. Within the glass panes of the door, Michaela could see a quaint little living room extending to a staircase and a kitchen. She gave a genuine smile at the sheer delight of it. "It's beautiful."

Lara chuckled and continued on, half-pushing, half-carrying Michaela up the stairs. Both were wheezing and out of breath by the time they got to the top, and Michaela was quite thankful when Lara gave the door a simple push and it opened. Hobbling inside, Lara led Michaela to a worn couch and set her down gently. With a nod of thanks, she leaned back, basking in the bliss of warmth and upholstery. The cabin was even lovelier on the inside, with natural wood paneling and floors, covered in old throw rugs and vintage couches and chairs. A chandelier hung from above, giving a cheery glow as a fire burned in the fireplace. It was country, it was warm, it was positively divine, especially after being in the slightly freezing cold for what'd felt like forever. A cold wash of guilt suddenly hit Michaela as she recalled all the nasty things she'd said about people who lived near her grandparents. The insinuations of inbreeding and incomprehensible accents, sawed off shotgun and that murky brown substance known as "dip." She gritted her teeth, partially at her own snobbishness and partly because the guilt had caused her to move unintentionally, creating a spasm of pain in her ankle.

Interrupting her personal put-down, Lara returned with an ice pack and two steaming mugs. She had removed her long coat and was dressed in a simple blue fisherman's sweater and faded jeans. To Michaela's surprise, she was much younger than she'd seemed, looking to be in her mid to late twenties. She was quite pretty, with a mop of dark brown curls and intense green eyes. Much to Michaela's dismay, she felt that unfamiliar knotting in her stomach as Lara smiled and gently began to unlace the sneaker that had begun to feel like a vice grip around her now swelling ankle. Biting down on her lip, she prayed that she looked like she was in pain, and not suppressing the urge to smile like an idiot at Lara's sweet grin. She'd only known the woman for an hour, she could be an axe murderer or something. And besides, since when did she get all ogle-eyed over the same sex?

you're not her type.


you'll never be her type.


she wants strong.


she wants powerful.


she wants quiet.


you want to know her?


she doesn't like breakfast foods.


she loves talking on the phone.


she doesn't like chocolate unless it's ice cream.


she feels like no one knows her.


she wants to have kids more than anything else in the world.


she wants a big wedding.


she wants a princess-style dress at her wedding.


she wants four kids, and wants to have a little girl named Lily.


she loves it when people play with her hair.


she doesn't think she's beautiful, but she is.


she doesn't think she's smart but she is.

i can still see her face as her eye swept over the crowd. i remember wanting so badly to just scream out her name. for her to recognize me, to acknowledge my presence. to smile. to wave. anything. she looked so beautiful to me then. she always looks beautiful to me, but those always seem to make my heart want to scream in agony and ecstasy at the same time. it's like crying out in poest coital bliss as i lay dying of a moratl wound. her eyes seemed to latch onto me like dagger, shooting into my heart and staying there. 

not feeling too pleasant.

in dire need of a nap.


but, i've got a game today, then i have to finish reading for SCAEL.


then i have to do my persuasive essay.


no rest for the procrastinators....


:(

She was ever so pretty, this girl who I was going to marry. With lively blue eyes and a shock of blonde hair, she was the sun to my dark-haired night. She gave me a devilish grin and darted forward to take my hand. I ducked behind my mother's skirt, suddenly afraid. Feeling out of place with my pressed jacket and trousers, I crouched there, wishing I was brave, like my father. The adults laughed as my mother gently guided me to the front, hands firmly on my shoulders.

"So shy, like her father." Midren, my mother's advisor mused quietly. Everyone nodded thoughtfully.

***

"Ara, darling, this is Vintir." I felt my mother's hand press against my back, nudging me forward.

It was strange, knowing this person was actually centuries older than I, and yet, barely looked older than myself. With a sweet smile, she gazed down at me, before kneeling to meet my level.

She was smaller than I would've expected, given her reputation as being quite the intimidator, but as soon as our eyes met, I understood why people quaked in fear in her presence. Blues eyes, speckled with gold and green, seeming to be cracked with grey, looked up at me with such honesty and wisdom that I nearly sat down right there in the middle of the dance floor. It felt as if she had looked into the very essence of my being; my entire body felt a jolt, and adrenaline coursed through my veins.

"Are you all right, your highness? You look positively ill." Her voice was soft, melodical with the Cyclops accent barely slipping through. It was as a song might be. Brow wrinkled, her delicate features darkened as she watched me, though I had a strange feeling she knew what was going on.

I gave a weak smile and nodded politely, "Oh fine, just had a moment of dizziness." Oh gods above, a smile. What the devil had come over me, to be acting as a lovesick child might. I was heir to the throne, descendant of Arayiani herself, and here I was, weak at the knees over a smile.

"I do seem to have that effect on people." Her grip on my hand and shoulder tightened ever so slightly in a reassuring gesture. "Perhaps a breath of air might do you some good?"

****

sleepy.


but not.


haven't written on here in....ten days...


wow, that's a long time for me.


pondering my love life (or lack of one)


i enjoy talking to amy. I love talking to amy.


but alas, words do nothing to scare off the monsters at night and to hold me close when i'm cold and scared.


*bitter smile*


but, i shall venture on, with a smile on my face, and a spring in my step.


as always....


as always....