NaNoWriMo 2016 Preview

This is the story that I began after I decided to quit the prompts. It's still in rough draft mode, but as are nearly all of my stories. Please leave a comment or a critique if you'd like, or just enjoy what I managed to squeeze from the paints of creativity. Thank you!

She was both sun and moon, ice and flame, night and day, sadness and joy all wrapped into a single body. Dark hair swept down one side of her face with reckless abandon. Flyaway hairs and split ends, but still beautiful and silky hair that fell thickly across her chocolate skin. The color of embers coated her almond-shaped eyes paired with thick and fierce eyeliner that flicked upwards with careless flair. Her cheeks were lightly spattered with dark freckles and dusted with the lightest shade of blush. Her lips stained with blood red lipstick, one corner upturned just slightly, forming a small dimple in her cheek. She stepped out onto the stage dressed in something that was a mixture of rebel punk and a fairy princess. Her black ankle boots were a size too big and her toes curled nervously inside. Her black leggings were patterned with constellations. A sheer white blouse flowed around her thin frame and fluttered from the rush of air that was blowing from the fan behind her, the hem reaching just below her knees. The final touch was the black leather jacket that clung to her like armor. She walked across the stage and felt the sudden heat of fear form in the pit of her stomach.

She settled on the stool that sat at the edge of the stage. She felt the guitar settle into the crook of her arm with familiarity. She felt comfortable with the guitar in her hand. The noise of conversation and social gatherings quieted to a soft buzz. She looked up, the spotlight on her obscured nearly everything past the stage, but she could still see the shapes and lines of faces, people with their eyes on her. She ingrained their image in her brain, memorizing the contours and shapes of the room, the number of faces. She took it all in, absorbed the fear and apprehension and soaked it inside of her. She closed her eyes, seeing the vision in her head. She took a deep breath, and once she drew in the air, she imagined that each element each person and table disappeared until there was no one there except for herself and the guitar. There was nothing left but music.

                

Her fingers fell into place on the frets, she lifted her foot and hooked it over the bar on the stool and let out the breath she had held in and then she sang.

                

Her voice was deep, completely opposite of the voices from her Indian roots. It was resonant, clear and organic. Her voice was laced with emotion, open for every listener to hear and understand as she sang of fears, tragedies, and the undiscovered. There was an edge to her voice that made each word sound like a poem on its own. Her voice was completely and utterly in her control, no wavering, no stuttering or skips, it was smooth and then suddenly jagged and laced with rage and emotion and then it soft, tender and intimate. She manipulated each note, each word and phrase to reflect the very emotion in her heart. She felt her heart beating hard and loud inside of her, reminding her of the human weakness called mortality.

                

The music ended, and as she looked up the vision of her and the music alone in the room began to blur and fade as the shapes of observers and customers came into focus behind the blinding spotlight. She smiled at the considerably loud responding applause. She pulled her hair back from her face and stood to bow, her guitar sliding to rest at her side. She gripped the neck tightly as she clunked back across the stage and to the small back room that was poorly called backstage.

                

“Wonderful as always, Miss Scott.” The manager of the café, Jorge, said with a polite smile and a welcoming handshake. “You always know how to set the mood for open-mic night.”

                

“Thank you Jorge.” She said.

                

“Thank you.” He said with a  final vigorous handshake. “Please help yourself to any drink, though I imagine I will find you drinking the same spice tea you always drink.”

                

She let out a polite laugh. “Always.” She waved at Jorge as he walked over to a nervous looking teenager who had a guitar in their hand. She could see the deer-in-the-headlights look that every first-time performer had. She smirked and then walked over to where she had hidden her guitar case away. It was safely tucked under a bench that was at the base of the stairs that led to the basement of the café. She flicked the buckles up and lifted the lid of her case. She rested her guitar inside with extreme care. She would be nowhere without her guitar and treated it with equal respect.

                

She zipped it and then buckled it closed. She grabbed the ragged backpack that was tucked behind it and flung it behind her back before hoisting the guitar case from the ground and carrying it gingerly out of the backstage room and to the main floor of the café. She was finally able to see the kind of crowd that showed up for open mic night that evening. She nodded politely at anyone who glanced her way and whispered words of thanks to those who complimented her song. She weaved through the labyrinth of chairs and tables and wound her way to the back of the room, in the farthest and darkest corner of the café. It had the perfect view of the stage, but it was also the most private. If it was anyone else sitting in that booth, they would most likely be forgotten by the staff. She had been there enough times that the employees recognized and knew her and took extra care in making sure she was well taken care of.

                

She couldn’t stop from grinning when an already steaming mug of her Coco Chai Rooibos tea was waiting for her at the table. She collapsed and settled into the booth and breathed in the rich aroma of the tea. It was an exotic mixture of ginger, black pepper, cinnamon and the slight hint of coconut. She sighed and then lifted to take a sip.

                

“I hope it’s to your liking.” One of the employees said as they passed by. “I made that one for you, just barely set it out so it’d be ready when you got off stage.”

                

“Thank you.” She said with a gracious nod. “You did well with the concocting of my tea.”

                

He grinned. “Thank you.” He was about to walk away when he turned back. “Your name is Naomi, right?”

                

She nodded. “That’ s right, Naomi Scott.”

                

He seemed to be eager to say more, ask other questions but he nodded cordially before saying, “Well, it’s a pleasure serving you. Enjoy your tea.”

                

She winked. “I plan to.”

                

She took one more careful sip before setting it just off to the side. The frightened musician had just walked onto the stage. His eyes were wide as saucers and their he stumbled as he walked across the small distance between the stool and the curtains.

                

“H-hello.” He said, clinging to the guitar with all of their might.

                

No one responded.

                

Naomi returned her attention to her private space she had created. She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a tattered and abundantly full leather journal. More than half of its pages were wrinkled and stained with tea stains, water colors, and the thousands of thoughts, ideas, and stories Naomi had started this journal the summer before she had moved to Clearwater City. She flicked through the pages, they crinkled joyfully and flashes of color flew by. There were photographs, paintings, sketches and pages made entirely of scribbled out lyrics and poems. Some pages were made of entirely just one word over and over again while others were journal entries, thoughts from the day she had experienced. Some were lists of ideas, things she wanted, things she did, and things she saw. She found each page to be precious and a valuable treasure that she clung to.

                

She reached into her backpack again. The young musician had begun to sing. Their voice was a solid tenor with a rich sound, if only they weren’t so nervous and wavering. She looked up to see him. He was slouched over his guitar and she could see his eyes were watching his fingers on the frets, making sure he didn’t place his fingers in the wrong place. He was a careful musician, taking the time to make each note and chord on the guitar right; but his focus on the guitar was losing his focus on his voice and the song was tragically slow, like a funeral dirge. She turned away and pulled out a black pen from the depths of her backpack and then she began to write.

                

She recognized the song the teenager was playing and she hummed softly along to the music. She scratched into the white blank page the contents of her brain, occasionally adding a doodle here and there to keep her mind from straying too far.

                

It has only been a month since I moved from Westville and only two weeks since Sammy moved in. It’s a bit surreal how quickly life can change. Last month, I was a country girl born and raised to be a mixture of two different cultures and I didn’t know where to go. Now I am alone, without my family but with my two very best friends. It's strange to see how different I am now, then I was back in Clearwater. I'm not sure who I want to be yet, but I believe my heart resides in the music that has always guided me. The same music that has guided hundreds from their darkest days; I only hope that I can replicate such emotions in my listeners.

                

She doodled around the lonely paragraph with stars and shooting comets. She added the date and a large loopy signature at the bottom of the page. She signed and dated every  single page. She secretly joked that she did it to practice for the day she’d be signing autographs.

                

The young teenager had left the stage with a crooked and rather deflated smile. She clapped loudly, hoping he heard her from the back. He exited the backstage door a few minutes later with a defeated expression.       

                

“Hey,” She said in a half-shouting voice. He looked up and recognized her, his eyes widened with fear.

                

“I know, it was bad. You don’t have to tell me.”

                

“No, actually, I was going to tell you that you sounded good.” She said. “You just need to be more confident in your voice and I think you’d be more spectacular than you already are.” She smiled softly. “And the best way to build confidence is to not stop and just keep singing. You got that?”

                

“So you think it was good?” He asked.

                

She nodded. “Just keep working hard, okay?”

                

He nodded vigorously in returned. “Thank you ma’am!” And he bowed just slightly before bursting out of the door and leaving the café. Beyond the glass, the young teenage boy scampered over to a car that was parked in idle. A middle aged woman was waiting with the windows down and taking a slow drag from a nearly stub-sized cigarette. Naomi could see the boys excitement as he climbed into the car, eager to tell the woman about the good news Naomi had shared with him just moments ago. She felt her spirits lift at the thought that she had had helped someone.

                

She looked down at her journal and then quickly squeezed between the doodles of the page.

               

I enjoy seeing people smile. As long as I can make people smile, that’s what really matters.

                

She decided to sign and date that sentence too, just for the heck of it.

NaNoWriMo 2015: The Garnet in the Tower

I can't believe it's already been a year since the last NaNoWriMo. I'm a bit nervous and anxious. I have not prepared much at all for this upcoming event. Yikes! With NaNoWriMo comes a lot of focus and determination. For me personally, I need to prepared for the grueling 30 days. Thankfully, I already have a story that shows some promise that I started writing during the summer. I honestly don't know where this story is going to take itself, and it kind of scares me. I like to have structure when it comes to my story and this particular story has no structure at all. Maybe this year will be a good year for me to practice trusting my fingers more than my notes. Here is the opening scene for my upcoming NaNoWriMo Novel with its tentative title: The Garnet in the Tower.

I dreamt of the mansion again.

                

I’m never in the dream, just looking down upon the scene, like a spiritual presence. The sky is thick with dark and moody clouds, even in a dream I can feel the thickness in the air. It’s warm for such a dark night. Nestled near rolling hills and a forest surrounding the other three sides is an extravagant grey mansion, Victorian. A wrought-iron fence surrounds the expansive property; the grounds are rich with all kinds of flora, sculpted shrubbery, and a small stream that runs from the forest behind the mansion. There is ivy crawling against one side of the grey clap boarded mansion, and a rose garden in the back. The mansion stands three stories tall, with dormer windows, turrets and intricate eaves. A paved trail leads down around the mansion, and into the garden.

                

It was like a song movement, the wind whistled in the trees surrounding the property, it weaved through the ivy, through the iron fence and hummed past a statue of a weeping woman. The trees bowed and rose, moaning and creaking in rhythm with the whistling wind. The crash of lightning and the rumbling of deep and tumultuous thunder rocked the sky. The song rose and fell like waves in an ocean, it ebbed it crescendo until suddenly it silenced. The clouds thinned and like a knife, moonlight pierced through the murky veil and lightened the hills behind the mansion. The small pond that wound around the pagoda glistened in the moonlight, almost rippling in delight of being noticed.

                

As the night continued, the moonlight crept across the ground, slowly making its way towards the tallest turret on the mansion. The turret overlooked all the land about it. Inside, placed in the center on a ornately carved pedestal and encased in glass, was a round gem, large in size, it was red, a deep rich red, like freshly spilt blood. There it sat, like a king’s jewel, making a show of itself. The moon’s stare rose and higher and higher until its silvery glare met with the small garnet. From the heart of the stone, it sparked a small yet brilliant spark of red that lasted for only a moment. But as the moonlight lingered longer on the stone, the spark turned into a glow. It grew from its center and then expanded to reflect off of the stone’s smooth and curved surface and released a warm red glow around the room in the turret.

                

The stone’s light began to pulse, at first erratic and fast, until it slowed and began to match that of a human heartbeat. I could hear the sound of the stone’s heartbeat, but it wasn’t necessarily something that could be heard, but felt. I could feel the stone’s beating rhythm, it was strong, and deep, like it was buried deep into the ground like an ancient tree’s roots were furrowed deep into the earth. It was impressive and powerful, but not overbearing, it was actually soothing to listen to.

                

Suddenly, a second heartbeat matched that of the garnet’s beat. It was faint at first, and when I had heard it, I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it or not. It slowly crescendoes from a soft whisper to the powerful pulse of the stone’s. It came from underneath the earth. I feared that suddenly the tenderly cared for lawn would suddenly burst apart in shreds and lava would erupt from the core of the earth, but no such thing happened.

                

The beats synchronized and suddenly became louder and louder. What was once soothing now became a throbbing pound in my head. I cringed and wished that I was corporeal so that I could cover my ears. The beating grew louder, but its speed stayed the same. It was unbearable to listen to anymore.

                

And just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

                

I heard a deep intake of breath come from somewhere by the rose gardens. My eyes shot over to the garden. I studied the weeping statue, the winding river, the small path, and then laying in the grass was something that was not there before.

                

Taking his first breath of life, was a man dressed straight out of a Period Romance Novel. His suit was black and tailored to his muscular, yet slim build. The white shirt underneath needed no moonlight to make it reflect light, and the top buttons of his collar were unbuttoned, revealing his pale yet smooth skin, easily could be mistaken as porcelain. His shoes were polished, yet not flashy, with small tassels at the top of the foot. But his appearance, his face…that was even more impressive. Eyes like golden fire, lips shaped in a comfortable smirk, and his eyebrows poised to impress. His hair was golden white, and braided down to between his shoulders. In his hand was a rose, a white rose. He twirled it in his hand nonchalantly. He blinked, breathed again, and then sighed outwardly. He tossed the rose away, it landed delicately on the ground.

                

Suddenly the dream turned into slow motion, he turned and his smirk slipped easily into a sly grin as he blinked and I suddenly felt like he was looking straight at me. He opened his mouth and in an unmistakably sultry voice he whispered, “I found you, my love. Am I as beautiful as you remember?”

OoooOOooo! What do you think this is gonna be about? Because I honestly have no inkling yet!

Once again, I want to thank all of you for your kindness and support and for taking time out of your busy day to read my silly fluff. For those of you who may be wondering, no I have not finished last year's novel Adrenaline, but it's on my list of things to finish before this year ends. I kind of wrote myself into a corner, if you get what I mean (Probably not). Although, if I start Garnet in the Tower, I may never finish Adrenaline. So I'd better work on it now. Wish me luck!

Yours Truly, 

Kenra Cook

The Broken-Hearted Wizard

Let me tell you about Fanfiction. But first we must explain the term: fandom.

Fandom: the fans of a particular person, team, fictional series, etc., regarded collectively as a community or subculture. (thanks Google)

Or pretty much the heart and soul of tumblr. I wouldn't encourage entering that domain. 

One of the major things fans in fandoms do is they write fanfiction, stories based off of their favorite book/movie/anime/tv show and they take the characters and world into their own hands and make it all of their own. There is a whole entire website dedicated to the dangerous world of fanfiction. Can you guess what it is called? You go it, fanfiction.net

And I'm writing one myself. Yep, I'm one of those people. 

What fandom am I writing for? Oh you're just going to love it: Winx Club. The cartoon about fairies and magic and high school and the power of friendship. Yay!

And so, I've included a whole entire chapter of my fanfiction: The Broken Hearted Wizard. It's in the middle of my story, but it's one of my favorite chapters. It's a flashback that explains sort of the villain's backstory and how he came to be as evil as he is. The villain is Valtor, obviously, and he is one of my all time favorite characters in the Winx Club series. Enjoy! 

Valtor stepped quietly into the cave, it had been a long time since he had been here. He had been with his mothers for the past century capturing magical artifacts, but he was ready to rest for a while. He waved his hand and magically in the back corner of the cave a bed appeared. He collapsed onto it and breathed in deeply, it felt nice to take a vacation.

                

He closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh Domino air that blew in from the mouth of the cave. His mothers didn’t enjoy the fresh air like he did, it was always a special treat when they let him go to spend time alone. He always chose to stay at Domino, it was where he had been created, where he was born, and in an odd way, it was the closest thing he had to home.

                

His thoughts were suddenly disrupted by giggles. His eyes jolted open, someone  was disturbing him. He frowned when he sat up and saw a small toddler aimlessly wandering into the cave. Her fiery red curls bounced up and down as she hummed a tune only known to herself. She looked to be about three or four years old, and she was dressed in a bright pink flouncy dress.

                

“It’s a royal.” He thought to himself. He watched the girl wander from one distraction into another. She lifted her eyes and her eyes latched onto his. He shrunk away, he didn’t want her to see him.

Her bright gold eyes widened when she saw him and her small, chubby fingers reached out to him, her giggles louder. She started to speak, but Valtor had never associated with young children before. They were fragile and annoying to him.

                

“Leave.” He commanded. He pointed to the mouth of the cave. But the little girl rushed closer and closer to him. “No, don’t come any closer.” He shouted, but the little girl didn’t seem to be frightened of him at all, and before he could object, her small arms were wrapped around his leg. He was tempted to kick her away, but he looked down at her and saw her sweet smile, looking up at him and his whole body seemed to have melted. He felt so weak and useless as he stiffly watched the girl play with his boots and the hem of his coat.

                

“Marion, where are you sweetie?” A shout came from outside the cave. The little girl didn’t seem to listen.

                

Marion. So that was the little girl’s name. He looked out the cave and saw two figures in the distant looking for their lost daughter. He glanced down again at the small child. For a moment, he felt jealous of the girl. She had two parents that cared for her and loved her. He had never experienced that ever. His mothers created him simply for the purpose to claim magic, there was no love involved in their relationship. He wondered what it might be like to have a mother and a father who cared about you. But he quickly shook the thought away. If he was like this girl, he would never be the powerful wizard he was now. He heard another shout from Marion’s mother and he gently pushed the girl away.

                

“Someone is looking for you.” He tried to speak more gently, but it came out more like a growl. The little girl didn’t budge but instead climbed up his leg and rested in his lap, she sunk her fingers into his long hair. He sighed, exasperated as he continuously tried and tried to get her to leave. But the little girl kept climbing around him, pulling at his hair and coat and giggling the whole time.

                

He muttered under his breath before finally flicking his wrist and magically forcing the girl to let go. She gently hovered away from him as he guided her to the mouth of the cave and away from him. He stayed in the shadows and watched as the girl finally turned away from him and in leaps and bounds, ran to her parent’s arms.

                

He watched as the child’s parents ran to her and held her in their embrace before they each grabbed one of her hands and swung her between each other. He could hear her giggles still, and his lips twitched into a smile.

****

                

Six Years Later

                

Lost in thought, Valtor thought about the little girl that had touched his heart so many years ago and wondered where she could be. He hadn’t visited Domino since that last time, but it felt about the right time to return and store the artifacts and spells that he had collected the past six years. He felt a twinge of excitement to be taking a break from all the work he had been doing. It was nice though; his mothers hadn’t spoken to him in those past six years which meant he could return to Domino without punishment. He hated that even centuries later, he felt more like a slave than a son to his mothers. But that was how their relationship functioned.

                

He breathed in deeply as soon as he stepped into his familiar cave. It would be easy to find an empty castle or mansion to claim as his own, but he had found this cave when he was much younger and was needing time away from his mothers. Even to this day, his mothers did not know the location of his cave and he liked it like that.

                

The first thing he did as soon as he was well rested and had taken his fill of food, was wander the fields just beyond his cave and below the Castle Village. Not very many people visited the fields, apparently their lives were too busy for such trivial things. But Valtor found the empty fields relaxing and would spend most of his spare time meditating. He had been taught by an old man long ago how to allow meditation to bring focus to your thoughts. The man had long since passed away, since Valtor was in fact immortal.

                

Sitting on a smooth boulder near a gurgling stream, Valtor’s busy thoughts drifted to nothing as he allowed his body to relax.

                

“Princess, maybe it’s best if we stay in the village!” A voice shouted in the distance.

                

Valtor regretfully opened his eyes and saw the little girl that had wandered into his cave six years ago running across the stream, and recklessly through the sunflowers, laughing without restraint. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, she was probably ten or eleven years old now. But her bright gold eyes and infectious grin gave her away easily. A tubby old woman was huffing after her, flustered.

                

He gracefully slid off the boulder and sat hidden behind the tall grass and watched as Marion, the princess, danced through the flowers. She was so happy, Valtor observed with envy and curiosity. He had never really been intrigued by anyone so deeply. What was so special about this little girl?

                

He bemusedly watched as Marion managed to dodge the old woman that was gasping for breath but was still chasing after her. Eventually, the woman gave up and collapsed in a heap and exasperatedly watched the princess dance in circles, her face looking up at the sun.

                

“Princess, please…let’s go!”

                

“Wait, Nana, I think I see something over here!” Marion called out. Valtor craned his neck to see what she was looking at. He frowned when he recognized the Roc’s nest. Thankfully the mother Roc was gone, but her devilish babies were still too young to fly and he could hear them rustling up there. He quickly untangled himself from the ground and raced to stop her from climbing up the tree. Even though they may be just baby Rocs, they were still vicious creatures. He ran around the length of the field, so as not to be discovered. He focused his magic on the princess, trying to persuade her to back away. But for some reason, she was stronger.

                

She lifted her foot and started to haphazardly scramble up the rough trunk of the tree. He hesitated at the edge of the field, should he show himself and pull her away or just use his magic and possibly harm her? He raised his hand, ready to cast whatever spell needed.

                

She was at least six feet up and was creeping closer and closer to the nest. Her violet colored slippers were slick against the wood and suddenly she felt no branch  beneath her feet, she reached for the nearest branch but gravity had already pulled her too far below any branches.

                

Valtor burst from out of the field to catch her, but the ground had already caught her.

She crumpled beneath the nest, shaken up, but unharmed. She lifted her head and for a frozen moment Valtor towered over her. His arms were reaching downward to help her up. He looked at her with deep concern.

                

“Princess! Where are you?”

              

Valtor whirls and could see the top of the maid’s head bobbing up and down through the field. He locked eyes with Marion before he turned away and ran back into the tall grass to take cover. Right as he was well concealed, the maid broke free and kneeled next to her.

                

“Marion! What were you thinking? Oh no matter, I think we should go back to the castle.

Marion sat in stunned silence, but finally nodded and followed her maid back towards the castle. And invisible in the tall grass, Valtor watched.

****

                

For the next passing years, Valtor returned to Domino often to see how the little princess was faring. She was very accident prone, and multiple times Valtor played the guardian angel, which he thought was ironic. His destiny was to destroy the good things like Princess Marion, that was his purpose in life. But for some reason, he could never imagine hurting the little princess.

                

But Marion didn’t stay a little princess forever. By the time she was fourteen, she was already turning young boy’s heads and considered the most beautiful woman on Domino. Valtor felt jealous that Marion had the opportunity to attend school and grow up with friends. He had been a child once, but he had lived alone with his mothers and never got to go to school or even play. He had never experienced fun like children did. His definition of fun was seeing a village claimed by his fires.

                

He was shocked to discover that Marion was the bearer of the Dragon Fire, he was her opposite. But concern took over when he watched her and realized she had no idea how to use magic, she was terrible. He frowned when he saw classmates giggling at her failed attempts to cast a spell, something would have to change soon…

****

                

“HELP! Please, someone!” A shout echoed down a seemingly bottomless canyon. Hanging by only a single hand, the young princess was waiting for her life to come to a sudden end. “Please! I’m slipping!” She shouted. She attempted a spell, but only a small spark of magic escaped her fingertips and it quickly plummeted to the ground far below, like dandelion fluff.

                

As she felt her fingers slowly lose their grip, a strong hand swallowed hers and effortlessly pulled her free from the dangerous precipice. She heard a grunt as he flung her onto her feet and coincidentally into his arms.

                

“Thank you so much!”  Marion gasped between giant gulps of breath. “I am forever in your debt!” She craned her neck up to see her savior.

                

The man looked ageless, his pale hair grew past his waist and his eyes were piercing. His face was stern and expressionless.

                

“It was nothing.” He breathed before releasing her from his arms. He awkwardly stepped away from her.

                

“Wait a minute…” She breathed, thinking. “I recognize your face! I’ve seen you before.”

                

Valtor said nothing.

                

The princess gasped. “You! You’re the one that’s always been looking out for me! You saved me when I was just a little girl, I was lost and you brought me back to my parents. And you were there when I fell from that tree!”

                

The man flinched, “I’m surprised you remember.”

                

“Who are you?” Her eyes glistened. “And how is it you look exactly the same as you were so many years ago?”

                

The man bowed, his coat flourishing behind him. “I am Valtor, I’m immortal.”

                

“Immortal? Wizard?” The girl grinned. “That must mean you can use magic!” She then suddenly frowned. “Oh! My manners! I am Princess Marion of Domino!” She curtsied. “I don’t know magic very well, and seeing that you are like my fairy godmother…sort of…maybe you could help me?”

                

Valtor took a step away. “It’s best if you do not get close to me, princess”

                

Marion smirked. “I don’t think that’s true, I’ve seen you all my life, looking over me. You must be a good guy.”

                

He smirked, “Princess, you are still so innocent.”

                

She scowled. “Innocent! I’m fifteen years old! Practically an adult.”

                

That made Valtor laugh out loud. “How rude of me!”

                

“You haven’t answered my question!” She jumped a step closer to him, her eyes pleading. “Can you teach me magic? Please?”

                

He studied the young princess. She was right, ever since that day when Marion – just a toddler – had pranced into his lap, he had watched her from a distance, watching her grow. He suddenly didn’t know how to feel, now that she knew he existed.

                

“Valtor?” She grinned. “Please?”

                

He sighed, how was it possible for a young princess to twist his arm so easily? “Lessons begin tomorrow, meet at the base of the castle’s hill at half past noon.”

                

“Aye aye!” She saluted and then pranced away. “Thank you Valtor!”

                

The wizard watched the young princess until she was a dot in the distance. His heart was pounding like a thunderstorm inside his heart. It had been almost a year since he had last seen her, and she was beautiful, stunning, even at fifteen.

                

“I mustn’t get distracted.” He reminded himself as he hiked away from the cliff towards his cave that was hidden perfectly on the side of an overshadowed hill. This had been his home ever since Domino had been created. This was where he had been created. He flexed his fingers and then, in one fluid motion, removed his coat and took a seat on a bed that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. It was nice to be home after such a long time, and he had seen Marion again.

****

“What took you so long?” Valtor shouted to her when she met him in the woods.

            

“It took forever for my tutor to fall asleep.” Marion groaned.

               

“You always use that excuse, Marion.” Valtor chuckled.

                

“It’s true!” Marion punched him.

                

“Do you want to improve your magic or not?” Valtor threatened, “because I can leave whenever.” He smiled, waiting for Marion to react.

                

“Val-tor!” Marion whined, “Don’t leave.”

                

“I won’t, you know I never will.”

                

Marion was serious, “Never?”

                

Valtor’s grey eyes bored into Marion’s wide green eyes, “I promise. I’ll stay with you forever.” He stared at her for a moment and then broke his gaze. “Why don’t I teach you how to use an enemy’s magic to your advantage.”

                

Marion moaned, “They never made me do this at Alfea.” She collapsed on the cave floor, feigning exhaustion. “Can’t we just sit and talk, Valtor?”

                

He said nothing, but gracefully sat cross legged next to her. After just a few moments of silence, he turned to her, “What would you like to talk about?”

                

Marion had just returned from her first year at Alfea. Already he could see the powerful fairy she had become. All Dragon Fire bearers were natural magic users, and it was common for them to be late bloomers. He knew that she had had no reason to worry. She had studied tirelessly with him before she left for Alfea every single day in his cave. She was a natural at magic. And the year away from him had made her seem even more beautiful than he remembered. Every day she was getting more and more refined. He was beginning to miss having to rescue her now that she was so graceful.

                

“How long have you been alive?” She asked. She scooted a bit closer to him to listen easier. “And what made you immortal?”

                

“I was born immortal. I was created by three witches, they are my mothers.” He explained his creation, how his mothers had taken the essence of the dark Dragon Fire, and how his destiny is to become the most powerful wizard in the Magic Dimension.

                

“So you want to take over the whole Dimension…and do what?” She asked. Her golden eyes were wide and interested.

                

He hesitated, tilting his head and taking his time to answer. “We want to control it, take the power as ours.”

                

“But why?”

                

He stopped. In all the centuries he had been alive, he had never thought to ask them why they needed the power. He had been created to follow their orders, and that was what he did.

                

“Valtor, you’re an adult, you don’t have to obey them anymore.” She said with a smirk. He frowned, she had just read his mind, he had felt her presence in his head. He had taught her that just yesterday, and she had already mastered it. He was afraid to teach her magic now that she was such a powerful fairy, her magic was different than his, it was good and bright. His was dark magic, made from Dark Dragon Flame. He didn’t want to corrupt her. He tried to teach her neutral spells, mind reading was one of those.

                

He shook his head, “Yes, but I am also just a creation. I’m different.”

                

She sat up straight and shook her head vigorously. “No Valtor, you’re wrong. You don’t have to be stuck with your mothers, you can be your own person. You can do what you want. If you don’t want to take over the Dimension, you don’t have to.”

               

"But it is my birthright.” He tried to make her understand.

                

She frowned, “Never mind, I probably need to head back to the castle, or else my mother and father will be worried. Good night, Valtor.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek before she skipped out of the cave.

               

His heart leapt up like a fish leapt out of water and his whole body practically melted then. Was it possible for him to change, to be his own person? If it meant spending more time with Marion, he was willing to risk his life against his mothers for her.

****

                

Valtor and Marion, holding hands, stretched out on the grass at night, looked up at the stars. It was something they had done since the beginning of her first summer back from Alfea. She had just returned for the weekend during her second year at Alfea. There were some night when they never spoke a word. But Marion had a lot on her mind that night.

                

“Valtor, is it scary having witches for your mothers?” She asked.

                

Valtor sat in silence for a moment, thinking. “No. They have taught me valuable things; things that will help me to be victorious in claiming the Magic Dimension as ours.” He didn’t say anything else, he knew that Marion didn’t like him talking about dark magic and his destiny. She thought it was dangerous and that he was allowing himself to be persuaded by his mothers. But it was his decision to follow that path.

                

“Is power all that matters?” She asked.

                

“Yes.” He answered as if they were making small talk. “If I don’t become the most powerful wizard in all of the Dimension, my mothers will destroy me.”

                

“Don’t joke, Valtor.” She scolded, “It’s not very funny.”

                

“It wouldn’t be funny even if it was a joke.”

                

Marion looked him, eyes wide with fear, “You’re serious?”

                

“Yeah, they have high expectations for me.” Valtor said flatly, “And I know that I can succeed.”

                

"Valtor,” Marion tightened her grip on his hand, “I don’t like this. Your mothers are mistreating you. No mother should threaten their child, and you shouldn’t have to listen to them. You can decide who you want to be, not who your mothers want you to be. You can choose to be kind, and you don’t have to be the most powerful wizard to be loved or respected. Aren’t I enough?”

                

Valtor felt his stomach flutter, as it normally did when she said things like that, “Marion, I just-“ He sighed, the truth was while he truly believed that his job was to become the most powerful sorcerer, he was willing to change for Marion, to keep her by his side. He didn’t ever want her to leave…he loved her.

                

“Why don’t you just say it out loud silly?” Marion poked him, “You forget that I can read minds!”

                

Valtor smirked, “I taught you that.”

                

“You are the best teacher around.” Marion praised him, “and the best friend a princess could ever have.”

                

“You’re my best friend too.” Valtor said, he stared into her eyes, never looking away. She was the most beautiful woman. If he didn’t have his mothers around, he would leave his entire destiny to become the greatest wizard behind and become the man Marion always dreamed of marrying. But he couldn’t do that, it would put Marion at risk.

                

Marion, still reading his thoughts, touched his arm, “You wouldn’t put me in any risk, you’d keep me safe, and I’d keep you safe, we’d be a team, Valtor.” She leaned in close, her soft rose-scented lips tickling his ear, “Just remember to keep your promise.”

                

“I’ll never leave you, Marion.” Valtor vowed. “I promise.”

                

Marion smiled, “Never?”

                

Valtor smiled back, “Never.”

****

                

“What is his name?” He seethed.

                

Marion had graduated from Alfea, she was eighteen almost nineteen and absolutely ravishing. It was difficult for Valtor to not stare at her for long periods of time. But today it wasn’t so difficult. He had seen her with a man last night when she was supposed to be at lessons with him. Jealousy was difficult thing to conceal for him.

                

“His name is Oritel.” She had her arms folded and she was across the room from him. “He was a student at Red Fountain.”

                

“And you two are…close friends?” He pried maybe a bit too hard.

                

“Valtor, are you jealous?” She asked defensively.

                

“Well, you kissed him…”He didn’t finish his thought, it was too painful.

                

“Technically, he kissed me.” She said. He caught the sparkle in her eyes when she said that.

                

“I don’t like him.” He breathed.

                

Her eyes met his, “That isn’t fair, you haven’t even met him.”

                

“It doesn’t matter, I still don’t like this Oritel.” Valtor fumed as he slumped into his chair. “You didn’t answer my question, are you two close friends.”

“Well I wouldn’t exactly say we’re just friends.” She said slowly, her eyes not meeting her gaze. “I may have kissed back.”

  

“You love him!” He stood up, “After one kiss!”

                

“Well I’ve known you since forever, and yet you have never kissed me!” She shouted back. “I knew you loved me ever since I got back from Alfea my first year. I’ve waited years. But you’re too stuffed up in your pride!” She jabbed a finger in his chest, he tried to stand straight and towering over her. “I warned you about your mothers. They’re rubbing off on you, and I’m…worried.”

                

Valtor grabbed her by the shoulders, but she wouldn’t look up from the ground. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll never leave.” He pulled her close and waited for her to look into his eyes, to allow him to fix things. Maybe if he kissed her everything would be alright.

Marion stepped away from him, “I have to go. Oritel is taking me to the lake.” She didn’t look back.

A stab of agonizing pain lanced through Valtor. How could this have happened so quickly? He thought everything was going well. But nothing ever good happens to the bad guy. Valtor stormed out of the room, he needed to let off some steam.

               

In the cave he called home, Valtor released spell after spell, allowing them to ricochet against the walls. His anger didn’t seem to end. He wondered if Marion was enjoying herself without him, if Oritel was going to hold her hand, or kiss her again. He threw another spell at the wall, lightning sparks showered above him. The ground shook, disturbed. Was she slowly leaving him? Another spell against the wall. He felt betrayed, and alone.

Completely alone.

Transmutare

This is a short story I wrote about a year ago and just recently read it over again and realized that it's actually a kind of cool story! I'd like to conclude it someday, but for now this is all I've got and I hope that you enjoy it! I'd love to hear what you guys think!

A sudden lance of pain, screams, then silence.

The moon fell below the mountains, the hint of a sun slowly peaked on the east horizon.

Its warm rays caught skin as it peeked through the windows of a barred up and abandoned house. It was light skin, pale and smooth, not a blemish in sight.

Her eyes flung open, a wave of emotions crashed over her: pain, soreness, fear, but most of all confusion. She looked at her hands, her feet, her hair, sweat ran down the side of her face. This body wasn't hers…this sweat wasn't hers, nothing was hers.

Who am I? She screamed in her head.

Leaping off the mutilated bed, the girl scratched at her skin, searching for a familiar touch, but it all felt so wrong. She touched the walls, the floor, anything trying to feel something that was familiar, that was hers. But she didn't even know who she was; she recklessly searched the abandoned house. It was completely empty besides her and the bed.

She didn't realize until then that giant tears were covering her face. She wiped them away, but only more sobs came. Collapsing onto the rough wood floor, she cried. Everything felt so wrong. Even the pain of slivers from the wood floor felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable on this new skin. This body wasn't hers, the tears that were dripping off of her chin, they didn't belong to her, they belonged to this unfamiliar shell that was called a body.

The sun rose higher, it was almost noon.

With no tears left to cry, the nameless girl rose from the tear-streaked floor. She had to find out who she was. She caught sight of a giant hole in the back door, unlike the rest of the empty house that was inches deep with dust, the dust around the hole looked as if someone had been dragged or crawled in like a worm into the house.

She crawled out of the hole and blinked as she stared into the sunlight. She was in the middle of a lifeless desert. The house was slanted and broken looking, just the way she felt.  In the distance she saw sky scrapers and towering hotels. Someone could help her there. She looked down at herself, she was barefoot and wearing a nightgown. She knew there was nothing she could do to change that, so she started the long trek to the city.

****

A few hours passed, and she caught sight of a lonely road that was the only way to the city. She didn't like the emptiness of the road, and so she walked beside it. The hike was long, and she was hungry. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it and the painful, uncomfortable feeling that came with it.

                

A sleek orange sports car pulled up in front of her.

               

“Hey, crazy girl!” A teenage boy with fiery red her waved. “Do you know where you’re going?”

                

“No.” The girl jumped at the sound of her own voice, it felt like sandpaper against her throat, but it sounded so confident, it most definitely was not her voice.

                

“Do you realize what you’re wearing?” He pointed at her, “and no shoes?”

                

She looked down, what was once a white silk nightgown was now rags. Her white, creamy legs shook with fear and exhaustion.

                

“You need help.” The boy muttered to himself, but she still heard him, and glared. He turned back to her, “Get in; I’ll take you to the hospital.”

                

The girl shook with panic upon hearing the word hospital. Flashes of white lab coats and fake smiles, the feeling of someone slicing into her stomach, she shook her head. “No, no! Please, not there!” She begged.

                

The boy’s face softened. “Okay, okay! I won’t take you there, just let me help you.” He reached across and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

                

She hesitated. Could she trust him? He watched her stand there idly and smiled at her. She finally slid into the car and awkwardly pulled the door shut.

The girl shook the whole ride to the city. The boy watched her carefully.

                

“Are you cold?”

                

She shook her head.

                

“Do you have a name?”

                

She shook her head again.

                

“Oh. Sorry.” He stared at the road as he accelerated towards the city. The silence bothered him. “I’m Layne. I live out in the country, but I work in the city. Farm work just doesn't cut it for me.”

                

He glanced at her to check and see if she was okay, she frowned when he stopped talking.

                

“Keep talking.” She whispered. “Please.” There was something in her voice, was it fear?

                

Layne’s mind went blank. Talk? About what? “I…umm…I go to school, do you?”

                

“I don’t know, I don’t know who I am.”

                

Layne glanced at her, shocked. “You don’t remember?”

                

She shook her head, “No…well…I don’t know.” She tensed up, “I’m just not who I was before, and I don’t know who I am.” She looked out the window, making sure Layne didn't see her cry, but he caught a crystal tear fall.

                

“It’s okay.” He said. “I’ll help you, somehow.”

                

When they reached the city, the girl couldn't break her eyes away from anything. She had never seen anything that looked so alive and busy before, or at least she couldn't recall. Cars zoomed past, people jostled through people to get to work, to school, the coffee shop. There were people everywhere.

                

“Look familiar at all?” Layne slowed down to let her take it all in.

                

“No…but it’s beautiful. Everything is so energetic and bright and…” She lost the words she was going to say.

                

“Alive?” He guessed.

                

She nodded.

                

“You hungry?”

                

She grabbed her stomach as it growled.

                

He laughed, “That answers my question.”

                

She smiled, Layne was so kind to her, it was the first thing that actually felt correct and comfortable in this unfamiliar body.

                

“Let’s get you some clothes too.” He pointed at the muddy nightgown. “Here, put on my coat.” From the backseat he grabbed a long, black trench coat.

                

Layne parked the car in the library parking lot. Across the street was a small café. He gently led her to its welcoming doors. She ate ravenously. He couldn't help but wonder where this girl came from. He watched her carefully as she ate. Her body was covered in small scratches and bruises. Her thick brown hair looked as if it hadn't had a good soaking in a long time, and her green eyes were dulled and downcast. His imagination got the best of him, and he imagined her living in a padded room, with no windows, no lights, and no one else to comfort her. He shook the thought away. That kind of stuff only existed in the movies.

                

“Can I give you a name?” He finally asked on the way to the mall. He felt weird saying it, and smiled awkwardly, hoping it would ease some of the fear the girl may have.

                

She nodded, slightly smiling.

                

“Hmmm…” He took a long look at her as they walked. “Jane…you look like an Jane.” He smiled, pleased at his artistic name. It had actually been his grandmother’s name and it was the first thing he had thought of, but it fit her perfectly.

                

The name sounded wonderful to her. It felt right, as if she really was Jane. Her smile grew. “I like it.”

                

At the mall, Layne bought her a pair of jeans, a white tee, and black, sturdy boots. “Keep the jacket, it looks nice on you.” He said after she tried to return it.

                

Jane enjoyed Layne's company, in fact she loved it. Nothing that day felt right except for Layne. She didn't want the day to end.

                

“Do you have a place to stay?” Layne asked, then instantly felt silly for asking. He had found her on the side of a road with no memory of who she was, the answer was pretty clear. He mentally slapped himself.

                

She shook her head, she didn't want to go back to the abandoned house.

                

“Then if it’s alright with you, I’ll take you back to my place. My mom has a spare room set up for emergencies.”

                

As soon as they left the city and were driving on the empty road, Jane turned to him. “Tell me about you, your life? What’s it like?”

                

“It’s pretty boring, really.” He said. “I live on a farm, and that’s how it will always be. My life lacks excitement.” He smiled. “Until I met you.”

                

She blushed.

                

In the country, nestled in a small town, Layne’ house was a two story red brick house, with a white picket fence. “Yeah, it’s kind of cliché.” He said when they pulled in. “I sort of can’t wait to get out of this house and get my own apartment in the city.”

                

“I love this house.” Jane breathed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered a house very similar to this one that felt safe to her. This one felt the same way.

                

Layne’s family welcomed her in with open arms. Layne’s mom was a large and boisterous woman who made the best homemade pies in the planet and had the most infectious laugh. Layne’s dad was a bit more mellow, he didn’t say much but he caught every word said and every motion a person made. At first, Jane felt nervous next to him, but by the end of the night, she felt safe next to him. Layne’s siblings, all older than him tended to be more like their mother. They were loud, and loved to tease Layne, but they were very kind and open to Jane. And they constantly insisted she took more food, saying she was too thin.

                

When it came time to go to bed, Layne’s mother led her up to a spare bedroom on the second floor of the farm house. Jane loved her new bedroom. It was tidy and simple, but cozy. After a warm bath, she changed into a bright yellow pair of pajamas Layne’s older sister had lent her; they had ducks all over them. She slid under the covers of her soft bed and breathed in deeply. While her body still didn’t feel like her own, she felt like she could maybe get used to living like this if she had to.

                

Layne snuck into her room. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Sorry about my family, they can be a bit overwhelming.”

                

She nodded. “I’m okay. And I love your family. I wish I knew who my family was.”

                

Layne slid onto her bed. “You can stay as long as you need to, and I’m sure any of us would be happy to help you find your family.”

                

“Thank you.” She smiled softly. “Could you tell me more about yourself? I’m not quite ready to fall asleep yet.”

                

He grinned and then sat cross legged at the end of her bed and suddenly burst out story after story of his life. She learned about his dreams of becoming an architect, and how in first grade he broke both his arms jumping off of the fire pole rather than sliding down it. She wished she could trade stories back, but at the same time, she didn't mind just listening. She asked about his car, he laughed and told her how his uncle had given it to him as a project for the summer to fix up, and in the end he got to keep it. She found out that he worked as a teller for a bank in the city and was also about to start an internship with an architect the following school semester.

                

Before either of them knew it, the clock downstairs struck midnight; they had been talking for hours.

                

Before Layne could say another word, a sudden lance of pain shuddered through her body. Her skin tightened and stretched, then loosened, then tightened again. Her bones felt like they were snapping and breaking, reshaping themselves inside of her. She curled over in pain and began to scream.

                

Layne watched in horror, backing away as he saw her beautiful form change before his eyes. She ripped the blankets away and before he could stop her she blindly sprinted out of the room and down the stairs. He could hear her thrashing about and a sudden explosion of glass breaking.

                

“What happened?” His family ran into the bedroom.

                

“Jane!” Layne broke free from his frozen state of fear and recklessly ran out of the house to find her. How could he have just let her run away like that? How could he just let himself freeze when she needed his help. He couldn't lose her, he ran out into the farm lands, listening and looking for her everywhere. But it was too dark, and her screams were gone and there was no sign of her anywhere.

                

“Jane.” He breathed out.

                

“Layne, come back inside.” His mom shouted. “We’ll look tomorrow!”

                

He lingered outside a bit longer, hoping to see her pale figure in the distance. But eventually he turned around and went back inside.

****

                

Night passed, the moon fell beneath the mountains, the sun peaked across the eastern horizon.

                

Buried beneath bales of hay, he opened his eyes, nothing felt right. He shuddered when he felt the hay scratch against his body. This wasn't right. This was not who he was...this was wrong. He looked down. He was dressed in bright yellow pajamas with ducks all over them. They were too small for him. This wasn't him. None of it was. This body didn't belong to him.

                

Who am I?

Adrenaline, The Beginning of a Story

So some of you wanted a chance to read my newly finished book that I did for National Novel Writing Month. Sadly, Adrenaline is far from being ready for an audience. But I'm willing to share the first chapter with you, since it is sort of where the whole story begins. So here it is, I hope you enjoy and I'd love some feedback, critical or not! 

“Alright students, for the last fifteen minutes of class we are going to analyze one of Shakespeare’s sonnets…together.” Mr. Peterson flicked the lights off as a poem projected itself on the white board at the front of the room.

                A unified chorus of moans erupted throughout the class, mine included, which resulted in Mr. Peterson’s infamous you-have-no-power-over-me look. It included the oh-so-carefully raised eyebrows and the slight upward twitch of the left lips. This man enjoys making us suffer. We were so close to the freedom of fall break. Couldn't we spend our final fifteen minutes of school enjoying it?

                “Conner, why don’t you honor us the pleasure of reading this sonnet for us?” Mr. Peterson’s ever so present smirk almost seemed to have intensified when he saw Conner’s face slightly pale.

                “The whole thing, sir?” Conner asked. He was a tubby fellow with an acne infested face and ginger hair, and he wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box I should mention.

                Was he stupid? I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time this day. Were people really so empty-headed? Of course he meant the whole thing. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Peterson and I were the only ones who ever knew how to use our brains properly, with common sense. But to compare myself to my English teacher is a bit bizarre, don’t you think?

                “What would you prefer, a D on your next essay?” Mr. Peterson’s eyes narrowed wickedly. I rolled my eyes once again. He was only kidding, but students fell for it all the time; especially poor Conner. I almost felt sorry for him; it must be difficult to have no brains.

                Connor stood up, hitched his much-too-small cargo shorts up higher on his waist and began to slowly sound out each word that was displayed on the projection. He read it so slow that it was like listening to a funeral dirge. These next fifteen minutes were going to last us forever.

                Connor’s voice was like a monotonous bee that just would not stop buzzing. I read over Shakespeare’s Sonnet 38 at least five times before Conner had even reached line three of the sonnet. We sere seniors in high school, I thought we learned how to read like ten years ago! I glanced over at Mr. Peterson with begging eyes. Please don’t make him read the whole sonnet!!!

                “Alright Conner, your wish is granted. You can stop there!” Mr. Peterson interjected. He stroked his bare chin and then glanced his piercing eyes over in my direction. “Idalia,” He pointed at me. “Why don’t you finish reading the sonnet for us?”

                Even though I had no fear of talking in public, my stomach still seemed to feel it necessary to lurch in protest. I mentally and possibly physically forced my stomach to calm down before standing up and finishing the sonnet. But my pride would not allow me to start off in the middle of a line. And to prove to my class just how intelligent I was. I started the sonnet from the beginning.

“How can my muse want subject to invent,

While dost though breathe, that pour’st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper, to rehearse?

O! Give thy self the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou they self dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date

If my slight muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

I couldn't help but glance over in Conner’s direction. But he was focusing on the ketchup stain on his shirt. I rolled my eyes once again…

                “Thank you, Idalia.” Mr. Peterson locked eyes with mine. “Who would like to be daring and attempt to tell the class what this sonnet is about?

                I slumped back down in my seat, adjusting my shirt and pants to fit comfortably around my body. I proceeded to zone out of whatever the class was talking about. My honey colored hair escaped from behind my ear and dropped down to cover my face. I ignored it, but instead focused my attention out the window next to me. I was seated in the back corner of the room next to Mr. Peterson’s desk and right up against a tall window that looked out over the small subdivisions and cul-de-sacs that surrounded the one side of our house. I caught a small toddler recklessly kicking his legs on a swing in the backyard of one house. Even from the third floor of the school I could see his wide grin. In another yard an elderly woman with a straw sunhat was pulling out dead plants from her once beautiful flower garden. I remembered from last year how vibrant and lively her garden had been. But fall’s chill had done its job and the flowers were now slowly dying off one by one. If you really think about it, all is a cruel season.

                I glanced up at the clock again and saw that it was almost five minutes until the bell rang for school to end. Thank the stars above! I amusedly watched my classmates try to silently pack up their notes, textbooks, pencils and other paraphernalia without Mr. Peterson noticing. But as usual, the sound of 20 zipping and unzipping backpacks was deafening. I slumped and leaned back against my chair, the edge of it digging into my shoulder blades.

                Whoever had tried to explain the sonnet, Kayla I think was her name, had finally been shooshed by the disappointed Mr. Peterson. He turned the lights back on, my eyes had a temporary moment of blindness before my eyesight return. Thanks for warning us, Mr. I glared at him under my hair. He didn't notice.

                “Since you all seem to be lacking in your Shakespeare skills, I’m going to give you some homework over the break.” Mr. Peterson’s smirk returned along with another chorus of moans. “I want you to read Sonnets 1-10 over the break and write a paragraph for each sonnet explaining what it is about. It shouldn't be too difficult if you set your mind to it.”

                A scrawny girl with a rainstorm of freckles all over her face raised her hand but proceed to talk without waiting for anyone to acknowledge her. “But where are we supposed to find the sonnets?”

                Uh….the internet? I sometimes can’t believe people my age are this dumb. I was so tempted to call her out on her stupidity, but bit my lips instead. As my grandmother would always tell me as a kid, If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all. Why does my grandmother have to always be right?

                “Cheyenne, I’m sure you kind find them quite easily using Google. I hear it’s a really nice thing teenagers love to use and that its chuck full of grand information.” Mr. Peterson had obviously never met my grandmother. I had to snort at my own joke, sometimes I think I’m funny.

                Before the class could say anything else terribly embarrassing, Mr. Peterson raised up his voice. “And don’t forget, class. Be safe during the holidays and don’t do anything I wouldn't do.” He smirked again and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Have a great weekend.”

                And with that final phrase, the class rose up in their seats and zoomed into their small groupings. I stayed rooted in my seat. I didn't know anyone in this class, nor did I have any desire to.

                Mr. Peterson passed by me as he headed towards his desk. “Miss Brice, could I speak with you after the bell rings.”

                Uh oh, what had I done now? I nervously thought of all the bad things Mr. Peterson could have found out about me. And the next question that pounded in my head was how could Mr. Peterson have found out?

                The bell rang, a short yet deafening drone. Students eagerly pushed and shoved towards the door. There was at least five students jamming themselves into a door that could only safely allow two in at a time.

                I stuffed my backpack with the things on my desk, zipped it up and slung one strap up onto my shoulder. “What is that you want?” I tried to sound completely calm. But inside, my stomach was probably already in the biggest knot in the universe and a headache was already forming.

                Mr. Peterson smiled, it wasn’t his typical smirk, but an actual genuine smile. I think that made another knot in my stomach. Mr. Peterson never smiled like that.

                He swiveled his office chair around to a cabinet that was standing behind him. He pulled open the second drawer form the bottom and pulled out a folder that was brimming with leaves of white paper. He slammed it open onto his desk and then proceeded to leaf through each page. He was mumbling under his breath, completely indecipherable, until he obviously found what he was looking for. He pulled out a stapled stack of pages, there was probably about fifteen to twenty pages in it. I couldn't see the words on the page, but I had a strange feeling about this packet.

                My premonitions were correct when my English teacher slid the packet in my direction. In the top left hand corner typed in Times New Roman was my name: Idalia Bryce. I instantly knew what this was without having to read the title. During the first week of school, Mr. Peterson had required us to right an original story with a maximum of ten pages. Mind had been twenty two pages. I remembered that I had been the only one with anything more than ten pages, everyone else had done the absolute minimum.

                “What about it?” I asked.

                Mr. Peterson gestured to the worn stool that is always right next to his desk. He keeps it there when he needs to talk to students one on one. It was nice being in the back because I can always eavesdrop on all of the conversations.

                I slid onto the stool, subconsciously hoping it would spin. It didn't.

                “Have you written fiction before this?” He lifted my giant packet.

                I wasn't sure if he kept me here to make fun of me or to say how proud he was. I hesitated to tell the truth if he was going to mock me. The truth was, I wrote every day. Stories seemed to pop into my head as quickly as dead skin falls off of my body (which is quite often, might I add).  I finally decided to keep it neutral. “Yes, I have.”

                “Do you have an interest in writing?” He asked.

                I was beginning to feel the hardness of the stool numb my butt. I squirmed around a bit before answering. “I guess you could say I do.”

                Mr. Peteron’s smile widened. “That is good to hear.” His eyes suddenly went large and wide, like a kid that had woken up on Christmas morning. “And tell me this, have you ever considered joining a writing club. Where you could critic with other writers?”

                “Mr. Peterson, are you asking me to join your honor club?” I had heard about his Writer’s Anonymous club that included students only he invited. My friend, Abigail had been invited a week ago.  I suddenly felt silly for worrying that my teacher would mock me for writing. He was an English teacher.

                “Well it depends. Are you interested?” His eyebrows raised, so high that they almost disappeared into his pepper gray mop of hair.

                I couldn't believe it. Mr. Peterson was personally asking me to be a part of his club. That means he thinks I’m good right? I sure hoped that he believed in my writing.

                “Yes, I’m very interested.” I tried to sound as calm and mature as possible. But it’s difficult when you’re about to join a secret writer’s club. Even though it wasn't that much of a secret anymore.

                He nodded with a giant grin, slid the copy of my original story back into the hazardous folder and placed back in its proper spot in the second drawer up from the bottom of his filing cabinet. “Glad to hear that, Brice! Our meetings are every Thursday after school unless noted otherwise. I think you will be a great member of this club. You've got grit, Idalia.”

                It felt strange to hear someone call me by my full name. Most people called me Dalia or even sometimes Dolly, but never Idalia. But I shoved away the thought and gave my teacher my most winning smile before thanking him for this incredible offer.  I adjusted my backpack’s strap before heading towards the door. Most of the students had left already and the halls were creepily empty.

                “Oh, and Miss Price,” Mr. Peterson called out before my foot even crossed over the door.  “Make sure you keep yourself attentive this weekend.”

                What an odd thing for a teacher to say. I didn't know what to say to that. Is that something you say thank you to? Do you say anything at all? I hated being social for these very reasons! I ended up half smiling, waving and then escaping that classroom before something else unexpected or awkward happened.

                Mr. Peterson’s last words stuck with me all the way from the third floor to the first floor, and all the way down to the abandoned locker hall that my locker was strangely located in. I muttered it over and over to myself as I pushed myself against the exit door and out into the autumn chill. The parking lot was all but empty. There were a few junky cars that I assume were left behind because they wouldn't start. And then there was a neat line of black, white, and gray trucks that took up the back two rows of the parking lot. Everyone knew that those belonged to the football team. Is it normal for guys to match vehicles? Is it similar to girls and fashion? Not even I understood why girls found it necessary to match with their friends, so I didn't even expect myself to understand the football team and their matching trucks.

                My thoughts returned to Mr. Peterson and his farewell to me as I made my way to my car which was parked out on the road. Make sure you keep yourself attentive this weekend. Why did he say that of all things? Did I look like I needed to be more attentive? I guess I did zone out in class today, but I didn't think that was reason enough to warn me.  Maybe he’s awkward at being social like me, I thought. Maybe we have a lot more in common than just brains and sarcasm. An image popped in my head of Mr. Peterson in his usual sweater and black slacks sipping hot chocolate with me in his classroom sharing our common interests. I shuddered and shoved the thought away. The idea of my English teacher becoming my “bestie” was a bit too much even for my imagination.

                A chorus of burly cheers interrupted my thoughts. I looked over and saw a group of four football players sneak away from the field and run towards the row of trucks. Were they supposed to leave early from practice? I didn't know enough about football to make any sort of judgment. I tried to return back to my thoughts. But the four football players shouts and obnoxious jokes kept jarring my train of thought. I watched them all jump into one of the trucks. The driver of the truck had obviously altered the muffler to make it rumble deep and loud. I rolled my eyes, typical men.

                Without even a warning, the truck leaped out of the parking space and zoomed around the parking lot. They started to drive in mad circles, weaving in and out of the cars that were already there, sometimes missing them by just a hairline. Were they really that stupid? Their windows were rolled down and their music was pounding so loud, I could feel the speaker’s bass from where I was.

                I was about to look away when I saw a boy, probably a sophomore step down into the parking lot. He could see the truck doing donuts in the parking lot, and hesitated. But it was obvious that his vehicle was beyond the truck. Don’t try kid, I thought. Don’t even try to run over to your car.

                The kid adjusted his backpack and started to march towards a beaten up mini-van. I stopped in my tracks. He was going to try and get to his car. I shifted my sight to the football players in the truck, doing donuts, they weren't even paying attention. I could see the driver was not even looking out the window, but at whoever was screaming at him behind the seat.

 That kid was going to get hit, I knew it.

                Without even thinking, without any thought at all, I flung my backpack off and raced towards the truck that was steering its direction towards the boy.

                I could feel my heart pounding loud and hard in my chest, pushing me to not stop. I had never been much of a runner, but I suddenly felt like my body was built for that very thing.

                The kid, he could see that the truck’s driver wasn’t paying attention. I saw even from my distance that his body clenched up.

                My body was coursing with adrenaline. It was so powerful I felt my heart was beating faster to keep my body caught up with whatever was fueling me. My breathing was hard, but even.

All I could hear was the pounding of my heart.

All I could feel was the slapping of my feet against the asphalt.

All I could see was the truck and the kid.

                I caught a glisten of tears on the kid’s cheek. He knew he was going to die.

                No! He couldn't die. I wouldn't let that happen. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. I leaped forward, reached my hand out and yanked the boy by his t-shirt, I could feel the material tear when I flung him behind me and onto the ground. Almost like there were cotton balls in my ears, I barely heard the rumble of the truck or the screams of the boy behind me. I could feel the rumble of the truck right behind me through the soles of my shoes to my feet.  I sensed how close it was to us. I spun around.  There it was, a giant metal behemoth coming straight for me. Instinctively, I flung my fist against the grate of the truck, expecting myself to crumble and be completely swallowed up by its enormous weight. I kept repeating in my head, I can’t let the kid die, he has to be okay. I couldn't let the kid die, I wasn't going to let that happen! I waited for the pain of 4000 lbs to roll on top of me and end my life. But I didn't want to die this way either, I suddenly let a sob break free as I waited for my life to end.

But I felt nothing, nothing but the deafening beats of my heart and the long gasps of breath I was making. I could still feel that power coursing through me, fueling me to keep fighting,  it was so powerful that it was almost painful to stand still and wait or whatever was to come next.

                The truck had stopped. My fist was planted deep into the truck’s grate. I could see a small bead of blood run down my wrist and drip onto the black pavement. I had dented the truck’s grate. Dented. I struggled to pull my hand free, it was the most painful thing I had ever experienced. I could feel skin being pulled clean off and left behind as I yanked it out. I looked down at my hand and instantly regretted even looking because as soon as I looked the pain that had lanced through me only intensified. My hand was completely covered in my own blood, already bruises were forming up and down my arm from the impact. My skin was pretty much scraped off of my knuckles and everywhere else or that matter. I cried out, my heart pounded faster. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably and my knees weakened. What had happened? Did I just stop that truck? I looked up and managed to see the driver and passengers staring at me with white eyes of horror. I glanced down at the boy I had saved. His eyes were wide too. What did I do? I felt so hot, like I had been dipped into a cavern of lava. My heart hadn't slowed down and my body felt it was coursing with power. This was too much.

                My head started to pound. My eyes couldn't focus. Why was my body in so much pain? But why did I want to keep running? What was happening to me? I need to get out of here, I suddenly thought.

                So I ran. My body was still pushing me, to not ever stop, to keep running until there was nothing left of me. But I forced myself to slow down, unlock the driver’s side of my car and throw myself inside. Just as soon as I had slammed the door shut, I suddenly felt my throat close. I couldn't breathe. My heart pounded harder and faster. Clenching my fists tight, I collapsed to the ground and waited for darkness to overpower me.

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