Sweet Bethany

She hoped he was lying

He wished she was crying

Sweet Bethany trusted too much, too easy

Lying Jonathan knelt at her feet
Down on his knees
And begged for her hand, her sweet, delicate hand
Sweet Bethany gave it to him, too quick
Too easy

Oh, Sweet Bethany, ought your sorrows pierce the sky
Demanding raindrops as fat as can be
And, dear Sweet Bethany,
Hope that Lying Jonathan knows no mercy

Hair as black as the hunters through the night,
For purity and wrong thus entwined in white,
Sweet Bethany on her wedding-day
A beautiful dove not destined for flight
Lying Jonathan in his shroud of guilt,
Wore a tired grey upon the foundation of mistruths he built

Sweet Bethany knew no stronger love than hers for Lying Jonathan
Her skin, milky and fair, flooded pink upon her face
When Lying Jonathan voiced his lies
Behind her innocent back he planned
He plotted
And still Sweet Bethany remained in the darkness, alone in her cries

Oh, Sweet Bethany, ought your sorrows pierce the sky
Demanding raindrops as fat as can be
And, dear Sweet Bethany,
Hope that Lying Jonathan knows no mercy

Sweet Bethany, her skin as waxy as can be
Her raven back hair twisted and woven into braids
Gently resting on her shoulder, lest her wounds be revealed
Lying Jonathan painting sorrow at her casket
Grinning triumph as her rich mahogany vessel
Disappeared under his foundation of lies

Oh, Sweet Bethany, ought your sorrows pierce the sky
Demanding raindrops as fat as can be
And, dear Sweet Bethany,
Hope that Lying Jonathan knows no mercy

Sweet Bethany, once a lover of clouds in the sky,
Resided six feet from fresh air and lovely flowers
And Lying Jonathan lives on
Not even Fate knows why

Sweet Bethany, Sweet Bethany
Sweet Bethany, a garden of love
Sweet Bethany, a flightless dove
Sweet Bethany, Sweet Bethany

Oh, Sweet Bethany, ought your sorrows pierce the sky
Demanding raindrops as fat as can be
And, dear Sweet Bethany,
Hope that Lying Jonathan knows no mercy

Weird Nights 2.5

Bass hadn't seen French in two weeks now. No one had. It was torture to Bass, pure torture. He was wearing himself thin with worry, barely sleeping, barely eating, and constantly searching. His anxiety did not help the fact that Sonia kept insisting that he calm down.

"I can't calm down!" Bass screamed at his sister. "She's out there! She could be hurt! I have to find her!" He insisted, his eyes burning. Sonia looked as though Bass had slapped her. Bass never raised his voice. He had never even yelled at Trumpet, not even when Trumpet had kissed French. But Bass had just yelled at Sonia. He felt terrible, and her face made him feel so guilty that he couldn't breathe. He wanted to apologize, to beg Sonia to forgive him, but his mouth would not form the words. "Maybe she doesn't want to be found." Sonia said in a voice the size of a mouse. Her fear of her brother leaked into her minuscule voice. Bass let go of the tears that choked his throat and burned his eyes. He turned away from Sonia.

Bass was out in the park without another word to Sonia. His tears still waterfalled down his face, dripping to the leaves on the ground. "French!" He screamed.

Why had he kissed her? Why had he been so stupid? Bass sniffled and cracked a stick. Large, black birds with skinny and featherless necks flew up into the sky from somewhere to Bass's right. Curious, Bass jogged to the place where the birds had taken off from.

The river ran its sapphire blue finger through the clearing. On the soft mud of the banks, a perfectly white and meatless skeleton was stuck. Black feathers littered the ground around the skeleton. A silver flash nearly blinded Bass, and he knelt to examine the source.

The bracelet had a small silver heart strung on its chain. Bass's fingers fumbled to open the heart. It snapped open. Bass's heart clenched and he dropped the silver. It was a picture of Bass and French. The bracelet belonged to French.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She woke up screaming. Her terror level had spiked to the point that she had jumped out of bed. The white sheet was tangled on the floor and the purple comforter was thrown against the wall. An oversized white t-shirt hung off her shoulders and blue yoga pants brushed against her mid-calf. She looked around wildly, whimpering in pain. The girl raised the hem of the shirt to the bottom of her ribs. Her flat stomach bore no marks, no scars, no blood. She was okay. The girl let the hem of her shirt fall. She opened the door to her room and peered into the dark hallway. Cautiously, she padded down the hallway in sock feet. 

The living room was still dark. The early morning light had yet to break through the windows. On the couch, a bulk of twisted quilts had wrapped themselves around the bulky figure of a person. Anxiously, the girl sneaked across the carpet toward the figure.

He was breathing hard in his sleep, like he was in pain. His fingers twitched in his frightened sleep. "Andrew!" The girl hissed. A muscle in Andrew's jaw twitched. The girl gently touched Andrew's jugular, calmly whispering his name. "Andrew, I had another dream." She breathed. Andrew sucked in a sharp gasp and his eyes opened, glazed over in terror. "Holly!" He gasped. His arm flew to catch her wrist. He held it tenderly. "Holly, are you alright?" Andrew's eyes, colorless in the dark, beheld her with the greatest concern. It pained Holly to see him this way. "I'm fine, Andrew. Are you okay?" Her fingers brushed his neck. "I'm okay. You're okay. We're okay." Andrew smiled softly. "If your dad found you in here before he got up, he'd kill me." Holly rolled her eyes. "You're a real dork sometimes." Andrew grinned sideways. "I know. That's why you love me." "Don't bet on that." Holly brushed the skin over his jugular again. Andrew sat up and kissed her cheek.

A Game of Lies

Don't you know I can't see your face
Or play all of your little games
Don't you know I can't see your cards
But I can see your cheating ways

Don't you know I can't Hold 'Em
Or work with a royal flush
Don't you know poker is a game of lies
And you play poker all the time

Don't you know I can read your poker face
And even when you aren't playing cards
Don't you know I watched you cheat
And I'm hiding a two pair

Weird Nights 2.0

The doctor choked on his own saliva. He had watched as Subject 3R-Justin brutally murdered Subject 3R-Holly. The feeling of helplessness plagued his mind and his throat. His breath was constricted by both his disease and his worry. Subject 3R-Justin would be going for more. He would make a ghost of that town. He had started with Subject 3R-Holly, and the doctor knew he would not stop until the last person was gone. The doctor sneezed. His head pitched forward and his balance shifted. Had he not been sitting, he surely would have fallen. 

The only thing more unsettling than Subject 3R-Justin's actions was Subject 3R-Holly's last words. Instead of calling her killer Nate, she called him Justin. She had asked for an Andrew, whom she knew as Bass. The serum had faded the minutes before her death. Was it her terror? Was it her resignation? What had she seen while knocked out? The doctor sneezed and sent his chair backward a bit. No, it wouldn't be long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frenchie Midrange awoke to silence. Not the kind of silence where there isn't noise going on around him, no, this was not normal. Frenchie could not hear his own breath, or the beating of his own heart. Frenchie could not hear anything. He sat up and was greeted by the rustle of the covers, but nothing else. Nothing. The silence unnerved him to the point of looking around to make sure something wasn't stalking him. What would be, he didn't know.

A sudden stabbing pain gripped his chest. He felt like his heart was being torn in two. Frenchie crumpled to the ground, panting and hugging his chest. His chest was falling apart, falling apart on the inside. Frenchie could not breath, couldn't think, couldn't breathe...

As quickly as it came on, the feeling stopped. Frenchie stood up shakily. His chest seemed to have knit itself back together, but a throbbing pain pulsed to the beat of his heart, directly in the center of his chest. Frenchie put his hand on the epicenter of the pain. That part of his chest felt stone cold, but otherwise no different than it was usually.

Frenchie padded down the hall with bare feet, stopping at the door to French's room. He pressed his ear to the door. He was greeted by yawning silence. Frenchie opened the door, just a crack. The room was empty. The covers on the bed were rumpled and the window was open. Open. French hissed through his nose. What had his sister done now?

The constricting pain surged forth once more, spider webbing through his chest as though it were glass. For a precarious moment, the cracks in Frenchie's chest balanced carefully, then shattered. The glass of his resistance broke away and the pain flooded through his chest. Frenchie found himself on the floor, hugging his chest. Hot, molten glass poured itself into his chest cavity, and Frenchie couldn't breathe.

Like the first time, the pain snapped away as suddenly as it had set upon him. Frenchie felt heavy and full of glass. He stood up shakily. His feet stuck to the ground, weighed down with the glass that had leaked out of his chest. What had happened? Where was French? The spiderwebbing pain threatened to break him at the thought of French.

Frantic, Frenchie pulled on a shirt and jogged outside, breaking the glass in his chest with every step. His socked feet pounded in protest against the sidewalk. The shards of the glass scratched around, and around, and around, attempting to excise Frenchie's heart. "French?" He shouted. "French!" He ran down the sidewalk next to the pitifully unused street. "French! French Midrange!" His throat scratched at him, angry at being used so quickly and so rudely.

Frenchie was all but sprinting in his socked feet, shouting for his sister. He couldn't breathe anymore, and tears attempted to close his throat, to choke him while he was screaming for the only thing that made his life worth living. Frenchie refused to let them fall out of his eyes, refused to let the salt stream down his face and forcing him to get up. "French!" He choked, his vision blurred.

Navigating the town by memory, Frenchie went everywhere he could think of and some places he couldn't; the ration bank, the houses of everyone that lived in Band, the automated salon, the clothing dispension, the library, and the entrance to the park. Choking on his own failure and gripping the now numb soles of his feet, Frenchie debated on getting help before he went to search for his sister in the park. "French!" He quaked in exhaustion, fear, and a strange sense of heavy peace, laden with depression, stagnant rivers of once-clear water, and a grim truth.

And Frenchie Midrange did the heroic thing in that instant.

He fainted.

Train Of Thought

The more I think the more I smile

That awful, awful smile

The more I think another tear falls out of my eye

Dripping into a salty pool

The more I think the more I love

Knowing he could never be mine

The more I think the less I know

What I fell for first

Was it his eyes, steely and mystic?

Was it his ego, ready for anything?

Was it the way he handled everything that seemed so smooth and flawless?

Was it his smirking smile?

The more I think the more I smile

A smile of love unrequited

The more I think another tear slips out of my eye

Collecting on my soaked through pillow

The more I think the more I love

A love that could kill me unreturned

The more I think the less I know

What I like about him so much

His wit, his athleticism, his virtuosity, his height?

His lean muscle, the slightly fuller shape to his lips?

The way he rocks slightly back and forth and concentrates totally on his music?

The sarcasm that is so often directed at me, or the snippets where he's calm?

The more I think the more I hurt

It's not healthy at all

The more I think the less I cry

All the tears are gone

The more I think the more I'm sure 

Lone Warrior

The girl glared at the men holding guns trained upon her head. She threw back her head and laughed. "I regret nothing! I hope this rebellion ends...and Silver Rim rises!" She shouted deliriously. Her bronze locks flew around her head and stuck to her sweat soaked face. "Kill me and you'll find a martyr instead of a wolf." Her insanity filtered from her expression. Her eyes were black in the moonlight. "I've said my bit. Shoot me like you do to all of your problems. Silver Rim!" She closed her eyes tightly, almost like she was wishing herself to sleep. 

The person directly in front of her, clad in a black jumpsuit with a mask over the eyes pulled the hammer back on his pistol. "In the order of King Arthur, ruler of this country of Tejas, I give this criminal, guilty of treason, murder, attempted assassination, and instigation of a rebellion, the ultimate penalty." The slack on the trigger lessened. "She was known as the Lone Warrior, a prowling wolf. She was simply another traitor. I, General Wesly E. Griffin, in the name of King Arthur, shall execute Breileigh Hazelthorn." The trigger became taut. 

A loud bang and a bright flash occurred in that next second. When the gun smoke cleared, two bodies lied upon the ground. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SIX YEARS EARLIER 

Breileigh gulped. She knew it was coming. She would have to fight. All the children from her Sector did. Sector 5, just like the other four, had Panem every year. Bread and circuses. Breileigh shuddered. She have to fight things. Terrible things. No children were allowed to watch Panem. No one talked about it. All Breileigh knew was that she would have to fight. The winner got to live. The loser was mercilessly executed. Painfully.

Panem always had 15 year olds. Always. Breileigh found herself in the holding cell, along with several other teens. The trainers would come soon. Each trainer took on four teens. At the end of Panem, two would have survived, if not less. Breileigh knew she had about a week. That was the standard preparation period. 

The white walls of the cell made Breileigh uncomfortable. One wall was entirely glass. None of the teens dared to touch it. Rumors, like little weeds, stated that it was electrified. No one wanted to find out.

Breileigh Hazelthorn could not remember when she began to live with the wolves. She remembered back, far back, but her memory abruptly snapped away, like a solid wall of stones had been placed there. She remembered being but one year old, still a squirming infant, and being found by the wolves. She remembered the Wolfspeak, as clear as her own thoughts, and she remembered replying. Breileigh thus became Nameless Windsong. The wolves took her in, raised her in the savage ways of wolf, taught her honor, nobility, and cunning. And then the Raid had destroyed her life.

Breileigh remembered the Raid like she knew the Wolfspeak, with a natural understanding and clarity not found in the nature she was raised in. Breileigh remembered her shining hair become fur, she remembered the muscles cording along her body. She had lost Breileigh then, she was but Nameless Windsong, brassy furred, viciously large, and soft as down. Nameless Windsong had snarled, a snarl full of rage, of fury, of warning...and of weakness. The Tsar of the other pack, whom insisted upon being called Tsar, Breileigh reflected, had leapt upon Nameless Windsong's body, his claws tearing her soft and thin skin like her own fingernails ripped apart leaves. Nameless Windsong had collapsed, the world becoming darker, darker, darker...

The glass wall fell away. Three graying people with slumped shoulders and haggard faces shone the black spotlight of their hollow eyes into the cell. The first one, a woman so sallow her bones practically poked through her skin, and scrapes adorned every joint. A strange blue fluid leaked from the visible orifices on her body. What this a Trainer? She looked like a Feddie, Breileigh mentally gagged.

The Feddie grabbed the wrists of four frightened teens, and they disappeared out of the wall, each cringing as they passed through the once-barrier.

Breileigh had heard the rumors. If one lost the fights of Panem while the people of the Castle watched and ate, the teen would be taken before a jury, found guilty of weakness, and put to death. No one but the people from the Castle knew what horrific tortures awaited the felon beyond the court. Some said the losing side was fed to ravenous wolves. Others said they were left in a dark room to go crazy. Some said the losers were forced to become part of the Castle itself, as a lowly servant, and that was the best the losing side would ever do. Of course, rumor had it. And Breileigh had never trusted rumors.

The final Feddie grabbed Breileigh's wrist. She cried out in a whimper she had not uttered since her days in the wolf den, when the fox had attacked. Breileigh's pack brother, Lone Warrior, had been taken. The whole pack had known he was dead, but did not mourn. That was not the way of wolf. That was not how Breileigh grew up. Lone Warrior was only ever seen by his pack on one separate occasion: the Raid.

The Feddie led Breileigh and three other teens down a hallway. As each opened doorway yawned past, Breileigh got more and more nervous. her teeth cut her lip. Breileigh could not, would not, be capable of becoming Nameless Windsong here. there was no water, no sweet forest air. Nameless Windsong would go upon a rage that she could not win. Not here.

Nameless Windsong defied the laws of wolf teachings. She was soft, she mourned, and she did not fight. Breileigh knew that, for Nameless Windsong's ears and tail, Nameless Windsong was not wolf. Nameless Windsong was human. Humans did not belong in the forest. Humans belonged in the caves. In the Panem. In the Sectors. In the Castle. Breileigh did not belong here, there, anywhere. Breileigh was a wolf, howling to the stars, begging them to come out, to hide the moon and it's destruction. Breileigh was the savage growl man scurried from. Breileigh was wolf. Breileigh was wild. Breileigh was the bearer of Wolfspeak. Breileigh was the wolf.

The light in the hallway waned to barely a thing, hazing the lines the quickly ramshackling hall bore. The Feddie brought Breileigh deeper and deeper into the building, while the air choked and squeezed its way back, speaking to Breileigh in a language older than the forests Breileigh yearned to flow through, ears back and tail flying, no longer human but wolf. Danger, run away, the rushing breeze whispered, deep in Breileigh's ears. The warning became more and more frantic, crescendoing to a feral, terrified howl carried by the wind of a pup without a mother. WhoooOOOoooOoooo...

Suddenly, the hall opened into a large, brightly lit cavern. The sudden light hacked into Breileigh's eyes with a hiss. She growled, her voice reverberating throughout the cavern like the wolf she knew yearned to break free. The Feddie released its death grip on Breileigh's wrist. Blood rushed into her hand, bringing forth a whimper to cut off the growl. She looked at the other three teens.

"Fight." The Feddie's voice scratched through the rock. "Fight."

No Quiero Entender

No quiero entender. I don’t want to understand. I just want to take. I just want to keep. I don’t want to release.

No quiero entender. I don’t want to understand. I will take. I will keep. I won’t release.
              The Boss Man was always watching, always raising quota. Always. Wanting. More. Of course, the Boss Man sent me to this lovely hellhole known as Texas. The Boss Man said he was about to break loose here. He was about to reign this place.
              The Boss Man sent me to Vel-As-Co. Velasco was no job for me. Shots rang out. The rebels, the little Texans, against the homeland, the big Mexicans. I had seen into the future, just because that’s my job, my not-so-much life. I would have smiled, if I wanted to be seen. Gun after gun, bullet after bullet, shot after shot, until the shooting stopped. The Mexicans left. Up and left. They lost their Legos, got mad, and went home. Just a little skirmish. Just. A. Little. Battle.

The Boss Man, relentless and cruel, forced me into a new place. Gonzales. Gon-Zal-Es. The Boss Man said this was where he’d start. This was where he’d end one of my sires. Peace. Harmony. The Boss Man grinned his awful sneer, his cold, hard, smirk. He slapped me on my thin back and nearly sent me sprawling. But he didn’t.

The Boss Man sent them in. The Mexicans. They tried to take the most trivial thing from the Tiny Texans, their tiny tinny cannon.   Eighteen men. Eighteen Tiny Texans. They were all that tried to protect their protection. The Mexicans advanced. The Texans fired. Chaos broke like a rubber band. Snap!

The stinging pain the rubber band left on me wasn’t allowed long before I felt the tugging. The pull. Like a dream, hazy, numb, and unclear, I felt myself being pulled toward the epicenter. Through the fog of my brain my feet found a man. And he was covered in a deep crimson.

I knelt down and softly brushed his cheek with my hand. He was still warm and his skin softly gave under my butterfly-like touch. The man’s face was peaceful, without lines or creases of stress or worry. I gently brushed some hair out of his face.

The warmth he lent my fingers was beginning to fade. Reluctant to take him but knowing I must, I slipped my arms under him. He was light enough for me to cradle him like a baby. I took one last deep breath over the spot he had laid, and turned away. I could feel him shrinking, deaging. I watched his face. The sharp contours gave to softer lines. His hair went from brown to fuzzy beige. Finally, I held a baby in my arms.

This baby didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t cry. In his chest there was a gaping hole, the size of the baby’s fist. The crimson no longer rushed. The baby was frozen in time. “Ave Atque Vale.” I whispered, and brought my hands into a ball. The baby shrank into my fists.

I opened my fists and wisps of smoke escaped from my fingers. They were mostly light blue, dusted with gold. There was one wisp that was pure black. His evil, his demon. This man was a good man, but every man has a dark side. Every man has a demon will never leave him, not even in death.

It was purely business. Every time, every single time, it was a baby I shrank into. Every time I let go of the wisps that was that baby. Not every time were all the wisps blue.

And thus Gonzales was done. The Tiny Texans won, by what cards, I do not know. But the Boss Man does. He always knows. And he always instigates.

All too soon I found myself at Béxar. Bay-Har. The pull was strong here. I lost count this battle. A tiny Texan by the name of Ben Milam was the most notable to me. Who would follow him, if they knew he would meet me? Ben Milam had twin streams of black wisps. The thought of what he could’ve done made me shudder.

The Alamo was almost too much. The good old boy, General Travis, his line, Jim Bowie. I collected them all. The tiny Texans’ last stand turned many into wisps. Black wisps, blue wisps, and gold wisps. Many gold wisps. Mexicans, too. A lot of them. Three sole survivors. Susanna Dickinson, her daughter Angela, and Travis’ slave. The whirlwind was too much for me.

Goliad was awful. Go-Li-Add. Every last Texan, every single prisoner of war, executed. I held so many in my arms. I wanted relief. I wanted to end it. No quiero entendar. I was imprisoned. But I don’t want to understand.

The Boss Man never knew what the future held. He enjoyed the bloody conflict. I made plans for suicide I couldn’t commit. I only enjoyed the release of grace and mercy. This was cold blooded murder.

San Jacinto was the Boss Man’s demise. He would not get release. He only lay in wait. After the deciding battle.  Within 18 minutes, I had released so many sleeping soldiers, murdered in their beds. The Texans didn’t win that war. They only cheated the checkers. But their war was just getting started.

No quiero entendar. I don’t want to understand.

My job was a lonely one.

No quiero entendar.

I was the true killer.

No quiero entendar.

But that didn’t matter.

I am, I was, I always will be Nakir.

No quiero entendar.

Weird Nights: Night 1.75

Trumpet liked being wet. The rain was magical to him, one of the only aspects that wasn't controlled by whoever put them here. Trumpet sat outside in his yard, savoring the selcouth rain. He knew his sister would make him come inside, because she had to clean the house and Trumpet had a nasty habit of dripping everywhere.

While he was thinking, Trumpet thought of earlier. He kept doing that to people. He got them all riled up, ready to fight, calmed them down, then made them mad. Trumpet would always laugh after that. He was a jerk, and he knew it. His favorite person to make mad was Frenchie Highbrass. Frenchie got really mad, really fast.

But Frenchie was a poor fighter, to Trumpet, at least. Frenchie's sister fought better than he did. Trumpet knew, because he liked to aggravate them. Trumpette was calling him, Trumpet heard vaguely. He sighed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The doctor sneezed again. The test subjects were unaware of his existence. But he knew them. The doctor had followed this particular test group, 3R1N, since their infancy. He studied their dynamics more than their immunity. He knew that immunity was genetic, and their was nothing Europe could do to save those who weren't immune. But they hadn't pulled the plug on the operation. This was the only thing feeding their families, caring for their children. So the doctor stayed.

The rain had angered the creators of the experiment, but the doctor didn't care. He sneezed again. Subject 3R-Holly and Subject 3R-Andrew were falling in love, he knew. He knew that Subject 3R-Ethan would try to hurt Subject 3R-Andrew for loving what the serum made his sister. The doctor also knew that Subject 3R-Johnathan was fighting his serum. But he didn't care. The doctor sneezed again. It unsettled him deeply on the inside. It wouldn't be long now.

The doctor knew one more thing that he wished he could change. Subject 3R-Justin was planning to kill Subject 3R-Holly, and the doctor couldn't stop it. He sneezed again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bass knocked on French's door. As usual, Frenchie answered. "Oh, hi Bass. What's up?" Bass couldn't help being disappointed. He recovered himself quickly and coughed, his change of expression masked. "I was wondering if you and French wanted to come to the whole Town Feast that shows up in the park every week. I don't think French has been feeling well lately. Is she better?" Bass talked too much, or so he thought.

A shadow crossed Frenchie's face. "No, she isn't feeling any better. I think Trumpet gave her germs or something." Frenchie tensed a fist. Bass didn't think Frenchie knew it. "Knock his lights out for me, would ya?" Frenchie smiled. His fist relaxed. "No, but I'll talk to him. He's a jerk." Bass forced a smile. He was disappointed that French was 'sick', but he was hurt because he knew she was faking because of him. "Thanks. Punch him for me." Frenchie laughed. Revenge was his thing. Bass preferred to talk it out.

"I'll work something out." Bass nodded. "See you later, Frenchie." "Bye, Bass." Frenchie smiled and shut the door as Bass turned and walked down the path and back to the sidewalk. Bass sighed and walked down the street. Maybe he would stop at the corner store and pick up some of Sonia and his rations. He didn't know.

Bass put away the rations and glanced at the clock. 4:30. He sighed and grabbed a jacket off a coat hook. The zipper whacked his little finger and Bass said a most unpleasant word. Well, no one can be an angel all the time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nate Soakreed lounged in the grass, cherishing the warm sunlight entrapping his body. He was full, having eaten the hot dogs that magically appeared in the park every week on Thursday at 4:59 exact. The sun was still quite lofty in the sky, although the clouds were urging it down, and the sun was losing the fight. Nate sat for a long time, watching the struggle. People called to him, but he waved them off. At one point, Clari told him she was going home and not to stay out to late. Nate nodded, not really listening to her.

As the sun started to bleed from the wounds oh-so-generously applied by the clouds, Nate felt himself slipping away. Then, the monster came out to play.

Nate stared at the read streaks glinting through the sky and thought of how delicious it would be to see those streaks streaming through the emerald green grass of the park. He had someone in mind. He knew who would make the most impact. Oh, yes, Nate Soakreed knew. Nate slipped his hand into his pocket. A crumpled piece of paper, wrinkled with age and wear, greeted his fingers with a sharp edged paper cut. Nate cried out and jerked his fingers to his mouth.

The sound of Nate's pain sounded hollow, like a habit. That's when Nate knew. He was no longer himself. Nate was gone. The monster that came out to play wanted more than to play. The monster wanted to live, and he wanted to live as Nate Soakreed.

Nate stood up and brushed his shorts off. He didn't care about the dirt sticking to his legs. That was one thing about Nate that Clari hated. Nate would clean his clothes but had to be forced to shower. The dirt seemed to make him feel masked and comfortable. As Nate took one last glance at the dying sun, mortally wounded by the clouds but recovering to rise again on the morrow, Nate Soakreed spoke of his plans aloud. No one heard him.

Or so he thought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
French gasped in horror, then slapped a hand over her mouth. He couldn't hear her, not after what she knew now. French turned to run, to go home and tell Frenchie, but she turned and tripped on a rock. Her body landed with a thud and she made a terrified squeak come out of her mouth. Nate turned his head sharply toward French, and she got up. She started to run, slapping her feet onto the hard cement path, but Nate was faster.

Nate was faster.

French's feet pounded the pavement, her panic rising in her chest. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her adrenaline shrieked through her veins with a desperately feral call. She heard his heavily thudding feet racing up behind her. French would've screamed, she would have cried out, but her breathed whistled out of her throat, with no possibility of creating sound.

French was thrown to the ground, scraping up her arms, her knees, and her cheeks. Her blood ran down her face. French twisted frantically, trying to scream, but the breath was knocked out of her body. She struggled violently. "Shh, shh, shh, it's okay. Only a few hours longer..." Nate clamped his hand firmly over her mouth. French tried struggling, but the sheer fatigue of her sprint for her life, the pain of the scrapes on her sensitive skin, and Nate's strength tired her and her struggles stopped. She pleaded to Nate with her terror filled eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HUGELY GRAPHIC SCENE COMING UP! If someone would have a problem with you reading this, don't. Don't get me in trouble.)
Nate felt a rush of hungry satisfaction when he saw the blood streaming down her pitifully scraped up cheeks. She was crying blood, and Nate knew he could not go back. Not now. Nate clamped a hand over her mouth, so when she regained her breath, she wouldn't scream. Her breath dampened his hand, but he would clean up later.

Her bloody tears were smeared all over her face, which was flushed from exertion, and her eyes seemed to beg him for mercy. Nate smiled, baring his teeth in a vicious and feral gesture. French's eyes widened and she tried to scream. Nate's hand muffled the sound enough to see that it did not get past his own ears. His oxytitious precautions would serve him well, only if he was intelligent enough to use them.

"Shh, shh, it's okay. Only a few hours longer..." Nate soothed solicitously, although French began to struggle weakly once more. Nate picked her up like a baby. "Shh, shh, just a few more hours." He purred. French tried to hit him. Nate hit her on the base of the skull. Before she could cry out in pain or surprise, French slumped unconscious. Nate's arms shook with the increased effort he exerted holding her up. He started to walk. He hoped he didn't drop her. That would be messy. Very, very messy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
French spiraled away from the world and she fell. The air rushing past her body was cool and comfortable. She wasn't bleeding anymore, nor did she hurt or feel exhausted. It was almost as if her vigor was renewed, but she was falling. Suddenly, her feet came to a feather-light rest on the ground, like a leaf swaying its way to the ground from a tree.

The world she stepped into was soft and hazy, with no straight or sharp edges. She was in what looked like an ordinary living room, with two faux-leather couches and a very brown bookcase piled neatly with books. She looked around her. The absence of a door to the room struck her as odd.She glanced upward. The ceiling yawned away to darkness. If there was no door, maybe she would have to fly out. After all, she had fallen into this room.

"French." The voice reverberated throughout the room. It seemed to come from everywhere. French looked around, trying to pinpoint the source, but it was useless. "French, French, French..." It chanted, on and on. French's face got cold, and very wet. She tried to rub her eyes, but her hands were lumps of lead, dead at her sides. She couldn't move, and the room faded away, the hazy lines becoming blackness. French was knocked down to her back, and her pain crept back.

"French." The voice was Nate's, trying to rouse her. He had apparently stuck her face in the stream that slithered through the park with glassy sapphire water. French opened her eyes and was blinded by the stark white full moon. As her vision came back, the moon faded to a silvery glow, hostile and aloof.

Nate stepped into her vision, blocking out the stars. His left hand seemed too long, too sharp, and too...one fingered? French's heart pounded. What was he going to do to her?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nate saw her eyes flash and knew she was awake. Her bloody tears had long since dried, and the residue washed from her face when he put her in the brook to wake her up. He clutched the handle of the kitchen knife he had taken and hidden here. There was something special about this spot.

It was a small clearing between the trees and bushes, backed by the creek. In times past, Nate had come here to kill small things, watching their small lives washed away by the water. He loved the way their blood had felt, rushing through his hands, warmer than the knife he had hidden to kill them. The handle was always warm. He held it while the animals struggled, then slashed their necks and watched the blood well up and stain the animal's feathers or fur until the light faded from their eyes and they moved no more. Then, Nate dumped their bodies in the brook for the fish to dispose of. Nate liked it that way. He never got caught, not even when the bones washed up on the shore weeks later. Oh, yes, Nate liked it that way.

But now he wanted bigger prey.

Nate knelt by French's side, making soothing sounds. "French, it'll be okay. Just a few more minutes, and you will hurt no more." French quaked when he reached a hand out to touch a scrape on her cheek. She bit her lip, and her face betrayed her torture. "Wh-what's in your hand?" Her voice had taken on a high note, and her terror shone in her eyes like a second moon. "Shh, shh, it will help you. Do you have anything you want to say?" Nate brushed his fingers over the scrapes on her arm, trailing them lightly over the raw skin.

"What are you going to do to me?" She asked in a terrified whisper. Nate smiled sadly, shadowing parts of his face. Nate stroked her scraped up cheek again. "I am going to help you. Just a few more minutes, and it will all be over. It will all be gone." Nate promised. He told her to stay where she was, but, in all honesty, she wasn't going anywhere. She would never go anywhere again.

Nate retrieved the rope and a long strip of cloth he had hidden beforehand in the bushes. The small sheathe he kept his knife in, crudely improvised using an old shirt, was stiff and black. Did that normally happen to white shirts you keep murder knives in? Nate wasn't sure.

When he returned to his prey, French had sat up and drawn her knees to her chest. Nate pointedly ignored her whimpers.

"French, can I see your hands please?" Nate asked flatly. "No." She whined. Her voice betrayed the tears her eyes hid. Nate cursed under his breath. "French." He demanded louder. "I need to see your hands." French's muscles tensed. Well, this is perfect, Nate thought.

Nate got down on his knees beside her. "French." He whispered. "Your hands." French didn't respond. Nate gently rested his knife on the ground and grabbed her wrists. French strained to pull her hands back, but Nate held them firmly and quickly bound her hands together. He let go of her arms and she pulled them to her, quaking and crying. Nate shook his head.

Her feet were easier to restrain. He bound together her ankles with a quick box knot and stepped back. The long strip of cloth still dangled from his hands. French looked pitiful and powerless. Nate almost cried out in a feral growl, and the rush of dominance plagued his stance.

"French." His voice took on a growling note. "Look at the river." French kept her eyes on her knees. Nate shook his head. "That was your decision." He crawled behind her and tied the strip of cloth around her head and through her mouth. Nate sensed that French was numb to terror. She would fight no more.

"Shh, shh, shh. It's okay, French. Just a few more seconds, and it will all be over. All over." Nate drew the last two words out, adding vibrato and a decrescendo to his tone. French stopped shaking. "Where's Andrew?" She asked. "Justin, where is Andrew?" Her voice was very small, and she seemed to have the aura of a child in her words. Some of that was probably the gag.

Nate shook his head. "Andrew is waiting for you. I will take you to Andrew." He promised. "Just close your eyes. It'll be all right. Just close your-" Nate picked up the knife and shoved the point through French's stomach.

Her skin gave away like paper, tearing with a wet ripping sound. Her muscle tore silently and her blood welled out in rivers. French's blood cascaded over his hands, warm and beautiful. French gave a choked gasp and tears ran down her face. Nate jerked the knife through her stomach, cutting in completely open. Her guts spilled out, all over Nate. Nate relished the heat of her agony.

Nate jumped back. He took his knife, black, like his soul, and slashed open the skin on her legs. More blood, a delicious amount of lukewarm life spilling all over him. He shivered with excitement and the world went silent. Nate heard his own heartbeat, fluttering like a feather caught in a fan, and nothing else. French's mouth was open and her body was convulsing. Nate lashed out with his knife, cutting open her arms. More blood, more beautiful blood came pouring out of her skin and drenching Nate in a red coat of psychotic ecstasy.

Her convulses got weaker and Nate knew it was time. He lunged for her throat. His bestial urges guided him, not his knife. Nate ripped out her throat with his teeth. The warm metal filling his mouth was delicious, so filling, yet so hungry. Nate knew he howled in a wolf like cry of victory. French stopped moving. Nate just immersed himself in her blood, sweet and red. His rush of insane happiness buzzing on his high, Nate unceremoniously hauled her body and dumped it into the tributary. Still shivering from his sociopathic high, Nate sheathed his knife in the old shirt. He had some cleaning up to do.

Nate licked French's blood off his lips.

FOR EVERYONE THAT SKIPPED THAT
Nate killed French, and then dumped her body in the river.

Don't Read If You Like Frozen You Will Be Scarred For Life

The snow blows white on the mountain tonight
Drip, drip, drip
Not a footprint to be seen
Cold, sharp lines
A kingdom of isolation
Glint off the edge
And it looks like
Off the sharp blade
I'm the queen
But the blood will not
The wind is howling
Not wait, never wait
Like the swirling storm inside
But no, no sympathy
I couldn't keep it in
Heaven knows I tried

Weird Nights: Night 1.5

Bass didn't get to murder anyone. French doubled up her fist and caught Trumpet right in the gut. Trumpet was still laughing as he doubled over, grabbing his very toned stomach. "You jerk!" French shouted. She punched him again, in the face. Trumpet jerked backward with the force of her blow. But the idiot kept laughing. He kept laughing.

Someone, two people, Bass couldn't tell, were restraining Frenchie. It looked difficult.

French shoved an elbow into Trumpet's upper arm, sure to leave a bruise. Trumpet took one finger and pushed on French's shoulder. French, unbalanced from her punch, fell backward into Bass' waiting arms. Bass caught her deftly.

Frenchie managed to rip free from whoever was holding him back and tried to punch Trumpet. Trumpet sidestepped and Frenchie fell over gloriously. French didn't notice, but Bass did. He kept quiet.

The crowd dissipated. Someone brought French and Frenchie a galss of water, which Bass made his job to make sure they both drank. Frenchie got up and announced that he was going home and made Bass swear to bring French home safely. Bass swore sincerely.

Bass picked French up and steadied her French thanked him. "No problem. Do you want to walk?" Bass asked nonchalantly. French nodded. "As long as we avoid Trumpet and his cronies."

The breeze whispered through the green, leafy trees. The wind swept over the emerald fields of grass, dotted by sapphire bluebonnets and ruby roses. Bass and French walked in a comfortable manner, chit-chatting about simple things, random things. The flowers. Spoons. How they might leave town. Ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends. The times before they lived in Band.

"Do you remember when we were ten?" Bass asked her. Bass remembered it. He remembered every detail. "Yeah, I do. I remember one day when it rained all day. It was you, me and Nate Soakreed stuck in that treehouse." French smiled. Bass remembered silently wishing Nate hadn't been there. Bass could've made a move when they were ten, but Nate was there.

"Yeah. Didn't we play Would You Rather?" Bass asked. He wondered if she remembered. Did she? "Yeah, but it evolved into Truth Or Dare." French answered. She talked like she was trying to remember a dream. Did she think of it as a dream or a memory?

"Oh, right." Bass said, pretending to feel like an idiot. He remembered when Nate had dared him to kiss French and he remembered how, and why, he refused. He didn't want Nate to know he loved French. He didn't want to ruin his friendship with French, either.

"Hey, Bass? I think it's going to rain." French's voice interrupted his thoughts. Bass looked up. The not-so-blue sky glared back at him. "Umm, yeah, let's go." Bass suggested. The walked quicker. Before they left the park, the clouds had opened up. "Quick! My house is closer!" Bass shouted. Bass led the way as they ran toward his house. Soaked and laughing, the two stumbled inside.

Naturally, Bass noticed French's wet shirt first. "You're soaked." He stated. "Let me get you a change of clothes." Bass offered. He went to his room and grabbed some small blue shorts and a small orange shirt. He jogged back to the living room, where he had left French. "Here. I'll get them back later." Bass offered. French accepted and excused herself to change.

Less than five minutes later, French reappeared and joined Bass on the couch. She was dry and the clothes fit her well, Bass noticed. "Thanks again, Bass." French smiled. Bass looked at her and smiled softly. "No problem."

His brown eyes locked with her blue ones. They were so close, both physically right now and as friends over the years, but Bass had never wanted to be just friends.

Bass touched his nose to her and said, "Tag." That was their old game. French smiled wide and tapped his elbow with hers. "Tag." She whispered. Bass knew where he was taking this.

Bass kissed her, touching their lips for a long time. She was kissing him back, too. That was the part Bass liked. He slipped his hand over her fingers.

When they finally broke apart, Bass whispered one word. "Tag."

Weird Nights: Night One

Welcome to Band, School. Band is a small town and there are no parents, just teenagers. Each one has one sibling. There's a brother and a sister. Here are their stories, quite hilarious.

Trumpet was a player. His sister even thought so. He always flirted with all of the girls in Band, but that was Trumpet.

Frenchie wanted to slap his sister. French was falling for that stupid Trumpet boy again. Oh, how mad Trumpet made Frenchie!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The park was a nice place. A crystal sapphire stream ran through the emerald green grass. The trees were tall and shady. There are benches here and there, and a fountain. The entire population of Band was at the fountain today.

"Hey, Trom! What's up?" The first words broke the silence of the day. "Baritone! You're alive!" A tall brown-haired boy with long arms caught his friend in a headlock. "Gerroff me, Trom!" Baritone, Bari to most people, shoved at Trom's arms. Trom shook Bari around a bit, then released him.

"You two are idiots." Euphie, Bari's sister, rolled her eyes. Euphonium and Baritone Lowbrass were eerily similar. Euphie had long black hair and a very waxy complexion. Her brother's hair was shorter, but he was certainly her twin.

Trom's sister had chosen to leave him in favor of Tubie, Trom's other chum's sister. Trom's sister, Bonnie, wasn't like him much except for her long arms. Trom was tall with brown hair, and Bonnie was short with red hair. "Trom is soo stupid sometimes!" Bonnie complained to Tubie, who was a very good listener. "Sometimes? Do you mean all the time?" Tubie said with a smirk.

While Tubie Lownotes, Trom and Bonnie Notrebel, and Euphie and Bari Lowbrass were bickering among themselves, the Highbrasses, Midranges, and Lowreeds were getting into it pretty good. Trumpet and Trumpette Highbrass, both blonde with green eyes, had sided against Frenchie and French Midrange, and Bass and Sonia Lowreed were trying to break it up. Tuba Lownotes weirdly stalked their argument.

"God, Trumpet, you are so stupid!" French shouted, her cheeks red with embarrassment. Trumpet winked at her. "Is that why you are head over heels in love with me?" He retorted cockily. Frenchie balled his hands into fists, practically leaking steam out of his ears. Bass stepped into the middle of them. "Okay we don't have to kill each other." He tried to reason. Trumpette, normally quiet, put one cherry red nail on Bass' chest, and shoved him aside. "Out of the way, Bassie Boy."

Bass wasn't offended, but Trumpette's nail was sharp. Sonia Lowreed went to check on her brother. French glared at Trumpette and her charming brother. "I hate you two." She snarled viciously. "Ooo, she's got fight. Meow!" Trumpet mocked. Frenchie sighed through his teeth. "Leave her alone." He said quietly.

"What's that? Did the oh-so-silent Frenchie Midrange just say something?" Trumpet smirked. "I said," Frenchie said, louder this time, "leave my sister alone." Frenchie's blue eyes became sharp ice scimitars. "Oooh, are the Midranges getting riled up? Get a load of this!" Trumpet shouted. "The Midranges want a fight!"

The five words Trumpet do swaggerlisciously uttered brought silence to the park. Then, Tuba said, "Fight!" The park exploded with people taking sides. Bass and Sonia Lowreed headed up the neutral group. Trumpet and Trumpette Highbrass were the clear antagonistic side, and French and Frenchie Midrange were the challenging group, though. No one was surprised when the Highbrasses had the biggest supporting group. Tuba Lownotes sided with them, but Tubie Lownotes remained neutral. Bass Lowreed looked longingly and French, but stood his ground.

Trom Notrebel sided with Trumpet, but Bonnie Notrebel sided with French and Frenchie. Both Euphie and Bari Lowbrass sided with French and Frenchie. Everyone else sided with Trumpet, except for two people. Clari and Nate Soakreed both sided with the Midranges.

Things were getting tense. Frenchie tensed up, his fists small and weak looking. Trumpet gave him a glance full of swagger. Then he grinned crookedly. He got both of his hands in the air, and whispered something in Frenchie's ear. After Trumpet backed away, Frenchie glared at him and lowered his fists. As her brother backed away, French stepped up boldly, her blonde hair slipping from it's tie.

"Come closer." Trumpet beckoned with a smirk. French stepped toward him two steps, tensing her fingers. "Okay, okay..." Trumpet put both hands up. "I ain't gonna hit you, girl. Just come closer." Trumpet smiled. French moved closer. She was about six inches from him. He closed the distance with half a step. He was exactly two inches taller that her, so she had to look up at him. She stepped backed two inches. "Closer." Trumpet said. French shook her head, tongue tied. "C'mon, closer!" He said. French leaned closer.

Trumpet kissed her. Full on, lip-biting, super surprising kissed her. French leapt back, beet red. Her expression of utter shock was mirrored by her brother's and Bass'. Everyone else was being loud. "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Trumpet was grinning like an idiot. Frenchie gave Trumpet a look that would kill.

Bass quietly plotted a murder.

The Truth About Joy

Behind every smile is one thousand tears
Behind every peal of laughter is one hundred drops of blood
Behind every loving gaze is one dozen glares
Behind every affectionate touch is one cut

But I keep my head up.
I will stay strong

Behind every tear is a ghost of a smile
Behind every sob is the promise of laughter
Behind every blow is a soft hug
Behind every cut is a story

But I will stand strong. I said that my story would not end there.

And still my pages fill

Fox's Flight

"You know, there's a tree in this forest that can show you the way." The old sage breathed. "You must be lonely, my child, ever since Wolf That Rides the Dawn was killed."

Two months ago, the sage's listener thought to herself. And she doesn't even know.

"Fox With Red Tail, please tell me what you are hiding, before I tell you. Remember, we do not take secrets lightly. Wolf That Rides the Dawn would know that better than anyone." The sage's voice could not be any icier. The sympathy she had so lovingly and swiftly provided became absent in a simple stroke of time. The viciousness in the old sage's black eyes gleamed like the glassy rock that the elders told stories about. The stories were of a place called Hawaii, and it sounded beautiful.

"I have but nothing to hide." Fox With Red Tail lied smoothly.


She was right, she had nothing to hide. She just would rather not tell such things to the people of her clan. They would surely make her an outcast in every sense. In the old times, the Time of America, women like Fox With Red Tail were common, innumerable, and accepted. Accepted. Fox With Red Tail had never been described with that word. Accepted. She had only a vague idea of what it truly meant.



"Then, you would surely not mind bringing me a rabbit and cooking it for me, would you?" The sage asked with thinly veiled contempt. The sage knew what she was doing. She knew what Fox With Red Tail wasn't willing to tell her. Fox With Red Tail nodded respectfully to the sage and left her dwelling.



Once outside, Fox With Red Tail took a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh and sweet air. She started off toward her own dwelling. As she wound her way along the dirt path that snaked its way through the clan-town, Alamere, she felt the hard pressed stares on her feet, a sign of grieving respect. Fox With Red Tail hated such gestures. They made her feel weak.


They did not grieve over Wolf That Rides the Dawn's death. Only Fox With Red tail knew what really happened, why no one grieved for her late love. They had not yet been joined together in Moonlight Dances, but still they had been so close.

Fox With Red Tail's hut, that she once shared with Wolf That Rides The Dawn, was so small, so rocky, so dilapidated. Her doorway was only separated from the outside by a thin quilt that Fox With Red Tail had made herself. It flapped in the soft breeze as she ducked inside.

The inside of her hovel smelled of thick lard. The oily smoke clung to the air. Fox With Red Tail made the candles she used for light by herself out of extra fat from the food she cooked. She dutifully grabbed a rabbit off the wall, where it had been strung up by its hind feet.

Again she found herself in front of the old sage's fire, skinning the rabbit. "Dear sage," Fox With Red Tail asked, "can you tell me a story of America?" Fox With Red Tail sunk the knife into the pelt, the fresh blood making her woozy. No, not now. If the sage knew, Fox With Red Tail would shame her name for all eternity.

"Which story have you not heard?" The sage asked in a wizened old voice. Her sedition was almost nonexistent, but Fox With Red Tail could feel the tension in the air. If she wished, Fox With Red Tail could see the aura of the sage. Fox With Red Tail knew it would be crimson.

Deep.
Scarlet.
Crimson.

"Tell me the one of Johnathan Greensworth. His heroics are truly inspiring." The rabbit's blood trickled down her arm. Oh, the lifeblood of the rabbit would be Fox With Red Tail's demise.

"Johnathan Greensworth. The hero of the rebellion." The sage said lethargically. Fox With Red Tail tugged the pelt off the rabbit. "The terrorists, what were they called?" The sage asked, her rocking chair creaking. Fox With Red Tail began to cut open the rabbit. The guts would putrefy while she was roasting it if she didn't. "The Fihigh Rebellion." Fox With Red Tail interjected helpfully.

"Ah, yes, the Fihigh Rebellion. The Fihigh Rebellion had just blown apart the White House, where the leader of America, the President, he was called, lived. The President and all of his advisors died. The Fihigh Rebellion said that the world was once again corrupt, and that they would use the power of America to create a new world, one bourn of hard work and humility. This world would be led by them, of course, and they would use Americas weapons of mass destruction to achieve their goal." The sage recounted. It had been many generations since the war, and the sage had heard the story from sages past. Fox With Red Tail enjoyed these stories and hoped to one day pass this story on to someone else.

The rabbit's slowly decaying guts spilled onto a grass mat made for that purpose. Fox With Red Tail became more nauseous than ever. Not now...

"The Fihigh Rebellion dropped something called a bomb on America. This bomb spewed fire everywhere. Everything was destroyed. Yet, some people survived. One group banded together. Their leader was Johnathan Greensworth. Under Johnathan Greenswoth's guidance, the people set up this village, which spread its fingers further and became our clan. Before Johnathan Greensworth died, he had a son, which he named Lion's Roar. Johnathan Greensworth died mysteriously on a hunting trip, and Lion's Roar was forever scarred. But, we must remember and respect Johnathan Greensworth because he protected us and began our way of life." The sage finished just as Fox With Red Tail began to roast the rabbit.

The juices popped and bubbled, the sizzling juices would normally make Fox With Red Tail hungry, but now, it made her sick. Fox With Red Tail ran outside, barely containing her retches until she got to the grass.

She threw up all that was in her stomach and more. She felt a hand on her shoulder during her puking. As she finished, Fox With Red Tail looked up. The sage's face held an expression of rage.

"Are you going to tell me, or am I going to tell you?" She growled. Although her face was weak, Fox With Red Tail glared up defiantly. The answer in her eyes spoke more than she ever could.

"You've yet to have a partner." The sage hissed. "And yet you are pregnant."

A Girl's Heart

Every girl wants a boy. Not just any boy, not a perfect boy, but her boy. 

She'll find him and she'll love him. He won't give her a second thought. She'll think about him before sleeping at night.

She'll wake up crying because he loved her in her dream. 

She'll put on a fake smile to see him again. 

He'll leave her. 

She'll look into his eyes and he'll look away. 

Her heart will shatter into pieces. 

Tiny 

Pieces. 

He'll walk away from her.

 She'll painfully watch him fall in love with another girl. 

Every night she'll cry, not because

He doesn't love her, but because 

Her best 

Wasn't good enough. 

But she has friends. 

She has that friend that is more of a brother than a friend. 

She'll run to her brother and cry. 

Her brother will hold her hand when she needs an anchor to the world and he'll hug her softly when she's about to shatter into a million pieces. 

The boy she once loved will become a distant memory, 

A constant what if, but the friend who was a brother had been waiting a long time. 

So he kissed her. 

And she kissed him. 

The world fell into place. 

Her heartbreak made sense. 

The only reason the first boy left was because that wasn't her boy.

And she would love her boy with her overthinking personality and shy nature. 

She'd love him true. 

And he'd love her, too. 

Chapter Five MIRRORS~|~SRORRIM

BRAD'S P. O. V.~|~.V .O .P S'DARB

The tip of my nose touched her's in such a delicate way that it made me think of a hummingbird. A light hover, just barely touching. I looked into her icy blue eyes and I saw something. I saw something. It wasn't hate. Or anger. Not like normal. I saw something.

She had a piece of copper hair falling in her eye. I reached up and brushed it behind her ear. She blushed. I couldn't help but smile. The way the light fell on her face softened her features and her icy blue eyes became a softer, azure color.

There was something inside me that said, now. I thought I didn't know what that meant, but, apparently, I did. I leaned closer to her and my lips brushed her's, soft and sweet, like a flower. I was surprised at myself.

I was even more surprise when she kissed me back. Almost like fire, I guess. I slipped my fingers into Trumpet's, trying to be stealthy, but clearly that wasn't working. I don't know why she wasn't hitting me, punching me, slapping me, something.

I guess the lights melted away, through a sepia filter. The only thing that wasn't sepia was her eyes, that soft azure and full of burning desire. 

Just her, me, and this moment. I was blind to anything that wasn't her, deaf to anything but my own twittering heartbeat. A bird that was being scared to death was clearly trying to escape my ribcage. 

I would have jumped out of my skin if I wasn't so wrapped up in the moment. Forget wrapped up, I was entangled in sticky spiderwebs. 

She acted like I was more important than oxygen, like I was her only tether to the world. It made me feel powerful, almost hungry and predatory. Scary. I felt scary. And that scared me. 

"Oh, woah!" I knew it was West. Only he would go into a practice room without knocking first. And his voice is unmistakable. "Ooooo-kay! This is awkward! Really, really bad!" I didn't care. Then Trumpet jumped away and I got a little bit cold.

She was red. Like, redder than that kid who can't play high notes without having a stroke. Like, RED. She was beautiful, even blushing. I just kinda shrugged at West, who was giving me a classic 'Brad-You-Moron' look.

"At least we know you two sure can fake things, huh?" West smirked. "And look at how red she is! It's almost cute."

Trumpet gave him a glare. If looks could kill, we'd need some bleach, a body bag, and a deserted area. And shovels. Definitely shovels. I just laughed. God, this is funny. "Brad and Trumpet, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G..." West began.

"Ah, but you are wrong. We are clearly in a practice room." I interrupted, laughing. West rolled his eyes and started over. "Brad and Trumpet, sittin' in a practice room." He fumbled over his last two words, then broke down laughing. "Doesn't have the same ring to it." I smiled, regardless.

"So what are you in here for?" I asked. No trombone in hand, just plain ole West. "Well, Remember Saras? The big dude? You'll never guess who's asking for you!" West laughed. I rolled my eyes. This guy!

Saras was the leader of the Trumpet Cult until Riley beat him in hand-to-hand combat. Literally. Initiation into the Cult is harsh, to say less-than-least. "Why does he want me?" I asked. "Why did he send you to get me?" 

"Well, he didn't. I accidentally overheard while I was listening at the door." West said, his face a mask of seriousness. Trumpet poorly stifled a giggle. West gave her an uneasy glance. My mouth tightened. "Well, crap." I said simply.

"I also accidentally eavesdropped that he was mad at you for not joining and he'd rather you be leader than Riley. He's out for blood, Brad." West bit his lip and shifted his weight.

"Blood? My blood?" I whispered, shocked. Has it really gone this far? Trumpet went from sort of laughing to horrified. I don't think she even knew she was doing it, but she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. West's eyes darted from my face to my hand, then back to my face. How lovely.

"What are we gonna do?" Trumpet whispered. I don't think she saw it, but West's lips tightened. Unrequited love, I thought. I have to admit, I could tell my best friend was jealous of this girl I had because of a business arrangement.

"Brad shouldn't walk around unarmed." West said, rubbing his right wrist with his left middle finger and his left pointer finger. Man, he was either really mad or really nervous. I stuck my free hand in my pocket. "I have a pencil." I announced. The one day I leave my pocket knife at home...

"Then you're on your own." West said coldly, and his face was tight. If I learned two things from Randall, I learned to play the trumpet and how to read body language. West was not a happy camper. Or a happy anything, for that matter. West threw one last razor sharp glare at Trumpet's fingers laced into mine, looked me right in the eye, and left the room.

"The cults...they mean business." Trumpet said. I don't know what I was doing, but I pulled her to me, using her as a lifeline to stay grounded in reality. 

A lot of people would think I'm moving too fast, but this was my dream girl. I've liked her forever. I don't care who she was, but now that she's mine, I want to make the most of this before it's over, because I knew it would end. It would end quickly. 

I put my other arm around her shoulders and pressed my lips to the top of her head in a comfortable, yet intimate hug. Her coppery hair smelled like a warm spring day. A little bit of citrus, sweet flowers, and a surprising nip of rotor oil. I had no idea about that last part, but somehow it fit. So pretty, so sweet, so fiery, so Trumpet.  

She buried her face in my shoulder, and I hugged her tighter. God, we were forced to grow up so fast, so harshly. I guess that's how we have to be, all because of the cults. Because of Randall. We're not twenty, we're twelve! Thirteen, at the most. Why did Randall do this to us?

I don't know how long it was, but I moved. I hadn't wanted to break away, but I couldn't just make her fall for me. I may be a jerk, but I wouldn't do that to anyone. Ever. 

I don't know how long the Middle School Mafia will give me. Hours? Minutes? Seconds? 

Trumpet squirmed away from me. She stood on her tip toes and kissed me on the cheek. That's when I knew. Trumpet wasn't faking. And neither was I. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I manage to get home without incident. I walked Tumpet to her house, carrying that monstrosity of a French Horn. 

I bid her good night and started toward my house. A cold shiver went through me and I knew who'd be waiting in the mirror 

when I got home. And he hated waiting. 

I faced the mirror in the bathroom, trying to convince myself that I saw only my reflection. But I knew better. TRG. He tousled his blonde hair. Neither of my hands had left the counter. I knew he was here. 

"Brad. How lovey to see you here." He said. The voice was inside my head. I felt frozen in time. The way he worked was strange. When he tortu--er, visited me, time stopped. I could only communicate with him telepathically. 

"I didn't want to come." I answered with a mental growl. My mind wandered to Trumpet, and the kiss. Randall's face twisted sadistically. "Making out with French Horn wannabes, are we? You can have any decent trumpet girl, but no, you have to have the enemy's daughter..." 

"She's not our enemy. She's my girlfriend." I grit my teeth. The jerk better get the message. 

"Brad, she's not your girl-anything. She's only trying to exploit your weaknesses. She's just another spy." Randall said, sneering. "Trumpet's not like that!" I protested. 

Randall's eyes went from sadistic to soft. "Brad," he said in the most caring tone is ever heard from him, "women exist only to hurt men. I left because I your mother. She would have killed me, if I had stayed. Brad, don't let her fool you. She'll only t you killed." That's when the mirror melted away. 

I collapsed on the floor, gaspin for air. I felt like I was breathing Jello. After five minutes, the sensation was gone. I got up off the floor and brushed off my shirt. I took one glance at y own eyes in the mirror, and I left for my room. 

Once in there, I eased the door shut. I wanted to grab for my phone, to text Trumpet. But I didn't. I couldn't. Then I spoke, but I didn't want to. "You're mine now."

Chapter Four MIRRORS~|~SRORRIM

I was at the bus stop the next morning. Alone. Sure, I was half an hour early, but still! I reached into my backpack and pulled out a small cleaning cloth. I pressed it to my nose and inhaled deeply. Valve oil, cork grease, and a sharp, citrusy tang mixed in my nose and I wanted to cry. But I just carefully tucked the cloth back into my bag. My throat tightened, my eyes brimmed with tears, and I got cold.

 No, no, I won't let myself think like that. Not here, not now, not ever. I hugged myself and just waited for someone to come along.

 I heard a door slam. I quickly righted myself and looked bored, messing with my nails. I glanced in the direction of the noise. I saw a trombone case as mentally facepalmed. "If it isn't my favorite trombone player!" I remarked sarcastically. "And that French Horn player is the best looking person I've ever seen!" West called. I wondered if I had just imagined it, or if West wasn't being sarcastic.

I laughed as he approached. He tripped on that stupid uneven patch that he tripped on every single day. He dropped his trombone case heroically. "Just graceful. You could be a ballerina!" I teased. "Says the bull in the china cabinet!" West retorted. "What?" I asked. I hadn't heard that phrase in forever. "The tuba player in the cymbal shop." West sighed. "Oohhhh." I facepalmed. I can't be so old fashioned. 

I heard another door slam, but ignored it. West and I were too busy trading insults. "Dumb and dumber!" West grinned. "That makes you dumbest!"

"Alright, Santa!"

"Was that a fat joke?"

"Nooope, not at all!"

"You jag!" 

Someone cleared their throat. "Lay off, West. She's taken." I knew it was Brad. Nice acting. "Hi, Brad." I said, waving. "Wow! You listened to me!" West walked over to him and slapped him on the back. Brad nearly dropped the trumpet case he held. That looked like it hurt.

West elbowed Brad and Brad glared. Whatever the heck they were talking about, I had a feeling I didn't want to know.

"Soo, ice broken?" West asked. "Nope." Brad and I answered in unison. I glanced sideways at him. He shrugged. Okay, total weirdness overload.

"Well, break it!" Wes announced. I stayed where I was, Brad stayed where he was, and we were both happy. West wasn't. "No, that won't work! You-" he pointed at Brad, "Go over there. Closer, closer, okay, that's better." 

Brad was literally inches from me. He settled down and boredly whipped out his phone. He opened Flappy Bird and proceeded to smash records, by my standards. More kids joined us on the corner. I moved closer to Brad, trying to look happy. I just felt...awkward, I guess. Brad didn't look any more comfortable.

I heard a couple of creaks and groans, so I jumped up. Brad locked his phone and shouldered his backpack. I grabbed mine and my overly large case. We shuffled onto the bus after it screeched to a halt in front of us.

I went to my usual seat and Brad sat in the one across the aisle. The horn case took up too much room for two people to fit comfortably. It suddenly occurred to me that I owned a phone. I sighed inwardly. I have such a pitiful social life that I forgot I had a phone. Great move, Trumpet.

Brad noticed the sudden appearance of my phone. "What's your number?" He asked, pulling up a new contact. I rattled it off shakily. I am surprised I even remembered it at all. Brad did some typing. My phone lit up with a text.

In all of its elaborateness, Brad's text said:

hi

I smiled and saved the number into my phone. I wonder if the cults can tap phones. Of course they can! They could probably pull up footage from twenty different angles of people kissing in an alley. It has happened before.

Finally, we arrived at school. I grabbed my giant block of misshapen wood and fought heathens to escape the bus. Brad was waiting for me on the sidewalk outside. "Thanks for waiting." I told him.

"Anything to get rid of the cults." Brad said. I cracked a smile. Brad rolled his eyes and started toward the door. Something in his walk, something about his stature, I don't know, but I wanted to follow him wherever he went.

Brad graciously got the door, trumpet case and all. "Why thank you, Mr. Gaites." I said with exaggerated formality. Brad grinned. "Tis no problem, Miss Danger." A dark look flickered across my face. "Don't call me that." 

"Relax, Trumpet. I was joking!" Brad backed off. I sighed. Brad really pushes my buttons sometimes. All the time. 

We walked down to the Band Hall in silence. That awkward silence. Lovely. After stashing our instruments, we headed back out. Brad had slipped his hand into mine and I smiled. I really hope it looked fake.

And guess who happened to be outside the Band Hall as Brad and I were leaving? The other Riley pursed his lips and we walked past, laughing about something stupid. I felt Riley's brown eyes burning into the back of my head. I knew he was mad. Like, MAD mad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life happened, and I turned around and boom, it was lunch. I went to the cafeteria and nervously waited for Brad. About five minutes later, his blonde head showed up. "You still wanna learn to play, right?" I asked. He nodded. "Let's go." He grabbed my hand and we set off toward the Band Hall.

I swear there were cult spies everywhere. Everywhere. I knew it anyway, but I could feel it now. Their eyes on my every step. I could feel the hatred of the 'affection' between Brad and I. I was almost relieved when Brad shut the practice room door.

We practiced buzzing again for a while. "I think we've gotten that down. Can you teach me to hold it?" Brad asked after the millionth drill. "I guess." I said, taking the horn out of the case. Brad set the mouthpiece on the stand.

"Okay. You see how I'm holding it? My left hand is here, on the valves. The pinky goes in the ring." I instructed. I placed the French Horn in Brad's lap. I held onto the bell as he curled his fingers onto the valves. I moved his pinky into the ring.

"Feels...strange. Your pinky doesn't go in the ring." Brad murmured quietly, mindful of my ears being so close. "Well, it does now." I smirked. All the while, I was gently cupping his hand and placing it in the bell. "Please, don't drop it." 

Brad nodded and wiggled around until he was comfortable. He was still holding it right, with one exception. "Brad. Pinky. Where does it go?" Brad's pinky went into the ring.

I moved him around. "Okay, that's good." He got up and put the instrument in the case. He turned to look at me and I was standing too close. Our noses touched. His brilliant blue eyes probed my soul.

He didn't move away, like I'd hoped. Did I really? I didn't even know what I wanted anymore. Brad brought his hand up and brushed some hair behind my ear. I felt the heat flood into my cheeks and a small smile played on my lips.

Brad touched his lips to mine. I nearly jumped away, but I didn't. I kissed him back. He slipped his hands into mine and grasped my fingers tightly. The warmth of the feeling I had pressed against him was like nothing I've ever felt before. I melted away into Brad's arms, greedily and desperately needing his touch.

I don't know what raw passion feels like, but this would be my closest guess. My heart tried to beat its way out of my chest and my stomach tried to take up contortionism. I gripped Brad's fingers tighter, pressing my body closer to his, hungering for his warmth, needing it...

 Why did I like this so much? I-I hate him, right? This is purely business, right?

"Oh, woah! Ooooo-kay!" A voice that wasn't mine or Brad's. "This is awkward! Really, really bad!" I knew it was West. West. West.The worst possible person. I nervously jumped away from Brad, really really fire truck red. Brad just shrugged. The heat of the moment was frozen in place, pure arctic white and freezing.

"At least we know you two can sure fake things, huh?" 

Repent

Darkness rejoice as new times fall
Evil repent as new times rise
The fall of one will lead to another
Rising of the blood spilled

Stone sword, sharp edged blade
Light pray for mercy
Good be sacrificed
Crucifixion of irony in mangled ribbons
Slow and sudden darkness win

As sin of modern love
Hate bourne of jealousy
Joke not, live not, breathe not
As malicious forces rise
Repent

Aghast be your sorrow
Sadistic be your fears
Insanity be your happiness
For all the world to hear

Darkness rejoice
Evil fall
Insanity
Repent
Injust
Man

Chapter Three; MIRRORS~|~SRORRIM

Brad looked at me with a worried gleam in his blue eyes. My heart fluttered. Sure, this wasn't real, but he's mine...

"You're sure?" He asked. I nodded. "As sure as I am the cults are coming down." Brad blushed and had a sudden interest in checking for cult spies. While he poked around in the bushes, West and Jess headed down to the creek, and Sam excused himself to leave, claiming homework(like anyone actually does their homework), leaving me alone with Veronica. "You like each other, you know." She said.

 I shook my head frantically, and I could feel the heat on my face. "No, we don't." I said quickly. Veronica laughed. "Your face is bright red. Yes, you do." "Shut up." I suggested. She shook her head. "No, I think I'll help you plan. West is gonna help Brad. Your 'relationship' needs to be convincing."

"Convincing how?"

"Get caught trying to sneak away with each other. Kiss him. Have your face light up and add a bounce to your step when you see him."

"How do you know what is convincing and what's...flat?" I smiled at my cheesy Band humor. 

Veronica thought for a minute. "An actor gets very good at faking things." She answered, but I didn't believe her.

BRAD'S P. O. V.~|~.V .O .P S'DARB

 I poked around the bushes importantly. I had to get away from her. Yesterday, I hated her. Today, she's my girlfriend. That's messed up. And I'm not complaining nearly as much as I should.

I honestly do like her, but I don't think she likes me back. Trumpet is...complicated I guess. But, then again, she's a woman, and women are complicated. But they're no way she doesn't like me! I mean, who could not like all of this? But who am I kidding? I can be a real jerk. 

"Yo, Brad!" I heard. Perfect. West and his dating advice. "What?" I called back. "Stop messing with the leaves and get your butt down here!" Growling, I turned and saw him beckoning from the edge of the creek. Throwing a glance and Veronica and Trumpet, I jogged down to the creek to join West and Jess.

"There he is!" Jess clapped his hands together. West smirked. "Looking for a place to get serious with her, huh?" I glared. "What do you want?" I said bluntly. "Well," West said," I specifically remember you asking me how to fake a relationship." 

"And?"

"I can tell you...for a price."

"What do you want now?"

"When the cults go down, she's mine." 

"Wait, wait wait, you can't be serious. You? Liking Trumpet? Yeah, that'll go over real well."

"Deal or no deal?"

I bit my lip. Why not? It'll be her decision in the end. "Sure. Now, spill." I commanded. "Well, you have to be all protective and stuff. If some dude is hitting on her, you gotta stand up for your girl." West said. "You've gotta be all happy to see her every time you meet. Kiss her, hug her, hold her hand. If you skip class, have her do it, too. Be together. At least act like you're in love." 

    "And you know this...how?" I asked. "Let's just say someone, coughcoughJESScoughcough, is an awful matchmaker." West answered, elbowing Jess. Jess shoved him playfully.

Sometimes you'd think those two were brothers, not best friends. "Okay, then." I said, uneasily.

 "Hey, boys! It's getting late! We should all head home!" We all looked up as Veronica yelled. She was right. The sun was going down. West look at me with raised eyebrows. Of course.

 I ran to catch up with Veronica and Trumpet, West and Jess behind me. We walked in silence to the trailhead, where West and Jess, along with Veronica, turned left. I offered her my hand. "Allow me, madam, the pleasure of walking you home." I said teasingly. "Only if you promise to drop the old fashioned junk." She smiled. I nodded and laughed, and she took my hand.

We walked down the street in silence. "Brr." I commented. "It sure is cold... I think we've got some warming up to do before school tomorrow." "You actually read the Hunger Games?" She looked at me, surprised. Ouch. She doesn't think I read. Wow. Insulted. "Of course I did! I'm not a tuba player!" I objected. Trumpet laughed.

 All too soon, we got to Trumpet's house. I insisted on walking with her to the path, and she rolled her eyes. As soon as we got there, she dropped my hand like a hot rock. "So, see you tomorrow? Bus stop?" She asked. "It's a date." I said and winked. She laughed again and walked to her front door, keyed it, and went inside. Her laugh was sweet. Like...honey. Timeless. 

I shrugged and started walking home. Four houses away from hers, I approached the front door. I found the key in the plant, unlocked the door, and dropped the key back in its place. "Brad's back!" A small, squeaky little voice announced with delight. I nearly fell over as a big yellow Lab puppy and my little sister crashed into me. My sister hugged me and the puppy tried to get to my face to lick it.

"Good to see you guys, too!" I said, pushing the puppy off of me and scooping up my little sister. I gave her a crushing bear hug and set her down. The puppy saw his chance, and charged my face. He knocked me over and proceeded to 'wash' my face. With dog spit. "Gross! Get off, Whiskers!" I pushed the puppy off and got up. I walked into the kitchen, where my mother was busily preparing dinner.

"Hi, Mom." I said. She smiled at me. I raised my eyebrows. It was an unspoken question. Dad? She shook her head. I pursed my lips. Every day, the same answer. It had been like that for nearly five years. And I hated him for that, and for what he made me do. 

 I was distracted by my little sister pulling on my hand. "Come see what I learned in preschool today!" She squealed. "Okay, I'm coming." I smiled. "I'll call you when supper's ready." My mother said.

"Alright, Jay, lead on!" I said. She excitedly pulled me to her room and sort of pushed me onto the bed. "I wrote my name today!" She said proudly, showing me a paper. Sure enough, there it was, scrawled in bright yellow letters. "J-A-M-I-E! Jamie!" She giggled. "Great job, Jay!" I praised. God, if only my Dad would come back... But I'm not sure I want that. 

TRUMPET'S P. O. V.~|~.V .O .P S'TEPMURTS

My fingers were still buzzing when I got to my room. The warmth of Brad's touch lingered on my fingertips. I blushed just thinking about it. But, alas, I will flunk out of Spanish if I don't get that homework done. I dragged some paper out of my bag and started writing. Somehow, I wrote a love song in Spanish. Oh well. I'll turn it in anyway. Maybe I'll get some sort of extra credit.

 I checked the time on my alarm clock. It read 7:00. Yay, I get to make dinner. I went to the kitchen and skimmed through the pantry. The words of my song played back in my head.

No sé por qué no puedo ver la mirada en tus ojos

I don't know why I can't see the look in your eye

I gritted my teeth and dragged out some cereal. I busied myself with making a bowl and flopped down at the table to eat.

No quiero entender

I don't want to understand

 I suddenly lost my appetite. I stuck the cereal in the fridge, because that's how stupid I can be, and go to my room. I flop down on the bed. So much happened today, and I wasn't sure I was ready for any of it.