Trapped

The floor creaked as I dashed across the hallway, and I winced, squeezing my eyes shut. I opened one eye and looked down at the floor behind me, as if some evidence of the noise I'd made would show up. Then I waited another beat, for the sounds of someone waking up, but there were none. I breathed a silent sigh of relief and pressed myself against the wall, scooting along the hardwood floor not covered by the long, thin rug which decorated the hallway. Finally, I saw the painting of the woman on the shore. This painting always fascinated me. It was so out of place, surrounded by elaborate portraits of wealthy men and women and depictions of grassy meadows and delicate cottages. Every painting on these walls looked as if they could combine together to tell the story of a single village. This painting seemed to be the town's secret, and it always startled me– I could just imagine the townspeople covering up the event with fanciful stories or avoiding the subject altogether. If they ever found out a painter was creating an image of the horrid event, they'd surely have his head.

It was a beautiful, detailed image of a crystalline lake at night, the moon reflecting off the water the surrounding trees casting shadows. The grass surrounding the lake was thick and a vibrant shade of green, flowers blooming in patches of purples and yellows. The whole scene made your heart ache, as if you were looking at a place you once knew, a place you called home, that was now long lost.

But none of the pristine beauty of the nature in the painting was what really caught your attention. That was left solely to the woman.

She lay on her back, her arms splayed out and her legs tucked into herself. Her hair was yellow, almost gold, mirroring the glimmers of gold in the moon's reflection on the water, and the bright petals of the dandelions. But it was also wet, you could tell b the way it was matted together and close to the ground; clearly, if it were dry, it would be an even brighter color, and it would be waving in the breeze which caused the flowers to tilt slightly to the side. Her dress, too, though elegant; intricately designed with deicate stitches and shining pearls, was clearly soaked. It looked like it might normally be a quiet, lovely shade of lavender, but now it was a deep purple. Her eyes were an incredible shade of blue, like the crest of a wave in the summertime, but they were subdued...lifeless.

Her lips, you might think, would be red as Snow White's; red as blood and rubies and roses. But they were not. They were blue. Light blue; like the Antarctic sea, rather than the blue of her eyes. Blue like diamonds reflecting the sky. And her skin was pale, beyond the pale of an albino or someone who rarely sees the sun.

Pale as death.

The woman stared at you with lifeless eyes and blue, parted lips, and she looked startled.

The woman was drowned.

This painting was how I knew where I was in the hallway. Any of the other paintings I might mix up, they all blurred together when you'd seen them enough times. But not that one. It stood out like an emerald in a necklace made of amber.

Tipped off to my location by the painting, I moved slightly to the left until I felt a doorknob, and then I wrapped my hand around it and turned until the door clicked quietly out of place, and swung back an inch. I looked up and down the hallway, and then disappeared into the room, pushing the door quickly back into place in front of me. I took a breath and leaned my forehead on the doorframe. His shallow, sleeping breaths traveled to my ear then, and I spun on my heel. There he was, wrapped up like a caterpillar in a coccoon of deep red blankets, his eyebrows furrowed as his lips moved slowly in the murmuring of silent words. The thin canopy of his bed was still tied around the posts; the attendants always rushed out of the room as soon as they had him tucked in, never remembering to take the canopy down. He didn't mind, though. This life of luxury was too much for him to handle, sometimes. He preferred when the attendants forgot things to when they catered to his every want. I looked out the window at the garden and thought of what I would say. I'd formulated a plan hours ago, and had been practicing my lines in my mind ever since. But when he opened those piercing eyes of his, and stared at me in a way that I felt he could see my every thought, I knew I would forget every syllable, and stare back at him as blankly as the dead woman on the shore.

I walked to his bedside and stared at him for a moment, his messy blond hair, his thin cheeks, the bones protruding like pillows under bedsheets, his lips moving endlessly, though they hardly stirred when he was awake. And his arm was over the covers, his hand clutching the fabric like he needed it to keep him from falling. His arm was just bones with skin laid carefully over it, and I felt if he scraped his elbow, those bones would show right through.

He was so beautiful, I almost couldn't wake him up.

"Axton," I whispered, shaking his shoulder just slightly, a chill going up my spine as my fingers touched bare skin and felt the sharp bone. His eyes flew open like I'd screamed in his ears, and he stared at me with wide, confused eyes for a moment before calming down and looking at me with a calm but questioning expression. "Lorna, what are you doing in here?" His voice was rough, scratchy, coated in sleep. I stared at him and I could feel the words disappearing. His brown eyes adjusted to the light as he stared back at me, and I almost lost everything as I fell into them. I fell to my knees and grasped his hands, and his eyebrows shot up, his tired eyes suddenly alert. "We have to get out of here, Axton. We can't stay here anymore." Understanding filled his face and he shook his head, pulling his hands away from mine. "We can't go, Lorna. We're stuck here."

"We have to run away." Axton seemed shocked at my saying this, at the boldness in my eyes as I declared this outright. But then he shook his head again. "We can't, Lorna. Even if we could get out, we have nowhere to go." I'd thought about this. I was almost offended that he wouldn't assume I'd thought about this. "We do, though. Your sister's house." Now Axton looked truly shocked. And impressed, too, I think.

For months, I had been watching as he received letters from some girl, someone he had never spoken of before. A bright, beaming smile spread across his face every time a letter arrived, and envy pulsed through my chest so strong I felt I might forget how to breath. "She asks me to come stay with her," he said to me one afternoon as I quietly set his lunch tray on his bedside table. I was not a servant, but I often performed servant duties, when I was bored; or if they had to do with Axton. Lady Rane sometimes called me to her side, simply to keep her company, and I had school every day from ten o'clock until five thirty in the afternoon; but other than that, I had the days all to myself.

It sounds nice, I know, but you don't know the mansion.

"Is that so?" I had asked him, using all my effort not to grit my teeth together as I did so, "And shall you, then?" He furrowed his eyebrows and his smile disappeared. He set the letter aside and clasped his hands, staring up at the top of his bed. "I don't know. Perhaps." He was quiet for a long while, and then he finally said, "I think not" and turned onto his side, away from me, and went to sleep.

I did not know, at that point, that this woman writing him was his sister. I did not know he had a sister, for she had never contacted him before, and he had never mentioned her.

But now I knew, and I knew she was willing to take him in, at least for a little while. I also knew she loved him, as he often read passages from her letters to me, and I heard in her tone a familiar feeling toward him which I immediately recognized. She loved him, and would not, therefore, mind if he brought someone with him when he came to stay with her.

She would also not mind that he was not actually permitted to stay with her by his guardians.

I got the taste, from her letters, that she felt towards Lady Rane and Lord Charleston very similar feelings to my own.

She would not mind at all if he ran from them to her.

I could see from his face that Axton knew this to be true as well as I did, and he hesitated before saying, "Lorna, really, how would we–"

"Now," I interrupted him, something I was not accustomed to doing, "We could go now. It is the dead of night, the Lord and Lady are fast asleep, and no servants in this household, if they should stir from their sleep, are loyal enough to said Lord and Lady that they would do anything to stop our progression." If anything, they'd probably help us escape. And perhaps ask to come with us. Axton stared at me for a moment longer. He looked away from me, then, to the foot of his bed. "Lorna," he said quietly. He paused, closed his eyes, and then said, "I cannot walk."

The way he said it, you'd think I'd had no idea of this fact. You'd think this was something he was springing on me. "I am aware, Axton."

"I am...I am very sick." My throat caught and I choked on tears for a moment before saying, "I know, Axton. And look at what they are doing to you." He looked at me then, confused, and I gestured to his body, his bed. "They keep you in bed and give you worthless medication with breakfast and dinner. You are not getting better. You need a real doctor, real help, not the physician who comes and looks down your throat and prescribes cough medicine." Axton pressed his lips together. He knew I was right. Dr. Latham was a worthless old man who cared nothing for Axton's health, only the money he made for his monthly visits. Lord Charleston cared even less than Latham for Axton, and Lady Rane was a kind-hearted but foolish woman; and though her favor for Axton kept him alive, it did nothing in advancing his health.

"What shall you do when there are stairs? When we must go across fields, or up hills?" Axton knew as well as I that we could travel to his sister's by carriage just as soon as we got to town, but I understood his fear. "I will carry you," I said to him, without hesitation. He looked towards me again, and something flew across his eyes that I didn't recognize. He took my hands in his, and brought them to his mouth, and my heart pounded in my chest as he kissed them. He reached up and pulled my face to his, and when his lips touched mine, all my breath escaped from my body into his. He jolted with this surge of breath and pressed me closer to him for a moment, and then we separated, and he closed his eyes and leaned against the headboard. I brought my hand up to my lips and touched them carefully, my eyes wide, shocked, still staring at him. He opened his eyes and looked at me, his expression incredibly, frustratingly calm, and then he said, with determination, "All right. Help me out of this bed, and we'll go."

© 2011

Call Me

She trails her finger along the edge of the frame and clicks her tongue on the top of her mouth. I hesitate, but the clock is ticking like a time bomb in my ears, and I know I have to say something. "Don't–" I cut myself off, clear my throat, and then say, "Don't you think it's getting kind of late?" I know how this scene plays out. My brother picks up a girl and then dumps her. She shows up here and waits 'til the wee hours of the morning for him; and then if he does come home eventually– which he usually doesn't– I quietly excuse myself to my room and listen as screaming ensues from said girl, with my brother replying in calm, monotonous and bored phrases, until the girl leaves, sobbing, and I wake up the next morning to find skid marks in our driveway. This girl's different, though– she's not tall, she's probably about 5'2'', in fact. She's brunette, which, although not entirely bizarre, is strange for my brother. And she's wearing a short red dress that hangs on her body like a bathtowel, outlining none of her curves, with flat tennis shoes doing nothing to make her look taller. Her face, though sculpted and striking, appears void of makeup. This girl just doesn't seem my brother's type. "It's not that late," she says, "I'll wait another minute or two. I don't mind." I nod, and look at my feet. I started sweating like a maniac when she first showed up and sat herself down at the breakfast bar– I offered her a cigarette, one of my brother's cigarattes, even though I myself have never smoked one in my life. She declined, scrunching up her nose, and I blushed and immediately out them away. She took off her shoes and walked out of the kitchen. Since then, she's been parading around the living room, trailing her finger along the picture frames, clicking her tongue, and leaving her bare footprints in the deep carpet. I can't help but notice how she pauses on the pictures of my brother– my brother and I, that is, but that's hardly significant, as I'm sure she's focused on my brother– and just stares at them for a moment, as if her eyes are searching for something in the photographs she can't find when she really looks at him. Finally, earlier than usual, fortunately, my brother shows up. He walks in the door and throws his jacket on the kitchen bar and then turns to me and starts saying, "Man, Benny boy, will you be amazed when I tell you about the–" he stops then, as he sees her in the living room, turning slowly from a frame to look at him, but I know what words would have followed–"girl I met today". It's the first words out of his mouth every day when he steps in the door, and the girl's always different from the last one. "Well, would you look at that!" he says, his mouth wide in a huge smile, and I'm shocked by the authenticity of it, "You're here!" Clearly, she's the amazing girl he met today. I step out of the kitchen awkwardly, not sure where I should look. "Hello, Connor," she says, and her voice is thick, warm pudding, the kind of voice you'd here in a Maybelline commercial. "I didn't expect you to be–" Connor starts, but she cuts him off, "Listen, Connor, I've been waiting here for forty-five minutes, and I have a seven o'clock shift at the restaurant, so I need to make this quick." She clears her throat and brushes her hair out of her eyes. "I need you to stop calling me." Connor looks stunned, but I feel even more stunned, my eyes wide at the idea of Connor being the desperate one. She shakes her head and says, "It really just needs to stop. And though I appreciate your service, I really want you to stop showing up at the restaurant, too. The other customers get uncomfortable when they see someone flirting with the waitress and asking her over and over if she will be at that party next Saturday." She says this all very fast, and at the end of it she looks relieved, like a weight has been lifted off her chest. Connor is just staring at her, his face blank, and she says, "I'm sorry, Connor, but it's just never going to happen." She's walking over to me as she says this and picking up her jacket from the breakfast bar stool, and she pauses before adding, "But I appreciate your effort. It's really sweet the amount of time you put into–" she pauses again, searching for a word, "trying to woo me, I guess. I'm really sorry it didn't work out." She walks past him and toward the front door, and stops with her hand on the doorknob. "Oh," she says, turning around, looking slightly embarrassed, "I forgot..." Connor hasn't moved, so he's currently facing away from her. She bites her lip and turns to me, and I almost jump from the sheer strength of her gaze; the shock of her big, violently gorgeous brown eyes, "Will you help me with my car? I just need help pushing it down the driveway, from there it should be good." I nod quickly, my cheeks ablaze for no apparent reason, and follow her outside. We push her car into the street and she runs around to the driver's seat. "Thanks," she says, glancing out at me. I nod, and manage a, "No problem", though I'm positive my voice would've cracked if I'd said one word more. I expect her to drive away as quickly as possible then, but she bites her lip and says, "It was nice to meet you, Benjamin." She looks at her hands, her knuckles sharp as she clutches the steering wheel, "You have very nice eyes." I blink, shocked, and she looks quickly up at me, her cheeks bright red, and says, "You really photograph well. I–" she stops again, waiting as a car passes her on the opposite side of the street, her cheeks still ablaze, "I want to be a photographer." I stare at her, not knowing what to say, not sure if I've heard her right. She glances behind her and sees a car coming up her side of the road, so she turns quickly and says, "Would you mind if I photographed you sometime? Just some portraits, you know, close-up shots." She smiles, "Your parents would like them." I'm still stunned into silence, so I just nod. She smiles widely, her cheeks going even brighter, and says, "Great." She rolls her eyes, "Your brother has my number. Not sure how he got it, but he has it." She glances again in her rear view before turning the key in the ignition and shouting out the window as she speeds away, "Call me!"

© 2011

Shall We Go To the Moon

"Well...we could go to the moon."

"The moon?"

"Yea. Why not?"

"I don't know. I don't really feel like it." I paused, and bit down on another strawberry, the red juice flowing down my chin and doubtless dying my teeth. "We could go flying." He shrugged, grabbing a strawberry from the bowl between us and swirling it over his head, and I watched as a dragonfly flew over us, placing my arms beside me again and running my fingers through the grass. "Maybe. What else?" I continued to move my fingers through the grass as I thought, and I listened to the creek in the distance; the sound of the water nymphs tripping over their feet on the rocks and crashing onto the pebbles beneath them. Clumsy things; water nymphs are.

"We could go swimming."

"Oh, no, it's too cool today. We should save that for a warm day." He was right. I didn't really feel like going back to the house to search for my oxygen pills in our big medicine cabinet, anyway. I was so comfortable right where I was. I didn't say anything for a while, just listened to the colorful sounds dancing around my ears, swatting some away when they started to get bored and play tricks on me. "It's very nice out here," I said finally, as the grass; now accustomed to me, curled around my fingers lovingly, glad to be stroked by such tender hands, not afraid of being ripped from their warm soil homes. "It is," he agreed, wiping the juice from the last strawberry on his jeans, leaving red trails like fresh blood on the stitchlines. I rolled over on my belly and watched the wind as it moved through the trees and over the open field, coming towards me and giggling as it brushed through my hair. Its long, silver fingers brushed my face again and again, and I smiled at its delicate touch as the sounds sighed gratefully, whooshing through my ears like beautiful lullabies. "I wonder what it's like," he said, turning to face me, his amber eyes bright with excitement about things unknown. "What what's like?" I asked, moving so I sat cross-legged in front of him and reaching out with slender fingers, brushing them through his hair more sufficiently than the wind, pressing the warmth from my hands into his wind-scraped, freezing cheeks. I watched as the blues bursted into reds there, and the reds in my fingertips dimmed into pinks. "To be blind," he said, "deaf. Numb." 'Numb' is how we usually refer to the Outsiders. They come here and give us strange expressions, say to us confusing things. One of them figured out the difference between us and them, when he passed through. "You feel things," he said, wringing his hands, trying to explain, his eyes confused and tired, "You experience things which we don't. I mean, we do. I don't..." he had paused, shaking his head. "I'm not sure how to explain this. We feel what you feel and see what you see and hear what you hear; but everything is muted for us. Turned down, as if someone reached up and threw a blanket over the sun; worried it would be too bright for our eyes." I wonder, sometimes, too, what it must be like to be Numb. If they don't experience all that we do, what do they experience? They've tried to explain it to us before. But none of it made sense. "You hear the wind?" one of us had asked a Numb man. "Yes," he said, "But I don't...see the sounds." The one of us raised his eyebrows and asked, "Do you see the wind?" The Numb man furrowed his eyebrows, "In a way. But not completely. I see the wind's effects." None of it makes any sense, honestly. "It must be frustrating," I said to him, taking my hands from his now warm, red face and placing them on his own blue hands. "I can't see how it wouldn't be," he nodded in agreement. I turned, after his hands were red, and lay beside him again. I moved my head onto his chest and he moved his hands through my hair and brushed my cheek with kisses. "So you don't want to go to the moon?" I asked again, lacing my fingers through his and watching as the sounds left my mouth and swam up to his ears. He smiled, "I don't know. Maybe."

© 2011

Hold You

I'll hold you 'til my arms wear away

And after that you can lean on me

I'll kiss you 'til my lips turn to dust

And after that our foreheads will touch

I'll stare at you 'til my eyes go blind

And after that I'll feel your hands in mine

I'll be with you 'til the end of my life

And love you 'til the end of time

© 2011

Salt Water & Stars

"There's more, you know," he says. I turn my head to look at him for a moment, but I say nothing, and then I look back up at the sky. "Than this, I mean," he continues, as if my silence indicates confusion which he must fix. He waits for me to respond, but I don't; at least, not until he opens his mouth to say more. At that point I interrupt his train of thought by saying, "We don't need more." These words startle him, throw him off, and he hesitates before asking, "What do you mean?" I turn to him and say, "I mean we don't need more. This is enough." I look up at the universe again, and watch as a shooting star flies across our galaxy, oblivious to the terror it is hovering above. "This is enough," I repeat again, but even to me, the words sound slightly forced, like water is slightly forced down your throat when you swallow pills with it. "What is enough?" he asks, his voice loud and bordering on angry, and I turn and see the fire in his eyes which first made me hesitate to walk past him. Sometimes, when his eyes are like this, I almost convince myself that it's real– that this is reality, and the distant memories which constantly tickle me are only rembrandts of incomplete dreams lost in waking. "What is enough? What could possibly be enough, when there's nothing left?" I am staring at the stars again as I say, "There's you." I pause, squinting at what might be a constellation, and then add, "There's me." Finally, I turn towards him again, and I set my face and murmur in the best tone I can muster, "There's us." He stares at me for only a moment before pulling me toward him, and I let myself go limp in his arms as he kisses me, a tanginess playing on my tongue and a saltiness stirring the muscles in my cheeks and reminding me of the salt-water taste which used to set my mouth on fire; the chill of the lips which used to send shivers down my spine. He pulls away from me with a bit of a gasp and stares at me for a moment before nodding, looking back up at the stars, and saying, "You're right. This is enough." But now my eyes are focused on a cracked point in the pavement, and my mind is yelling, there's more out there, you know. I swallow and look back at him, and for a moment all I see is the face of the boy with the salt-water in his mouth, before the vision fades and he's just him again.

There's got to be more.

© 2011

Chucks

She was staring at her shoes.

They were Chucks, beat up old things; hightops, black, with poetry written on the rim.

She glanced over at my shoes.

They were also Chucks, brand new; lowtops, white, with my initals written on the toes.

She looked back at her own shoes and then out ahead of us, at the road. She never said a word, not the whole time we sat there, not even when she psychoanalyzed our shoes.

"I'm sure he'll be here any minute now," I told her, pushing back my hair in a swift motion, standing up and staring down the road as if I could see his car now, just turning 'round the corner. "Sure, sure," she said, nodding, looking back down at her shoes. Those were the first words she'd said to me all day, not including "Morning". I stared at her for a moment and then looked back down the road, squinting my eyes to see, with the sun shining right at me. "Any idea where we'll be going?" I ask her, scuffing the road with my shoes and taking into account the way she takes into account the black marks now contaminating my once-perfect white Chuck Taylors. She shrugs and plays with the latch of the suitcase she's resting on. I squint at her now, and finally say, "Boy, you sure don't say a heck of a lot, do ya?" She looks up at me, slight amusement showing on her squinted eyes, "Naw, not much."

"I wonder how that'll be."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I mean livin' with Paul and you, your being so gosh darn quiet all the time, and all." She grins, finally, at this. "It'll be swell, I'm sure. Not much disturbin' I can do to the two of ya if I'm quiet all the time, is there?" Kid's got a point, there. One time, Paul brought in this homeless kid Joan, and she'd come in danglin' her cigs and tappin' the ashes out all over everything, and she'd tell you these long, rambling stories about hardly anything at all that would leave you exhausted; by the time you reached the end. Paul's that type, see. He's always gotta be helpin' someone or other, and we travel so darn much, he can't join any of those fancy helpin'-people groups or nothin', nor do we have the kind of cash to be just givin' it out, ya know, so he just takes people in– which makes no sense, really, seein' as we never own the places he lets people stay at, and we're only there long enough to take 'em in long enough to bother the Dickins out of me; rather than actually makin' any sorta change in the person's life. At least they get a roof over their heads for a while, though, and food in their mouths. I guess that's all Paul really wants– to give 'em that.

This girl isn't like Joan, though, or most of the others we've let in– certainly nothin' like Cane, the last guy who stayed with us. Boy, was he a fruitcake. He could really drive ya nuts, that guy. I'm pretty sure he oughta be in one o' them institutions, or somethin' of the like. I was honest real scared some nights; I never left my bedroom door unlocked. One day, though, he just up and disappeared. And this girl here, Cathryn, her name is, she was the next recruit.

She's the first one ever to move with us. People usually like to stay put, though I can't imagine why, if they ain't got a house or a job or nothin' in the area. Even if they wanna move, though, they usually don't wanna come with us. We go all sorts of strange places, and even the homeless have standards, I guess.

Not this girl, though. She's been with Paul three weeks now (I had to visit my mom, see, so I only just met her today)– not too much, but we've been awful busy, and so we're moving now, even though Paul usually likes to stay in one place for a month at least– he thinks any less doesn't count as real charity, isn't really helpful to our boarder. But we really needed to get movin', this time, and when Paul regretfully told Cathryn this, she shrugged and asked if she could come with us.

I honest thought Paul was into her, when he first brought her home. She's real pretty, is the thing. We've had a few girls before– Joan, I mentioned, plus Tabby and Erica. But none of them were lookers, not at all. And none of them were interested in us, either.

But Cathryn. She's a real looker, I gotta admit. I was convinced, when Paul came home with her tailing his heels, that he'd found himself a lady. I wasn't too unhappy about that, neither: heneeded to get himself a lady, he really did. He's one of those lonely guys; see. Always takin' out this dumb old acoustic that plays like a screeching cat and singing in this mopy, monotonous voice about a girl he once knew, though he never knew a one, if I'm gonna tell ya the truth. Not a one.

So you can see why I'd want him to have gotten himself a lady. And a looker, too. I was feelin' awful proud, and a bit jealous, too, really. I mean, she's really a looker. Last girl I had was pretty enough, but she had nothin' on Cathryn, plus she was ruder than your mother, I swear, and she dumped me real hard, so I could hardly boast about her. There's nothin' wrong with goin' around with you best pal, guys get real jealous when they hear about our lifestyle, they really do. But when the guy you're travelin' with gets himself a girl, a real looker, I mean, and you're just alone with your cigarettes and all– well, you can see why that'd be a problem. Guys'd pat you on the back, still, just like they do now, but their pats would be sympathetic, instead of envious and congratulatory.

Anyway, that didn't turn out to be a problem, though. 'Cause Cathryn wasn't his new lady friend. She was just another boarder.

Boy, was I surprised when I heard that, lemme tell ya. This girl, she really doesn't look like the homeless type. I mean, not at all. Geez.

I don't mind havin' her around, I guess. She's nice, I s'pose, when you get over the idea of havin' conversation. And it doesn't harm a guy to have a real looker to glance at every once in a while; when he wonders why he didn't stay home and settle down with Betty Caulfield; the head cheerleader who once asked him to marry her. Boy, Betty was somethin', all right. It really doesn't hurt a guy at all to have a girl like Cathryn around.

"Don't think you'd be disturbin' us, anyway, even if you did talk a heck of a lot," I say to her now, glancing over at her again as she starts straightening her laces. "When you do talk, it seems like you got nice enough things to say." Cathryn laughs at this, shakin' her head, and looks back out at the road. "I don't have much to say at all," she says, meeting my eyes. I press my lips together and just stare at her for a moment. Then I look back out at the road and see headlights in the distance. "There's Paul," I say, "You ready?" She nods, and we pick up our suitcases and step closer to the road, where Cathryn lines up her Chucks with the edge of the broken gravel.

© 2011

Breaking Dawn Part 1

So the title of this post.

I'm going to see it tonight.

/tomorrow morning.

...I'm kind of excited.

...and by kind of...

...I mean...

I'M FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW.

So as for music recs...

1. Breaking Dawn Part 1 Soundtrack

(No, seriously, that soundtrack is beyond-words-brilliant-and-breathtaking. Buy it. Listen to it. Love it.)

And as for movie recs...

1. Breaking Dawn Part 1

And as for book recs...

1. Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer

and also

2. Nattie and Finn by Anande Sjöden

(I had to include that even though this is a Breaking Dawn post because I finished reading that book today and it's the most wonderful thing on the planet after the Bible, the Twilight Saga, Pride and Prejudice, and the Wolves of Mercy Falls Trilogy.)

GO SEE BREAKING DAWN.,

Sienna the Twilighter/Twihard/Twilightaholic/Twilight fan extreme edition

(professional wrestler in all 60 states)

© 2011

Paranoid

I hear footsteps and they are following me and they are following me.

"Did you hear that?" I ask her, gripping her shoulder, looking behind us. "No," she says, frowning at me, "What?"

"Someone's following me. Someone is following me." She rolls her eyes, brushing her hair out of her face and moving away from my grasp. "First off, if anyone was following you, they'd be following me, too. As in, they'd be following us." She rolls her eyes and brushes her hair back again, and I wonder for the millionth time how she doesn't cut her forehead with those acrylic nails. It's amazing, she just skims them right across the skin their, like a blade– like a blade, a blade across– a blade across bread. Down bread. Through a loaf of bread. She cuts the bread, but it doesn't bleed. Well...well, I guess that makes sense. Bread doesn't bleed, does it? Huh. No, I don't think bread does bleed. Wait...wait, I remember, someone's following me. "Second of all," she continues, "There is absolutely no one behind us, and I heard nothing at all."

"Someone is following me. And your forehead is not even bleeding."

"What?"

"Wait. That's not bread. It's skin. It is skin! It's skin. Wait, if it's skin, why isn't it bleeding?" She raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing, just speeds up her pace so that I have to walk extra fast to keep up with her. I mean, I have to walk really fast. Really fast. I mean, I'm almost running. I'm not, though. I'm not running. I'm just walking super fast. No, really fast. Really fast. "Slow down," I say as I walk up next to her, "Sloooow down! Slow down. Someone is following me! Why would you... someone is following me, didn't I tell you? Why would you leave me behind when someone is following me?"

"No one is following you. Or me neither."

"Or you neither?" Or her neither. Or her neither? Wait– or her neither? What– oh, no! Someone is following me! I shake her shoulder quick, "Quick," I say, "We gotta...we gotta...walk really...we gotta run! We gotta run!" My eyes are wild and frantic, and she raises her eyebrows again and brushes that hair out of her face with those...acrylic...knife-blade...acrylic nails. Again. Again. "What for?"

"Well, I told you– I mean, I told you...I told you, didn't I? Someone...I mean to say that, someone...I mean..."

"Someone is following you?"

"Someone is following me! Wait! Someone's following me?! Well, why didn't...I mean...I mean, why didn't you tell me? I...we...we better walk really– I mean, we better run! Run, I mean! We really–"

"Aw, shut up, wouldja? No one's following you." I stop dead in my tracks. "Oh my gosh," I say, my eyes wide as I spin around quickly in a circle, "Oh...oh...I mean...oh no!"

"What now?" she asks, irritation coating her...coating...I mean, coating her voice like butter...on...toast...she's not bleeding...Wait! What was that? I hear footsteps and they are following me and they are following me. "Did you hear that?" I ask her, gripping her shoulder, looking behind us.

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