This is all the prose from eliteskills.com. Again, ordered from most recent to least recent.

Speak When Spoken To
“Angeline,” her husband was calling her back to his side.

Mary cringed inwardly. She much preferred the name Mary, her middle name. Only her few friends from her grade-school days called her by her given name, and her husband. Once she had entered college, and the teacher no longer called out names in class, Mary had introduced herself as Mary. Mary was a much more common, forgettable name; and that was the way Mary wished to be.

All Mary had ever asked of the world was that it forget her. But that had never happened for her. She had always been too intelligent, too gifted, too beautiful for people to forget her. The high grades had always come easily to her, and that garnered attention from peers and adults as she grew up. Then there was music and theatre. She only wanted to pursue a hobby, to do something that would make her happy, but she was too good at it. She finally learned to lie, and tell her teachers and parents that she practiced very hard at home. And she purposefully fumbled over words in her monologues, and pretended that her classmates could emote far better than she could. As she learned that her high grades were a major cause of attention, she began turning in less and less work. But even all these efforts didn’t work. It was obvious that she didn’t practice her violin and flute because no one ever heard her; her final performances for plays were always impeccable; even as she slacked off in school, her test scores were still present.

And, even after she entered college, after she was able to start with a clean slate, when there was no reputation to haunt her, her hair was still there. Her long, shining, impossibly rich, brown hair. Its color was so deep, with the smallest hint of red, and it shined so brightly in even the smallest amount of light, that it garnered attention wherever she went. And for this she punished it daily, brutally. She used only the cheapest 2-in-one available; it was less than a dollar per bottle. Then she harshly dried it on the highest setting, and curled it tightly, and straightened it. No gel, no leave-in conditioner, no shine serum was put in her hair. Despite this, it resolutely remained impossibly smooth, soft, and shining. For these crimes against her nature it was often chained in a ponytail, or shoved unscrupulously beneath a hat or hood.

But, tonight, she had been forced to release its shining lengths to spill over her shoulders and down her back. Society had also forced upon her its robes, or rather its dark green dress made of chiffon and silk. She had done her best, under these conditions, to remain unattended. Her neckline was high, the hem was at the floor, her back was covered, and sleeves hid her shoulders. All but her head, hair, and pale arms were swathed in fabric. She stood politely at her wealthy husband’s side, allowing him to converse as she simply smiled politely.

“What do you do with your hair?” Mrs. Holly asked as their husbands talked business.

“Nothing,” Mary answered politely, “I just wash it and dry it.”

She followed this with one of those wide, honest smiles that stretched into the eyes. And she meant it. At that moment, she was truly enjoying herself. Even as Mrs. Holly ran her fingers through Mary’s hair. Later that night, Mary would be curled up in a ball and relive this moment like the worst nightmare, but at this moment she didn’t mind one bit. Because at this moment, she was the public Mary that socialized with all the right people and knew exactly what to say to each person in order to make them think she was perfectly clever and charming. Not outstandingly, but perfectly.



At the Masquerades
Girard Lemasqué studied his face in the mirror, his hand in front of its right half. This way it seemed handsome. He had a strong jaw and high cheeks, green eyes and full lips. He removed his hand. Behind it had hid scar tissue, twisting the corner of his eye, pulling his mouth into a ghastly grin. It distorted his brow and soldered his jaw to his neck. With a fierce flick, he pulled a curtain in front of his reflection. He wrenched a jeweled mask from the table and tied it over his face. He strode out of the room, down the hall, and swept a cloak about his shoulders as he walked down the steps to his waiting carriage.
It was evening, and the sun had only the strength left to brush the horizon. The moon was already bright and full, though black clouds freed it for just moments at a time. The carriage rattled down a dirty road, then onto the cobbled streets of the city. Inside, Girard watched none of it. Finally, he stopped in front of a theatre where the attendees of the night's masquerade were entering. This was his life, attending masquerades to moonlight as a gentleman.
He stepped out of the carriage and into the theatre. A horned beast walked in front of him, speaking earnestly with a satyr. Beside him was a chevalier couple; and everywhere were historical figures and feathered faces. Girard could hear the orchestra's music from the pit, and hurried into the house to see the opening performance. Ballerinas danced onto the stage, where they met and were dipped by their partners. The girls danced around their men, waving their fans, twirling their skirts, until they were caught again in their pretended lovers' arms. It was a daring opening that Girard watched intently. So intently that he didn't notice the manager approach him.
"Ah, Monsieur Lemasqué!" Gémi Haute exclaimed when he had caught sight of Girard's crest, which pinned his cloak. "Désolé," he apologized as he saw Lemasqué's startled expression, "You are enjoying the ballet, non?"
"Indeed," Girard answered, "It is very provocative."
"Yes, I had my doubts, but Monsieur and Madame Dégotté insisted upon it. They are hard to refuse." Monsieur Haute studied the faces around him with tight lips and said, "It doesn't seem to be offending anyone. The liberal movement must be tainting people's taste for theatre as well as politics."
"Or they have just found that liberalism is pleasant on the stage, where nothing is real, and all is steady," Girard said.
"Perhaps." The horns let out one last, low note, and the dancers on stage froze. The audience clapped, the violins picked up a lively melody, and guests paired for dancing flooded the stage. Small groups stayed in seats to socialize while others wandered out for refreshments.
"Now you must come with me, mon patron, to meet our clients," Haute guided Girard firmly, "The Count Démand asked to dine with you on Thursday evening, but I told him you were indisposed. Here he is. Count Gille Démand and his wife, Countess Noire Démand; Duke Girard Lemasqué, our patron."
Girard politely kissed the lady's gloved hand and shook hands with the Count.
"A pleasure," Girard smiled and bowed, "I'm sorry I couldn't join you for supper, I'm afraid I'm quite busy. But, perhaps we could enjoy some refreshments tonight instead."
"Of course," the Count agreed and took his wife's arm, "Had you previwewed tonight's opening ballet?"
"I'm afraid not. I rarely get the chance to leave my manor. In fact, these masquerades are my only chance to speak with my manager face to face," Girard said, "I found it quite enthralling. I believe our ballet instructors have trained the performers very nicely."
"Mm, it was a bold move," Count Démand said.
"I enjoyed it," the Countess spoke, "Theatre has been taking its time catching up with the popular mood."
"I thought the same," Girard said.
"The popular mood is easily swayed by these contemporary speakers," the Count argued, "When the conservative speaks, the popular mood is conservative; when the liberal speaks, the popular mood is liberal; when the moderate speaks, the popular mood is moderate."
"I have always been a moderate, myself," Girard said, "But, then, I don't get the chance to go see these passionate speakers."
"That is probably for the best," the Count said.
"These tarts look delicious," Girard said, and put one onto his petite plate. "Have you seen our production of The Oedipus Cycle? The last play in the series is opening this Saturday."
"We were vacationing at Marseilles during the run of Oedipus Rex, but we had the chance to see Oedipus at Colonus last Wednesday," the Count said as he took a small cake, "It was obviously adapted for modern theatre."
"Yes, a ballet was added and many of the spoken lines were put to song. I was against it at first, but I was convinced that it would be a good excercise for the maestro and our choreographers. I think it turned out nicely."
"Then you do preview the performances put on by the company?" the Count inquired.
"I see the dress rehearsal, as a sort of private performance," Girard answered.
"Then you don't see the first rehearsals? You could be deceived by the manager and invest in a horror!"
"Non, Monsieur Haute knows I will refuse funding of any future performances if he deceives me. Not that I leave every decision up to him. In fact, tonight he wants me to audition two promising leads for one of tonight's intermediary ballets. Would you like to accompany me?"
"No, thank you. I prefer to be surprised. I think my wife and I will join the dancers on stage."
"As you wish. Au revoir."
"Au revoir."
Girard bowed and left for the studio backstage. He found Gémi pacing anxiously.
"You have been taking your time!" he fumed, "I hope you do not take too long deciding."
"Of course not," Girard answered reassurantly, "Let them perform together."
"D'accord. Il les veut ensemble!" Haute told the choreographer.
Two ballerinas hurried to chalk their slippers. Both were tall and willowy, perfect examples of grace. Their hair was knotted and plaited with spring green ribbons. One stood in front of the other and slightly to the side.
"The one in front, with the blond hair, is Cécile," Monsieur Haute whispered to Girard, "The one with the dark hair is Fleur."
Girard nodded to the choreographer and he began to tap his cane on the floor. After four taps, both girls began to move. After a few moments Girard saw a distinct difference between the two girls. They were both precise in their movements, and perfectly balanced, but with different styles. Fleur was more spirited in her dancing, but forgot about the audience; she danced for herself. Cécile obviously danced the steps given to her, he could see it in her face, but she was aware of him watching her and made eye contact with him.
"I see your dilemma now," Girard whispered to Gémi.
Gémi nodded. "They are both very good, but subtly different. I can't decide which is better for this type of performance."
Girard let them finish before speaking. "Fleur," he said, and got up to leave. He saw the fallen look on Cécile's face, but said nothing.
He entered the stage from the wing and stole a peacock-like lady from a black-and-white man. They danced silently for a while, then she saw his pin. He recognized the look of fear and curiosity, and left her with a bow to sit in a velvety seat.
"Are you Girard Lemasqué?" She had followed him.
"Yes, though I don't think it should mean anything to you," he said acidly.
This left her silent for a few moments, then she asked, "Why do you only show at masquerades?"
The portion of his face not covered by his mask contorted in rage. He jumped to his feet. "You insolent child!" he yelled and slapped her across the face.
Masked faces turned to look at them. She stood still, frozen with fright. He threw her aside and ran up the aisle, shoving aside those who stood in his way. His cloak billowed behind him as he ran backstage. There bewildered dancers jumped out of the way of his raging eyes. He ran up the spiraling staircase that led to the roof, gaining speed as he went. He burst onto the flat roof and slammed the door behind him. He yelled incoherently at the sky. Then his mood turned, and he cursed at the city. He drew the dull practice sword at his waist and beat at the railing, at the angels that stood on each corner.
"Damn you!" he cried, "Damn you!"
Finally, he exhausted himself. He felt tears welling in his eyes, but fought them back with a final blow of his fist. He lay, chest heaving, in the fold of an angel's stony robes.
"Damn all of you," he whispered with more venom than a viper, "You think that you can ask anything. You think that your charm and beauty can trick any secret from me. You look at me like a new scientific discovery, and perhaps you can be the one to unlock my secrets. You can't! You paint yourselves and shape yourselves, and hide beneath mounds of gold and silver. I want nothing to do with you and your endless curiosity. Do you hear me? Nothing!"
"Girard?" Haute appeared at the door.
"What?" Girard spat.
"I've called your carriage. It is waiting for you at the door."
Girard took one deep breath, and got up. He was still shaking, and put his sword back in its sheath. Haute held the door open for him, and watched him walk down the stairs. He walked through the ballerinas in the wings, then through the dancers on stage, and stalked down the aisle. Many faces watched him go by, and he wondered what they would do if he were to look back. Yes, they looked away as Girard met their eyes. Finally, he stepped into his carriage and began the bumpy ride back to his home.


Jade
The microwave beeped. Jade pulled out a mug of warm tea. She stirred it, pressed the tea bag with her spoon, and added sugar. It fizzed and bubbled like a sixth grade volcano, creating a thin, frothy film on top. She sat for a minute admiring it, and then carefully stirred the remaining granules into the spicy concoction. She raised a spoonful of the dark, red liquid to her lips, blew on it for a moment, and slowly sipped it away. Content with its sweet to spice ratio, she leaned against the counter to finish it off.

Her long, sinewy form was glistening with sweat, as she had just finished a morning jog. She wore Nike track shoes, black yoga pants, and a snug t-shirt. Her long, brown hair was pulled back in a harsh bun – not a wisp was out of place. She was thirty-five, and still had the glow of youth. Her bright green eyes opened to a slit as she heard her four-year-old son’s footsteps come through the foyer, but closed just as suddenly. The steps slowed as they approached her, and stopped a few feet away.

“Mommy?” little Richard asked.

“What?” Jade answered.
“Do you have practice today?” Richard said.

“No,” Jade opened her eyes and said, “Why?”
“Because you only go out in the morning when you don’t have dance, and today’s Saturday, and I wanna go on a date,” he said.

“Alright,” Jade answered, interested now, “Where do you want to go?”

“Ruby Tuesdays,” Richard said with expectation.

“Ruby Tuesdays it is,” she said, “Be ready in one hour.”

“One hour?” Richard cried dismally, “How about two?”

“One and a half,” Jade insisted, “And I’ll throw in an extra pancake.”

“Alright!” Richard agreed and bounded up the stairs.

By this time, Jade’s live-in boyfriend of fourteen years, Dave, had woken up. He came down the stairs in a purple terry robe with disheveled, brown hair.

“So, no rehearsal today?” he asked Jade as he made a cup of coffee.

“Nope, only the leads had to show up today,” Jade said with a smile. “I’m leaving in an hour and a half for a date with Richard.”

“Oh. Another man?” Dave chided, “Well, at least you’re telling me. I guess that makes it okay.”

“Thanks, hon,” Jade said with a kiss. “You know I’m only with you for the money.”

“That much is obvious,” Dave said, as Jade left, “I just can’t remember why I’m with you.”

Jade reentered the room and whispered in his ear, “For the kids.”

“Mmm, oh yeah,” he joked.

They kissed, and Jade was off again. She quickly stripped off her clothes, and ran a damp washcloth over herself to wipe away the sweat. Her bun was taken out, which fell into long curls of shining brunette. Another t-shirt was pulled over her head, and she slipped on a pair of white jeans. Jade was sparing with make-up; but since it was a date, she decided to put on some mascara and eyeliner in addition to the usual blush and eye shadow. She slid a pair of diamond studs into her ears and went to help Richard. He was in a pair of khaki shorts and a dinosaur print t-shirt.

Finally, they were both ready to go. Dave was still in his bathrobe, reading a newspaper at the table. Jade stepped into a pair of clogs and yelled a farewell to him as she guided Richard out the door. The mother-son pair climbed into a Range Rover and quickly pulled out. Jade didn’t speed any more than she normally did, and she only did seventy on the highway. Richard was sitting up straight, kicking his feet and looking eagerly around.

There was a semi in front of them, in the lane to their left, who was swerving on the road. Jade decided that she would rather be in front of it, if it caused an accident, than behind it, so she sped up to pass it. She was just clearing the trailer when the monstrous wheels veered towards her. She tried to evade them, but they collided with the Rover. Her door crumpled, and the steering wheel pulled out of her hands. Richard was screaming as the concrete barrier began closing in on him. Jade closed her eyes, and it reminded her of the time she jumped off the high diving board. She was expecting the impact and crush, but it didn’t come when she expected. She didn’t dare open her eyes, but she did. The barrier collided with her son’s door and smashed it like play dough. She screamed, but the semi’s wheels quickly cut her off. They smashed the glass and bent the steel. She blacked out for a moment.

When she woke up, she heard someone outside her windshield. Why would they be at her windshield? Why didn’t they just come to her door? Then she opened her eyes. She saw that her windshield had been blown out, and glass was all over her. She felt it in her face, her chest, her arms, and her hands. Immediately she thought to look over at Richard. His eyes were open, but they weren’t looking at anything. At first, Jade couldn’t understand why that would be happening. Then she saw exactly what the concrete barrier had done to the car door, and realized that her son had died on impact. All the emotions she felt at that moment are impossible to describe. Even she couldn’t feel them all at once. But Jade felt a grief deeper than anything imaginable, more disturbed because of the open eyes. They had tricked her, made her think that he was awake when he wasn’t.

She was going to scream. She tried to take a deep lungful of air, but couldn’t. She looked down at her chest in confusion, and saw her steering wheel jammed against it. She began panicking. She made frantic, staccato attempts to free herself, but couldn’t get out. The voice on the hood of her car was saying something, but she couldn’t understand it. She knew the person was speaking English, but she couldn’t understand a word of it. As she struggled, she felt lactic acid build up too quickly. She saw black spots dance in her vision. No, no, no. She had to get out. She had to get this seat belt off. She had to do it. She had to do it. But oxygen is a necessity, and even adrenaline can’t satisfy that.

I, Vulcan
There are so many reasons; I can only name those I remember. It has been at least six years since my return to normalcy, and I no longer regret the decision that necessitated that return. The first, and most direct, cause was probably my love of the TV show Star Trek; particularly, my love of the Vulcan first commander, Spock. But, because this drastic change in personality occurred sometime between third and fifth grade, certain events surrounding that period will always be connected to my decision.

My mother and father introduced me to Star Trek at an extremely young age. I have been told that my house hosted many Star Trek parties where coconut covered treats were called tribbles, and where I would sneak out of bed to watch the late episodes. I can’t remember that, but my favorite episode has always been ‘The Trouble with Tribbles’. My favorite character has always been Spock, with Bones as a close second. As a human, I related more closely with Bones, but Spock’s point of view always fascinated me. I always wondered what it would be like to be Vulcan.

Being Vulcan is an experience most humans have no way of comprehending, because it means the suppression of all emotion, almost to the point of its extinction, and complete logic. Because of this unique perspective, I began to pursue the idea. I did not know how to go about it, so my early attempts failed. I was focusing on suppressing my emotion, which I later found out was the incorrect method. I soon gave up the idea, and relinquished myself to my humanity.

Up until the third grade, I had been a friend of the people who now populate the popular group. In third grade, this began to change, and this change will be indelibly linked to an incident involving my best friend, Erica Elko. You must understand what good friends we were. Our desks faced each other at the table, and there was a wall next to us. Between our desks and the wall was about three feet; it consisted of an imaginary hut shared by Erica and I. We often extended this hut to include our desks, especially when it was time for class work. This incident I have mentioned occurred during a time set aside for a project. Erica had gone to the bathroom, and I needed scissors. Just before she had left, I had borrowed several things from her. I therefore felt no inhibition about borrowing her scissors. I went over to her desk and pulled out her pencil box. It fell apart. I looked at it in dismay and put it back. When Erica used it next, she was upset that it had been broken. I had to tell her that I had pulled it out. She became more upset than I thought she would, and I insisted that it had already been broken when I pulled it out. After that, I don’t remember talking to her much. I didn’t play with her on the playground anymore, and so I was excluded from the group of friends I had previously known.

This left me all alone, save a precious few. I don’t remember if they picked on me much, but I remember a very lonely feeling. I was sad a lot, and I began to read even more than I used to. My reading increased from a book a week to three or four books a week. I became more obsessed with Star Trek, and began to yearn for Spock’s intellect. I read and read, about physics and math and quantum mechanics. I read about theology and metaphysics. All this information made me reclusive and contemplative. I was coming up with theories that many of my friends couldn’t relate to, much less understand.

I don’t know exactly how or why, but I had an intense drive to become Vulcan. And I succeeded. My first recollection of this success was when a joke was told in my fourth grade class. I understood the joke. I knew why it was funny. But I had no desire to laugh. The rest of the class was practically crying, and I sat patiently in my chair for the teacher to continue. I had no emotion. I was not happy, but I was not sad. The closest word I can find for it is satisfaction.

While this change had been fueled by reading, so was my return. I read fantasy and science fiction, as well as non-fiction. For some reason I focused on the eyes, maybe because the eyes were described so vividly in the books. They were described as windows to a person’s soul, but I could only see organs. All the things that were described so eloquently were only an amalgamation of atoms in my mind. I saw nothing beautiful about the world, only science and math. So I changed. Sometime between sixth and seventh grade I began the reclamation of my emotions.

Until you experience it yourself, you can never know how difficult it is. But it taught me this: No human has the excuse ‘I can’t do it’. I changed the fundamental nature of my humanity. A person can do anything.


Justice, Pt. 2
Arrio limped to his room, stripped off his vomit-soaked pants, and pulled himself beneath the thick covers of his plush bed. He was drifting to sleep when a thought struck him: Had Louisa shown up? Arrio remembered waiting for her, but he was too tired to search his alcohol-muddled mind. So he slept soundly, and deeply, through the afternoon.

He awoke with a start at three o’clock and realized that he had agreed to see Don Manuel in fifteen minutes. He grabbed a clean, pinstripe suit from his closet and ran into his bathroom. There was no time for a shower, so he ran a wet washcloth over his body and rinsed his hair in the sink. As he came out from beneath the water, he hit his head on the faucet.

“Shit,” he mumbled. He felt the area for blood, but found none.

He continued to brush his teeth, wash his face, shave, and get dressed. He ran out of the bathroom and slipped into a pair of shiny Oxfords as he wrestled a diamond covered watch onto his wrist.

“Shit,” he mumbled again. It was 3:15, and Arrio was late again. He raced down the stairs and across the mansion, to the West Office Wing.

“Sir,” a young, slender receptionist stopped him outside his office, “Luke has taken Don Manuel out to the gardens, and these were left for you.”

“Thank you,” Arrio said as he received a small stack of cards from her. He turned to leave for the gardens as he pulled out a cell phone with one hand and began looking through the cards with another. He called Luke, and the phone had only rung twice before Arrio came upon Louisa’s call card. Her name was written in shiny pink lettering that danced gracefully across the stiff whiteness of the card. He turned it over, to see when he could call on her. The blank line read ‘Never’.

“Damn it!” he yelled.

“What?” Luke had picked up the phone.

“Nothing,” Arrio replied, “It’s just something Jaclyn gave me. Where are you?”

“In the gardens,” Luke said, “Was it her card?”

“Yeah,” Arrio said, “Where in the gardens?”

“I’ll explain her later,” Luke said, “We’re not too far down the Red Riding Hood path.”

“Good. I’ll catch up to you in ten minutes. Apologize to the Don for my tardiness. Tell him a family emergency came up.” Arrio hung up and began jogging to the path.

When he caught up to them fifteen minutes later, the Don didn’t look as upset as Arrio had expected. He was a plump Caucasian man – the name and title were obviously fake.

“Good afternoon,” Arrio offered his hand to the Don, “Would you like to continue outside or go to my office?”

“I prefer the outdoors,” Don Manuel said, with a German accent, “There are fewer intruders.”

“I agree. Except for the birds, few eavesdroppers appear,” Arrio said.

They began to walk down the wide path. Arrio was on Don Manuel’s right, and Luke was on his left.

“So, why did you arrange a meeting with me?” Don Manuel inquired.

“Ah, good,” Arrio smiled, “I hate it when businessmen beat around the bush. It’s so cumbersome, and takes me away from my profits.”

“We would like to ask you to do less business in our area,” Luke told him.

“Your friend is outspoken,” Don Manuel said, “But I will not. One’s empire can never grow too large.”

“Indeed,” Arrio allowed the side of his mouth to twitch into a smile. This man was an idiot, and idiots don’t have empires. “But I believe mine is larger than yours, with more influence.”

“But you’ve heard of me,” the Don refuted, “I have more friends than yours, in more places.”

“Oh, no,” Luke said, “Our friends are more powerful and numerous than yours.”

“An alliance, then.” The Don was becoming nervous, and therefore desperate. “I will give you five percent of all my profits.”

“I don’t think you understand us,” Arrio said, “Our friends are more powerful and numerous than yours. Take, for instance, Van Weigen.”

Luke and Arrio saw Don Manuel blanch. “He does not like traitors, and he has promised us one hundred percent of your profits if we get rid of you.”

“You can’t do that here,” the Don said with confidence, “The sun shines, and this trail is well-packed. It is frequented too often to kill a person and hide their body.”

“Who said anything about killing you?” Arrio laughed, “We deal justice, not death.”

At that phrase, five men in black, bulletproof vests burst from the foliage. Don Manuel was shocked stiff, and soon overwhelmed. Two guns were pointed at him while handcuffs were slapped onto his wrists. He didn’t see the back of the jackets that read ‘FBI’ until he was being shoved farther into the woods, where a truck waited.

Arrio and Luke laughed as Don Manuel cursed at them. They had won again.


A True Love Story
This is a story of two people in love. Neither of them was very attractive, because this is a real story. If they were both attractive, then they wouldn’t be in love – they would be infatuated. So, they were two unassuming, normal adults attending an average college, and they both had average grades. Neither of them had a family paying their way through college, and neither of them had an enormous amount of scholarships (scholarships are not awarded to the mediocre). In fact, they were both working to save money to pay off their student loans. But they were in love.
The young man was twenty-two, five foot nine, and had a cowlick above his left eye. He had a dark tan from doing construction over the summer in a nearby town; but he was very thin, just like his father, and had little hope of building bulging muscles like the other guys. His lip was scarred and a little crooked, and his eyes were a little too close together. He had a square face with brown eyes and framed by light brown hair. His name was Daniel.
The young woman was twenty-three, five foot seven, and had thick lenses in her glasses. She was pale and unathletic, preferring to lie in bed and read or watch TV. In fact, her only exercise involved walking to class. She was neither fat nor skinny, and swore to herself each day that she would get up and take a jog; but then she would sit down to eat, pick up a book, and sit there for the rest of the night. She thought her lips were a little too fat and her cheeks were a little too chubby, and that her hair was too dark and frizzy. Her name was Isabelle.
At 12:30 they had a class together – Calculus. Despite the fact that they purposefully chose seats far from each other (they had both failed before), neither of them paid much attention in class. They spent their time texting each other on their cell phones and doodling in their notebooks. After class they would get coffee on University Drive and try to figure out what they missed in class. Then they would part ways until 5:00.
Neither of them had enough money to take the other out to dinner, so they took turns assembling a dinner from the cafeteria food and serving it in their dorm. After that, they would either watch a movie or stay up and talk until 9:00, at which point one had to leave for their respective dorm.
Isabelle graduated first and left for a job in Philadelphia. They kept in touch through letters for a while, but after Daniel moved, they lost contact. They both figured that if the other one really loved them, they would come to them. Unfortunately, that’s like telling everyone to stay put in case you get lost in the grocery store.



A Destiny Born
Rivka felt caged within the bulky veil of silk petals that she wore. Her movements were jerky and self-conscious as she descended the slippery marble steps. She was clutching too tightly to the hand that escorted her, and she relied too much upon his guidance.
“Loosen your shoulders and look up,” he told her softly from beneath his mask.
She looked up for a moment and insecure fear was apparent. She slipped as she reached the floor, but her escort held her upright.
“We’ll work on that later,” he said, “Don’t worry about them.”
With that last bit of advice, he left her, a timid child. She quickly glanced around the room and gently made her way to a table of fruits. How could she not worry about them? They knew who she was. She was dark and hairless, though pale powder and a headdress of dark silk threads tried to hide that. She stood at the table, staring at the fruits with wide, gray eyes. She heard a whisper and a giggle, and looked up at a group of girls. They had nothing in common except wealth. The youngest were eight, the oldest were twenty-two, the prettiest were like fairies, and the ugliest were like trolls.
“What is a slave girl’s business in that gown?” one asked.
“Why do you bother trying to look like you have wealth?” another asked.
“What did you do for your master to dote on you so?” the ugliest insinuated.
“He brought her as a toy,” the eldest teased, “for his pleasure.”
“You came in with a knight,” one said, “Sir Dragonclaw, wasn’t it? Why did he abandon you at the stair? So he could speak with his friends without embarrassment?”
Rivka’s stare hardened and she drew herself up to her full height. Her posture was regal as she envisioned herself in a future of wealth and silken robes of red and purple.
“Your hands are soft and smooth, but ‘ere a year has passed your knees will be red and sore,” Rivka spoke boldly. The girls were indignant but confused, and Rivka walked away with newfound nobility. It faded as her vision faded, but her eyes were now up and her gait was smooth.
Her confidence carried her to her master’s side, where she lightly brushed his hand with hers. He glanced at her and smiled, noticing the change in her stature. His training would have to begin now.
***
The sun was just beginning to go down as they left in a carriage drawn by two large geldings. It was raining and Dragonclaw had told the driver to hurry. They came to a sudden halt and Rivka could see anger rising in her master. She looked through the window and saw a young woman hurrying across the street. Dragonclaw was about to shout, but Rivka stayed his voice with a hand.
“They have the right of way,” she told him gently.
“We had the power to crush her, she should have let us go,” he growled.
Rivka looked at him angrily and hit him.
“What are you trying to tell me this time?” he yelled, “Why can’t you just say it?”
‘Fool,’ she thought as the carriage began to move again.



The Last Entries
August 11, 2005 7:00 am

I was released from the hospital yesterday. My family had requested it, although I wasn’t really looking forward to spending my last day with them. I’ve been thinking about what to do with my remaining time for about six months, but all my plans were abandoned when I was hit with the reality of dying.

Death is a constant battle, or at least that’s what doctors and nurses think, so I’ve been on meds and doing therapy ever since the diagnosis. All I wanted to do was give up, but all the damned technology they use now takes choice out of the equation. I always thought I would go kayaking or mountain climbing, but after a month of treatment I was much too tired for any of that. So I’ve perfected my chess game with some of the doctors. Now even that is too taxing.

My mom wants me to go to school and see all my friends, but that would be torture on all of us. Everyone would be crying. Everyone would be careful around me, and looking at me, and what’s the use in going to school to learn when I’ll be dead by tomorrow?

My mom is coming in now.


August 11, 2005 4:05 pm

I was right. School was hell. All my friends were crying and reminiscing and saying how much they would miss me. I just sat and watched them. I tried to comfort a few of them, but it didn’t work too well. I’m not a crier, and if I were up for the fight I would have told them all to shut up. My mom made me go, and she even made me do my homework when I got home. So, of course, I’m exhausted.

We’re going out to dinner in about half an hour. As usual, no one really cares about my preferences. They all want to do the “normal”, cheesy stuff that’s supposed to make a family closer. That means they’re all going to cry. I hate going out to dinner. I don’t like to be around people. To make things worse, it’s a fancy place up in Wilmington called Hibachi. I’ll finally get to try sushi squid, but I don’t think I’ll get to really enjoy it. Oh well, I’ll get to wear the dress I made for prom. It’s like a forties dress with a pleated skirt, and it’s a really beautiful off-white color. I wear a black shrug over it that ties in the back with gold ribbon. My mom just gave me the shoes I wanted to wear with it. They look like ballet slippers and they’re white with off-white beading. I hope she returns them after I die, though, because they were really expensive.


August 11, 2005 9:00 pm

Well, dinner wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. My mom and dad did a lot of reminiscing while I nodded and tuned them out. The squid was good. I’m really tired now. I’m trying not to feel the presence of death, but it’s like when you know someone is in the room but they’re not. You try to ignore it, but there’s always that feeling in the back of your mind.

I’ve never been afraid of death, but I’m finally facing the doubts that I’ve had about my religion. I want to repent of everything I’ve done, just in case, and I want to go say I’m sorry to everyone that I’ve hurt, but I can’t. I’m scared about what will happen after I die. I’m kind of hoping that there isn’t anything there, but I also want to believe that God exists. I don’t know anymore. I’m too tired to write anymore, so I guess I’ll just have to find out.


A Fragment
"Hey, Josh, come 'ere," Lex called from a mound of dirt.

"Just a sec," Josh said as he disappeared into a nearby hole.

Beneath the topsoil the earth became sandy, and then it was retained by a small concrete tunnel. Josh had to pull himself along on his stomach to get to Lex. When he reached her, she directed his attention to a small steel compartment in the wall.

"See these wires?" she said, pointing to two blue wires, one purple one, one red one, and a yellow one.

"Yeah," Josh replied.

"Well, this yellow one is frayed where, I'm guessing, it was rubbing against the casing of the relay. The blue one is twisted and bent, so the little wires inside are probably broken," Lex showed him, "That's probably why we've been having the outages with the primary and auxiliary computers. I don't think they'll have to be replaced, but we'll need to get them repaired ASAP."

"Alright," Josh said and reached for the radio in his vest. "Pigeon, get us some Spitbugs up here. We need two twigs cleaned up."

"On it, Giraffe," the radio crackled.

"Giraffe?" Lex cocked an eyebrow at Josh.

"Out," Josh said into the radio. "They changed the callsigns to animals. Just wait til you find out what yours is."

"What is it?" Lex asked as Josh climbed out, "C'mon, I oughta know! They're new callsigns, I should know when someone's calling me!"

"You'll get a copy of it as soon as we get back to the base."

"Right," Lex spat, and pulled out her radio. "Hey, Orange, what's my new callsign? This is Olive."

"It's classified. Pigeon out."

"Go find a statue."

"Got it, Hound."

"Hound?" Lex whined, "He gets Giraffe and I get Hound? Shouldn't it be the other way around? I mean, giraffes so much more feminine than a hound."

"Maybe that's the point," Josh said.

"Oh, right."

The two began hiking back to base through the hot, humid, and dense foliage of the mountains. There was no trail, and thorny plants caught on their skin and clothing.

Lex's dark blonde hair was being pulled out of its tight bun by the branches, and her fair skin was attracting the attention of many mosquitoes despite the mud and camouflaging paint on it. Her caramel colored eyes squinted in the dark.

Josh walked ahead of her with a machete, chopping down only the most bothersome foliage. His body was lean but strong and covered in skin made pale from working out of the sun. His hair was dark and his eyes were gray.

Lex directed Josh as she read the GPS device in her hands.

(To be continued . . . cuz I'm not really done yet. lol)


Gray Christmas
Christmas isn’t white here, it never has been. Sometimes there is a dusting of gray over the grass, but never white. The houses, all exactly the same, are too close and the pavement is too common to have a white Christmas. Not that I’ve been outside my house much to see it, but I know what I see through my window and I know what I hear. I can see five houses to the right on my side of the street before it turns, and there are twelve to the left. I can’t see much past the houses across the street, but I know there are mountains far off because I can see the hazy shapes they make at dusk.

I don’t spend all my time looking out my window. If I did, I’m sure I would have a much stronger desire to venture outdoors. As it is, I mostly sit in my beanbag in the corner of my room to read books. I can go through a thousand pages in a day, and I’m proud of that. I don’t talk much, and I’m not much good at it when I do. Words get jumbled up on my tongue; that’s why I read. There’s not much else to do, and I rather enjoy it. I’ve made friends with a lot of the characters in my local library, I’ve even fallen in love with some. I can picture them all very clearly when they come to visit. I know they’re not real, but I like to pretend they are. I like to pretend that someone loves me and that I have friends and that I can talk with them normally. I don’t have to say things, I just think them and they know and it sounds just fine.

Ask me about a place that someone made up or about the ancient world and I’ll give you an answer longer than you might’ve liked, but I don’t know much about what’s happening right now. I just know what my family talks about at dinner, and we don’t eat together much. But that’s alright, because I like to eat with my friends more. Sometimes I wonder what my mom and dad think of me, and I’m pretty sure I confuse them. But that’s alright, because they don’t think I’m crazy yet. If they did I would be seeing a shrink, and they would be wasting money. Because I’m not crazy. I know it’s not real, but I like it better. I like it better than snow that looks like ash and far-off mountains and identical houses and no trees.



Justice, Pt. 1
With the lights off, only the seventeen candles on the cake illuminated the house. He could hear the voices of Benny, Mother, and Father singing the traditional 'Happy Birthday' tune. It was time for him to make his wish and blow out his candles. He paused to take a breath, and darkness engulfed the room. Glass shattered and wood splintered. Bright beams of light cut through the air. Father shoved him to the ground, and he protectively wrapped his arms around his screaming brother, whispering soothing words. In his peripheral vision Mother fell, blood pooling on the linoleum. He grabbed father's shirt, but his hand was slick with sweat and Benny's tears. Father tore away, crying for Mother, and fell atop her drowned in his own blood. Hands grasped him; he felt Benny being pulled from him. A large face loomed in front of his, one that filled him with fear so potent it was like an icy hand gripping his chest and squeezing tears from the depths of his soul.

"Please," he managed to ask through a choked throat.

"Mr. Dernhelm says happy birthday, Arrio," stagnant breath blew into his face.

He was whirled around to face Benny, who was held in the air kicking and screaming with a gun held to his head. A shot rang out. Blood spattered over Benny's pokemon print shirt and his eyes stopped watching.


Arrio awoke with a start. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light he found himself sitting in a plush red chair with a wine glass lying at his feet and a half empty bottle on the table. He pushed himself up and the floor plunged. Arrio was suddenly on the floor with the wine glass crushed beneath him and the bottle of wine lying beside him. He grasped for it and dragged himself over to the stairway in his finery. He began crawling up the soft carpeting on the steps. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but he slid and rolled down the steps. Arrio crashed at the bottom, bruised, nauseous, and with a splitting headache, but ready to start up again.

"Unnh," he moaned as he pulled himself to his knees and drained the bit of wine that was left.

With the bottle still in hand, he made slow progress by falling up the steps as he held on to the banister. After what seemed an eternity he had made it to the top, only to have another flight looming at the end of the hall to his right. He tried to walk over to it, but it suddenly pulled upwards in a large circle. The wine bottle shattered as he thrashed for the wall. The ceiling spun above him and he rolled over to vomit on the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and struggled to stand again.

"God, Arrio," Luke was suddenly pulling him to his feet, "not again. I told you not to drink last night. You never can stop."

"Go 'way," Arrio slurred and made a weak movement before vomiting on himself, "I don' nee dyer 'elp."

"Yeah you do," Luke insisted as he pulled Arrio up the stairs, "You cut yourself up pretty bad. On that bottle, I'm guessing."

Arrio moaned and vomited once more before they reached the bathroom.

"You know, that's really disgusting," Luke told Arrio. He pulled back Arrio's curls of brown hair as his head hung over the toilet. "I'll be back with some Pepto Bismol."

Arrio vomited again and Luke left. The relationship between the two was complicated, but the way they cared for each other was simple. Luke was Arrio's older brother, always guiding and caring for him when he needed it. And Arrio was Luke's younger brother, someone who cared about and confided in him. They were what the other needed to stay sane.

Luke returned after fifteen minutes with the bottle of Pepto Bismol and bandages. He found Arrio sobbing quietly over the toilet.

"Mom," he was whispering, "Mommy."

Luke knelt beside him and held out the bottle of pink gunk.

"Take a swig of this," Luke told Arrio. "We'll wait a couple of minutes just to make sure it stays down."

Luke peeled off Arrio's vomit splattered shirt and rolled up the left leg of his pants. Arrio's shin was bleeding, and Luke could see several shards of glass lodged in the skin. He pulled out a piece and Arrio howled in pain.

"What are you doing?" Arrio snapped.

"I'm taking out the glass you've got stuck in your leg," Luke said as he pulled out a second piece.

"Well stop it!" Arrio yelled.

"There's only one piece left!" Luke yelled back and yanked it out.

"Damn it!" Arrio cursed, "That hurts!"

"Shut up," Luke answered, "Maybe I shouldn't have given you that medicine, then you'd still be so hungover you wouldn't notice!"

Arrio didn't answer, but remained silent while Luke wrapped his leg in gauze. He didn't have the energy to remain so angry, and by the time Luke was done Arrio's eyes were drooping.

"Alright, you go sleep the rest of it off and I'll take care of things," Luke told him. Arrio was about to open the door when Luke interrupted him. "Wait. You don't remember what you did last night, do you?"

"No," Arrio said.

He limped out the door and down the hall.


To Whom It May Concern
To Whom It May Concern,
If you are reading this, then you already know who I am and the ending to my story. But let me explain myself and start at the beginning.
When I was a child in my father's castle when I first met him. I was only thirteen years of age, but I knew it was important. He was fifteen and his mother was a lady-in-waiting to my mother. I remember I was chasing the puppy I had been given for my birthday a week ago through the courtyard when he rounded the corner and my dog ran right into his legs. I giggled nervously. He was handsome. His long brown hair was tied back with a leather cord, but wisps were still falling into his face. I remember there was a smudge of dirt on his brow and he still wore the leather apron used in the smithy. He picked up the dazed dog and handed it to me.
"M'lady," he said to me with a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.
"What's your name?" I asked him impulsively.
"John, M'lady," he answered, "John Trevor."
"Is your mother Jesse Trevor?" I asked him.
"Yes, M'lady," he answered.
"Thank you," I said, referring to the dog squirming in my arms.
"You're welcome, M'lady."
I quickly turned and ran away as fast as I could in my dress. Only when I reached my room did I slow down. I quickly slipped inside and dropped my dog to the floor. I smiled widely. I wanted to see him again.
Over the next few years we met every chance we had. I found out that he wanted to be a knight and that he was working for the Smith in exchange for lessons. I found out that his father was a knight, usually abroad and rarely at home. And I found out that I loved him. I would stay up some nights just thinking about what it would be like to be married to him. I first kissed him in the same courtyard where we met. I was eighteen and he was twenty. He had finally become a knight and my father had sent him off to fight an uprising in Scotland. It was a farewell kiss, and short. He was gone for four years.
During those years I began to discover why he had been sent away. The French Prince Alastair began visiting my family more and more often. I noticed the way he looked at me and how he seemed to be everywhere. I hated him. I hated him because I knew that my father had sent John to Scotland only to be rid of him. My father was only ever interested in politics and wanted an alliance between France and England. So he had planned my marriage to Prince Alastair. He didn't tell me for four years, but I knew he had been planning it since the beginning. And I hated him for it. I had no choice but to marry the bastard. I wrote to John, praying the letter would find him.
I married Alastair on the nineteenth of June. That night. . . . That night I gave myself to someone I hated. And it was obvious that he didn't love me. He lusted after me, but he didn't love me. I cried the next morning like I hadn't cried before. I felt as though the world were falling apart, like I had betrayed John. Two days later John returned. He said he had received my letter and cut off his own foot during battle so he could return. I cried again. He asked why and I didn't answer. I crawled into the hospital bed with him and cried some more. I told him he was too late and that I was to go back to France with my husband in five days.
I didn't see John during those five days, I didn't dare. I don't know if he was there watching when I left; I didn't look. I didn't want to see his face. I wanted to forget him. I needed to forget him if I were to live at all. But I didn't forget him. During the whole eight years I spent in France I never forgot him. He was what kept me alive. Life with Alastair must be what hell is like. He was too much like my father. He poisoned his own father so he could take the throne, and then executed his mother for treason. I lived in fear of him. He had hit me more than once, and the only time he seemed to love me was at night in the bedroom. Finally, I could take it no longer. I took one of my horses and rode all the way back to England.
It was the middle of the night when I found him, John, and I woke him from his bed. I think he knew why I was there, recognized the look in my eyes. I was desperate.
"No," he sat up and told me firmly, "You are a married woman. The whole alliance depends on . . ."
He stopped as I brushed my finger against his lips.
"I need you," I told him, gasping for breath, "I need to know what love feels like. I need to know how you feel, how you taste. I need to see it in your eyes and smell it on you. Please."
My last words were strained; I remember that clearly. I knew Alastair was not far behind.
"Please, I want only to bear your son," I was close to tears.
He brushed his rough hand against my cheek and I rested mine against his chest. I leaned closer and kissed him on the lips. This one was longer, an invitation instead of a goodbye. I collapsed onto him and he rolled over on top of me. That night I felt something refreshing. It was the touch of love. Everything about that night was different from any I had spent with Alastair. I didn't want it to end. I want to be back there in his arms. But time is something the British Empire has yet to conquer. And so day did come. We slept late, exhausted from the night.
Alastair woke us. He knew I would be there; I had made no secret of my love for John. But I didn't expect the rage he went into. He tore John off of me like some wild boar. I don't remember the words he said, but I remember that he was screaming at me. He hit me over and over. He pulled my up by my hair and threw me, naked, against the wall. He drew a knife from his side and I screamed. I had never been one to scream, but that time I screamed at the top of my lungs. John leapt up and took the knife. But Alastair drew another. I was terrified. What if John lost? But he didn't lose. He plunged his knife straight into Alastair's chest just as Alastair's knife found its way deep into John's thigh. I dropped to my knees, exhausted. Then I realized that my head was bleeding. My eyes closed and after that I know little except what I was told. I was told that John was put on trial for murder and attempted murder. It was a desperate attempt by my father to keep the fragile alliance intact. Of course John was found guilty, there was no other choice in my father's eyes.
I woke the day before the execution and found out what had happened. They told me to stay in bed, but I stubbornly went to visit John in his cell. There we stayed the night. We didn't sleep, only held hands. He was taken out an hour before daybreak, the hour of his execution. And my mother came to take me to the doctor. She put a new dress on me because I refused to move at all. I was watching the horizon for the first sign of light and it came too soon. My mother forced me to go and watch. Even before he reached the block I felt my mind going. I felt as though the world was spinning out of control and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. The axe rose and fell. Then rose and fell again. Then I lost it. His head fell off his body and I began running at the executioner. It's unclear to me what happened. I only knew that I was enraged beyond the ability of any sane being. Two guards tried to stop me, but my limbs flailed and scratched at anything they found. It took five to subdue me. Still I struggled and screamed at the top of my lungs. The only man I had ever loved, the one I couldn't live without had been killed. Then my bloodthirsty eyes turned to my parents.
"I'll kill you! I screeched at them, "I'll kill you both! I'll kill you!"
I saw the frightened looks on their faces, but my mind was in chaos and it barely registered. I suppose they ordered I be sent to my room, I only know that was the next place I remember being. It seemed that I was in there for hours breaking everything I could, tearing at the walls and my bed. Finally I pried a large, sharp splinter of wood from the wall. My hands were bloody and I intended to kill myself. Maybe my parents thought I had calmed, because they entered. My mother was speaking soothing words, but I only remembered what they had done. First I plunged that shard into her neck and then her breast. My father tried to take it from me and I tore out a chunk of flesh with my teeth in return. I stabbed both of his eyes first, wanting to make him suffer, and then disemboweled him. I'm sure the bodies can't be a pleasant sight.
Then I wrote this. I wanted to tear down everything he had tried to keep safe with the ruining of my life and mind. So now you know the truth. Perhaps war will break out. I hope so.
And now I will kill myself. I would rather die by my own hand than by any decree from an unfair trial like that which killed John.
Sincerely,
Princess Elizabeth of England