Smudged

it was the year of the arsonist. he had started with abandoned buildings before we moved to the county. a few small wooden skeletons with charred roof tops. the county had gotten smaller over the years, never large to begin with. we were shiny like brass pennies before someone 's thumbprint smudged the surface, though not so easily wiped clean. fallow fields and inky blackness st night. we began enjoying our life before the school year started, filed with dancing, bay swims and communal sunsets, sure that we could change our tiny world, one small child at a time.

Life in 7/8 Time

I hang up the phone and stare at the ceiling, count the cracks and holes in each tile, again and again. 57, 58, 59. There are beeps in the background but I can't open my eyes. I just keep counting the number of cracks in each memorized tile above my bed. 55, 56, 57, 58, 59.

"Jessica!" A gurgle now and Meghan comes up laughing, playfully hitting Patrick on the head. We're swimming beneath the Brooklyn Bridge with John and Patrick. They're 15 and we're 13, only a few weeks away from our 14th birthdays.
"Patrick, don't you dare drown her, or Ah will be forced to find retribution," I call out, turning on my towel to get more sunlight.
"Yea? As if you could do anythin to me."
I lie with my hands on my hips, enjoying the challenge. "Really now?"
"You know Ah'm better than you."
"I wouldn't say that if I were you." John warns, "Your cousin has a nasty temper."
Patrick grins. "Don't I know it. Ah stole her diary and she put sand in my bed."
"Thank you for discussin me as if Ah weren't here." Men. I start fixing the straps on my bikini and take my sunglasses off.
John grins and replies, "You're welcome" My jaw drops as he lifts me off the pier.
"Oh mah god, put me down! If you don't put me down Ah'll use my shot gun on you," My hair whips his legs as it comes out of the dancers' bun.
He smiles. "Ok" I drop into the water screaming and he dives in after me. As I come up for air, he dunks me down again. I punch him in the stomach.
He laughs and calls to Patrick. "Did you teach your cousin how to punch?"
"Hell no, Ah'm not that stupid." Patrick hollers back.
"Good, 'Cause she's hits like a girl."
"Hello? Ah am a girl, yank." Meghan laughs as I shake my head at them and wring out my hair.
He holds up his hands. "Hey now, is that any way to talk to the man who just saved your life?"
I glare at him. And twirl my hair up onto my head. "What are you talkin about? Ah was perfectly fine on the pier, Ah wasn't gonna get hurt or nothin."
"Wrong, you would have died of boredom." He says melodramatically.
As I groan and roll my eyes, he kisses me. I hear a giggle in the background, glance over and see Patrick doing the same to Meghan.
"Well, if that's all you wanted, you could have asked." I mutter. Got my hair wet for nothin.
"Hey John!" Patrick calls, "Don't you think you're a little old for my cousin?"
"Hey Patrick! Don't you think you're a little old for my sister?"

Meghan and I are lying on our mattresses whispering in the room we shared. We know we 're going to marry 'em then, not that we'll tell them that. No, that might mess everything up. We have it planned; dresses, flowers, color scheme, everything.
"We'll have a double wedding," Meghan says.
"We'll wear blue"
"I'll wear Eastern sky blue and you'll wear Arizona sky blue"
"And the bride maids will wear red, lipstick red." This, of course, is my scandalous suggestion.
"And the grooms will wear purple." Meghan rests her chin on her palm and gazes at the wedding we plan.
I giggle, "Ah can't imagine Patrick or John wearin purple."
Meghan giggles too. "How about white?"
"We could have a white tie wedding." I grin thinking of lilies and boat-necks, while she tries to find a color that would look good.
"And the groomsmen will wear gray." She pauses "Do you ever miss your parents?" I shake my head.
"Ah was too young to remember them, they died when Ah was three. Ah've been living with my aunts and uncles since then. Ah don't remember it any other way." She nods and goes to sleep but I stay up and think of my mom and dad's wedding photo. They're so happy, the only memories I have of them. Eventually I see light streaming into the window, and I too go to sleep.

In the summers I miss Meghan so bad. While Pat and I are visiting our Aunt Dottie in South Carolina, Meghan is a yank living in scary New York City.
"Ah don't know how yu could possibly be friends with someone from New Yahrk. Lahrd knows they cain't be trusted." Aunt Dottie says, her mass hidden beneath a red and white polka dotted dress.
"Yes, Aunt Dottie." I pick at my food. I don't really feel like eating.
She looks me over. "Well at least their bad manners haven't rubbed off on you, Jessica, and you don't say 'aunt' like I'm a bug."
"No, Aunt Dottie."
"Finish your grits and eggs, hunay." Pat sits down at the table, barely awake and not even dressed.
"Ah have finished, Aunt Dottie." I say.
"Yu barely touched that plate."
"Ah'm not very hungry." My stomach hurts from crying the night before. Lord, I miss Meghan
"Ah'll finish it" Patrick exclaims reaching for my plate. I glare at him. Isn't he supposed to be missing Meghan more?
"Well at least it won't go ta waste. Though you're gettin as skinny as one of those yank girls, Jessica." She turns to clear the table and pauses. "Didn't yu say yu were datin this blue-coat, Patrick?"
"Yes'm"
"We'll just have to get yu a nahce Southern girl, you'll like them bettah than any North'ner. What about yu, Jessica? Any boy caught your eye?" I blush and mumble something noncommittal.
Pat grins and announces, "She and my girlfriend's brother are goin out." I smack him under the table, Patrick cringes but Aunt Dottie shakes her head.
"Well isn't that nice, we'll be sure to find a nahce Southern gentleman for yu."

It's August, I'm sitting on the bank of the Chattooga. Patrick has gone back to Virginia to start college at JMU. And I'm bored mindless.
"Jessica?'
"Yes, Aunt Dottie?"
"Phone fah yu. Your Yank."
John never calls unless something is wrong, we write letters instead. I pick up the phone and look outside. It's a bright day.
"Hello?" I ask.
"Jade?"
I grin at his pet name for me. "Yea?"
"I need to talk to you."
"You are talkin to me."
"I mean about something important."
"Okay" I sit down on the windowsill. "What do you want to talk about?"
"Something happened." He pauses, I start to freak out
"Is Meghan ok? Is it your mom, your dad, what happened?"
"Calm down, they're fine." I start to breathe regularly again. "I went to a party last night." He pauses.
"Yea so? You're old enough to go to parties without my permission."
"I had sex with a girl." He says in a rush.
"Haha, very funny. Stop kiddin, what's wrong?" What a stupid joke.
"That is."
I stop. "What?"
"I had sex with a girl. I thought you should know."
I'm so shocked start to stutter. 'Y-y-y-y-you had s-s-s-sex with someone? God John. Why?"
"I don't know. It just happened."
"Let me guess she tripped and started ravishin you. Ah'm so sure."
"I wasn't like that. I just felt guilty about you."
"Why would you feel guilty about me?"
"Well when we umm." I can almost see him start to turn red.
"When we had sex?" I prompt him
"Uh, yea. You started bleeding and.."
"Oh, hunay, that's normal. It didn't hurt nothin."
"Maybe but-" I can feel my lip beginning to tremble and I cut him off.
"John, trust me it was fine. Ah have to go but Ah'll write you alright?"
"Yea alright, night." We hang up. He cheated on me. I lean my head against the window and start to cry. Oh god, what happened?

We're standing on Bourbon Street. Meghan, John and their parents have come down to visit N'orleans for Mardi Gras and I'm there for society with my Aunt Dupree. I introduce Taylor to everyone.
"Taylor Callahan, this is David Milner and his wife Rebecca, and their kids Meghan and John." They nod; Taylor looks like he's meeting my parents.
"Nice to meet you, I'm sure you're a fine young man, but I'd like to ask you a few questions." I giggle, David sounds like a cop. They walk off while Meghan and her mother get caught in the shops of N'Orleans.
John turns on me, "Who's he?" He demands.
"A guy I know." Ill-tempered little-
"Your boyfriend?" Serve you right
I glare at him, "Not like it's any of your business." Asshole
"What are you talking about?" He rakes his hands through his hair.
"You hain't talked to me 'cept through your sister since last summer!"
"I had to deal with it." He shrugs.
"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"
"Did you have sex with him too?" He glares me Why do I always go for the assholes?
I throw up my hands and say, "Of course Ah did, and every other guy Ah met on the way, and guess what, they were all much better than you." I'm going to hell for such a lie
"It was a mistake."
Please don't think that "Which one are you thinkin of, you surely did make a mistake"
"I hurt you." He persists Just say you're sorry and it'll be fine
"And Ah'm sure Patrick will hurt Meghan."
"That's no excuse to go to another guy." Telling me what to do again.
"Ah apologize, Ah failed to realize that Ah needed his majesty's permission to do anythin"
"I was stupid." John explains.
"That's right, you were stupid, but if you think that gives you the right to tell me-"
"I can tell you to do whatever I want to tell you to do."
"Not if you expect me to follow it. Ah have every right to leave you. Ah can screw whomever Ah want to screw." He cringes as my voice gets louder attracting attention from the whores in the balconies. "Ah can screw the president for all its your business. Ah'm not some little girl you can control, and Ah'm not an idiot waitin for you to come around. Ah've been waitin since Ah was nine, John Milner, and Ah'm not goin to anymore! He said he loved me. Do you hear that? He loves me, and that's more than you've ever said. So you can find some other girl who'll tag around after you."

Things with Taylor fell through pretty quickly but John and I didn't talk for a year. Meanwhile, Meghan and Patrick were so cute together; holding hands as they walked down the promenade at NYU. I had been sent up north to my cousins in the Finger Lakes and Meghan would spend the weekends up at the lake house. John refused to come up; he and I were still fighting. He was going to join the Marines and though I tried not to, I still pictured my house and kids with John as my husband.
"I'm sorry, Jessica." The doctor says.
"What do you mean?" I'd lost my southern accent in the time I'd spent up north.
"You've punctured your ovary. You might not be able to have kids."
"Might?" I ask.
"Getting pregnant is fairly hard to begin with, with only one ovary functioning properly your chances are cut further. It unlikely that you'll be able to have kids"
"Is there anyway to fix it?" Please, God, let there be a way
"Not yet. Things like this don't happen often." He tries to explain.
Oh lord my pretty babies "Will there ever be?" He shrugs.

I walk out of the doctor's office, go home to my dorm, go to the medicine cabinet get the bottles of Advil, Tylenol, Claritin, and Midol, and make a pill cocktail. I watch my dream box fairy tale break on the floor with bits of glass cutting into my feet. I won't have my 2.2 kids, no reason to have goldfish or a dog or cat; never have a husband; there isn't a man in the world who would marry a woman who couldn't have kids. Meghan calls me as I feel myself drifting in an overdose haze.
"Jessica?"
"Hey Meghan." The cracks on the ceiling tiles become all consuming, there are 59.
"Are you ok?"
"No, not really."
"What's wrong?" I can practically see the worry wrinkle start on her forehead.
"The doctor says I can't have kids
"But what about your watercolor?"
Pretty azaleas run into grass as children play on the lawn with a golden retrieve; a black cat stands haughtily above such mess "I guess it won't happen."
"Can't you adopt?" Meghan tries to reassure me, but I never really wanted to adopt.
"Yea, but I always wanted to have kids of my own." A home of my own where azalea bushes frame an emerald lawn
"I know you did." She pauses. "What are you going to do?"
I laugh cynically, "I've made friends with Misters Advil and Tylenol, Mrs. Claritin, and Ms. Midol."
"Why did you do that?" Meghan asks, worried again.
"It was either that or drink myself into an early grave." She starts to talk again but I hang up the phone and stare at the ceiling; count the cracks and holes in each tile, again and again. 57, 58, 59. There are beeps in the background but I can't open my eyes. I just keep counting the number the cracks in each memorized tile above my bed. 55, 56, 57, 58, 59.

Doctors tell me Meghan sent an ambulance over, my stomach was pumped and I have to eat coal for a week. Nasty stuff, I don't recommend doing it.
John comes to visit me a little while after I wake up, they keep me in overnight to make sure I don't have anything left in my stomach and to make sure I don't try to kill myself again. The stark whiteness of the room makes me focus on his blond hair, his skin is tanner than before.
"Jessica?"
"Hey John." I try to sit up in the bed, and give up when it makes me nauseous.
"Are you ok?"
"You sound exactly like your sister. Sit down."
"Umm ok." He grabs a chair and scoots it up to the edge of my bed.
"I'm fine, John. I have to go to counseling. I get it put on my record that I attempted suicide." Ultimate low, to fuck up so bad, that you mess up killing yourself.
"Why did you let him do this to you?" he sits hunched over, I watch his knuckles turn white before I answer.
"To get back at you for being a cheating asshole." That's not what I meant to say.
He grits his teeth "I'm sorry about that, Jade"
The pet name makes me soften "Forget it, years ago literally."
"I'm still sorry. But why'd you let him hit you?"
"I didn't exactly let him do anything." I cough as I try to laugh Yea me stop Taylor
He stares at me. He looks so old now, when did he get those wrinkles? He's barely 21.
"I love you." He says as he rests his head on my leg
"I know that, John. How else could we mess things up so badly?"
He looks up and says, "I don't know." I lean my head back and close my eyes. I try to say it but the words won't come out.
"Hey John?" I ask.
"Yea?" he squeezes my hand.
"Promise me one thing."
He rests his chin on my leg and says, "What?"
"When I get out of this stupid bed, we'll go to a movie with Meg Ryan or Hugh Grant in it."
He nods against my leg "Ok, Little one."

We're going to see Love Actually with Hugh Grant. It's Christmas time, and the perfect holiday movie has the lovely fairy-tale ending, plus I get to see Hugh dance in his underwear. We're standing outside of the theater where we decided to meet.
"Hey Jess."
"You used to call me Jade once."
"We used to be friends," He says. Cheap shot
"It's a great movie, my friends all loved it." John shakes his head at the change of subject and pays for the tickets.
Afterwards I wait for him to say something.
"It was a cute movie, but definitely a chick flick," He says.
I grin, "It's Hugh Grant, what do you expect?"
He shakes his head and says, "I wish things were that easy"
"They could be," I say hopefully.
"Little one, everyone has baggage, some of its emotional from other relationships, some of its from previous relationships with the same person."
"What we've got here, is a failure to communicate" I grin attempting to make a joke.
He smiles weakly, "What we have here is too much baggage." Please don't
"You're just not gonna even try?"
"Sometimes is just doesn't work."
"And sometimes all it takes for evil to win is for good men to not fight."
"Don't make this more than it was, Jessica"
"Don't make it less than it is, John." You coward, you're not even going to try
"This could end up like Moulin Rouge."
"Or it could end up like When Harry Met Sally, life isn't a movie, John. There isn't any plot you have to stick to. You can make your own decisions and the only decision you're making is to give up."
"I don't know if you can handle a relationship right now."
"Let me worry about what I can or cannot handle. I'm not your little sister to be taken care of and I'm not one of your troops to be ordered around either. I can take care of myself and I can figure out where I want to go, with or without your guidance. I'm a grown woman, John."
John looks up and nods sadly. "You are that, but have you ever been a child?"

John and I are on speaking terms but we've still got things to work through. My Aunt Dupree still wants me to marry Taylor. Aunt Dottie thinks that even if John's a yank, I'm hard-headed enough to not let him push me around.
Patrick is going to get his bachelors in American Literature at NYU this spring. I'm double majoring in theatre and literature at Mary Washington. John had himself stationed at Quantico. Meghan is in for a BA in history at Brooklyn College.
Meghan and Patrick are still together, they'll be getting married soon. Meghan and I won't be having the double wedding we planned and she's decided to go more traditional with a pale pink dress in a Renaissance cut and powder blue bridesmaids. I look horrid in powder blue but I get to be the maid of honor so I'm all right. John, of course, is the best man and still has to wear a gray suit. Though the wedding is several months off various relatives are betting that John gets the garter and I get the bouquet, can't blame them for dreaming.
I still dream of my white picket fence but it doesn't seem to be anywhere in the near future. I changed my decision of dress to a bodice cut with full skirt. I still want the bridesmaids in red and I still want a southern home with white azaleas. But I think I can wait a few more years. John, by the way, doesn't mind adoption.

You Who Hit the White

April the 21 in the year of our lord 1596

I was begging and pleading for Kate to untie me when our Father, Baptista Minola, walked in and demanded she let me go and as usual did the deed himself due to her stubbornness.

I have been taught in the ways of a lady, as my sister was but unlike her I have at least heeded them in my father's presence. I long for a day I can marry and rule my husband as Katharina will undoubtedly rule hers if she were ever to marry.

My sister is without suitors at all while I have beaus too numerous to count, chief among them are Gremio and Hortensio. Gremio is an old man though rich and well landed, Hortensio is even more so in every respect and even lewd when he believes me not in hearing distance. Lucentio, a young noble from Pisa, had devised a plan, he would have his servant pretend to be himself and he would be my tutor. While Gremio and have devised a plan of their own. I think I will lead young Lucentio to the altar; he seems the most easily controlled. But before I can do that, I  must wait for her to wed.

There is a man, Petruchio of Verona, whom Lucentio says may be able to help rid her of her stubbornness and will wed her just for the challenge of it. She has met him and now they sit speaking of my father's wish for him to marry her. I hope she minds her sharp tongue I would have her out and away so she could not disrupt my wedding to Lucentio.

April the 22 in the year of our lord 1596

Petruchio and Kate were wed this morning, and I am betrothed to Lucentio. There almost was not a wedding. Not only was Petruchio late, but also he came in wearing the most appalling clothes and had dressed his horse in the strangest of gear. He told us that it was the first step to taming the shrew. Lucentio is adorably doting, and I shall have my way with him soon. He is at my beck and call like any of the servants in our household and this pleases me very much.

We are to be wed May the 15th. Lucentio will not do such an embarrassing thing as Petruchio did; he is much too well trained. I think he will make a very nice and tolerable husband.

June the 24th in the year of our lord 1596

Kate came back to-day and brought with her, her appallingly rude husband. I am well settled into the life of Signior Lucentio's wife. Though who is the true life is a matter much speculated by the servants. Kate has been speaking of "obeying thy husband" and it sounds so unlike her I can only believe she is teasing or ill.

One of the servants had rushed in from his Master giving orders to Kate, the Widow, and I from our husbands saying they wished our company. I am no mule to be called when work needs be done, and told the man that I was not to be disturbed and to tell my illustrious husband so. The widow spoke and even harsher rebuke: "If my husband wish see me, come to me he shall." Only Kate went to her husbands call and came back dragging us with her to listen to the nonsense of holding thy husbands foot so he does not walk on the dirt. I only pray she become well again. Her husband must have done some horror to make her this way. But I must go and teach my own to never wager on my behavior again, for I am ruler in this household and he should know it.

The Banshee Brenna

Once in Eire there was a man and a woman whom lived in a castle, who were wed and in love. The woman's name was Brenna and she was happy to be wed to her husband, Ian. One day, coming back from the market, she caught Ian in bed with another woman. So enraged was she that she pulled out the heart of Ian and threw it into the river where it turned to icy stone like her own heart. She became a BanShee, a screaming woman, and she lived in the castle for 500 years, killing all men who dared enter and turning their loves into BanShees like herself.

Well as the 500 years went by, a village was built at the edge of the hill, which the castle was on. The village men tried without luck to kill Banshee Brenna or to turn her away using everything in their power. But she stayed and killed all that dared.

There was a young man in the village named Aidan. He was strong and honest and pitied the BanShee for her plight and anger at her husband. Wishing to ease her suffering, he went up to the castle and called out,
"Banshee Brenna, will you be hearing me?"
And Brenna replied, "I be hearing ye, what do ye want?" and began to settle herself in for an easy kill.
"Brenna," he called, "I've come to prove that not all men are like your husband.' Now this got her attention so she asked,
"And how would you be thinking to do that?" and stood in front of him to speak to him easier.
"Follow me for a day and you'll see." So intrigued was she that she agreed and followed him around the village. First to his mother's house to bring her the cloak she need.
"Ma, Banshee Brenna is following me, how can I prove that not all are like Ian?" he asked her and his mother said,
"Just be yourself and go about your business she will see." And so he did, next to Mary Catharine's cottage to give her the herbs she'd need for her grandmother's back, then to Maeve's to give her the food she'd asked him to get so she could tend to her father, then to Darcy to give her flowers so she would feel better about the loss of her beau, and on and on through the village till at last his hands were empty and every one in need had been satisfied.
Now at about Darcy, Brenna had begun to feel a bit jealous and sat pouting and feeling neglected in the way woman will sometimes do to make a man feel guilty. Aidan saw this and began to feel a bit worried,
"Is something wrong, Banshee Brenna?" he asked. And she crossed her arms across her chest and said,
"How is it all the women in the village have gotten something from you and I haven't?" and Aidan nodded his head relieved and said,
"Is there anything you'd be wanting then?" She shook her head to say she did not know, "Well" he said "When you be knowing what you want, be sure to tell me then." And he went home and to bed and woke the next morning to see her at his door
"Well then, would you be knowing what you want?" She nodded but kept silent. "And what would that be?"
"Your heart" she said quietly, trying not to cry, for it isn't something a BanShee should do in front of men. Well he gathered her up into his arms and said,
"If that all you're wanting, I can't give you something you already have."

It Used to Be

I'm staring at my book, watching the words and lines blur. It used to be that I was happy always. It used to be that I could pretend to be happy. It used to be that I would escape with my books of fairy tales, of heroes who were strong and true, of heroines who used their cunning to solve problems. I used to believe in them.

It used to be I could dance to the music in my head and hum or sing some song I woke up to. I've stopped singing lately. It used to be that I knew I had someone to love me, somewhere. That I knew that and didn't worry that I might not meet my soul mate. It used to be that I could feel things, the pain of a scrape or cut. Now I watch the blood drip and wonder when it happened. It used to be that I could look at the sunset and marvel at the beauty of it. It used to be that I could walk in the midst of a summer storm and relish the humidity warming my bare feet and feel tickled by the water trickling down my back.

It used to be that I felt loved. I used to be that I knew what love was. It used to be that I didn't cry every night. It used to be that I knew what happiness was, when my only concern was the prayer that someday I'd become beautiful. It used to be that I loved everyone I knew. It used to that I knew the world would be better because I would make it better.

It used to be that I had hope. It used to be that I would sit amongst my family and feel a part of them.

What used to be hasn't been for many years now. Every summer we go up to New York and I find myself going off alone to cry because I don't know how to be happy. When did I stop knowing how?

What does being human mean? Caring? Loving? Being happy?

And what does it mean that I have a cut on my palm from where I took a scalpel because I was bored. And what does it mean that I now have a cup of my blood where I watched the cut drip for hours before finally closing? And what does it mean that it didn't hurt when I cut myself?

My father recently told me that I had the highest pain tolerance of anyone he knew. He meant it has a compliment because I had stepped on a piece of glass and it had cut threw my foot thoroughly enough that I had left a blood trail around the house, and I had managed to not notice.

Why is it I can't be happy? Be content? I have everything most people wish for: Friends who care about me; Family who, while not being perfect, need me; Respect from my teachers, the ability to make decisions for myself.

My therapist says I'm dependant, I need to feel needed; I'm avoidant, I don't want  to deal with my reality; I'm Manic Depressive, I just randomly become sad for no reason at all.

She says that if I worked at it I could be happy. She says I could deal with normal society. That my being intelligent might not be a good thing, because I know something's wrong, but I'm not sure what. Because I act like an adult, think like an  adult, feel like an adult, hurt like an adult.

She says that I'm the 35 year-old professional woman, who is faced with being fired and having no skills no abilities and nothing going for me, tries to find love, and realizes that I'm incapable of it.

What makes it possible for someone to love? Having a happy childhood? Knowing how to be happy, being content with yourself.

Sarah once asked why I cry after weddings, I told her it was because I was jealous of the bride and because I could only hope that someday I would know what it felt like to be her.

She told me not to worry, that everyone has a soul mate. But what happens when you're not sure you'll ever meet him? Not sure that if you did, you would even deserve him. And if you did deserve him, be able to love him. And were able to love him, make him love you, and if make him love you, be happy?

So the question here is, is there anything in my life that makes me happy? The answer: What does happy mean?

Fini

People say that love makes everything perfect. And I suppose it does, until my husband gets home and it seems I've forgotten something.

Something little like his socks aren't folded right or the spaghetti didn't have enough garlic on it, though his view on the correct amount changes daily.

Sometimes, when he gets home really late, I pretend I'm asleep so he'll leave me alone. It never works, and in the morning, I nurse a fresh batch of bruises.

Yesterday, Grace came over unexpectedly.

She saw the marred skin and broken nose and called the police. Which, of course, did nothing. Why would any of Robert's friends believe he beat his wife? Why just last week he got another medal for courage.

Robert found out.

He's tearing up the kitchen now. My boy's crying in his bed. The neighbors ignore it as always.

I pick up Robert's gun and start for the door. He screams at me from the kitchen and picks up a pan.

"Beth let her sister embarrass me. You just had to show her, didn't you bitch?"

I lift my hand and aim, "Yes".

Eclectic

I'm sitting here, looking out my window at the falling rain. I have these precious moments to myself before my family wakes. This is my first day at a new school.

My aunt knocks on the door and asks, "Can I come in?"
"Sure," I reply. She sits on my bed and looks at my room, all shades of gray, from white to black. Her blonde hair and green eyes make her look like a princess dropped into an Edgar Allen Poe creation, while I blend in with my white skin, gray eyes, and naturally black hair.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes," she pauses and blurts, "You have such weird taste." I look at myself, at my room, black and white photos of pipes and thunderstorms; computer graphics of gothic creatures. My door of Bumper stickers proclaiming that I'm a "Freak", "Fashion model", "Playmate", and "Drama Queen" won at a friend's b-day party in the 6th grade. Others saying, "Protect the Humans" "Guns don't kill people, Postal workers do" and "America is about choice; Vote Pro-choice" cover it until I'm not sure of the color the paint." A row of stuffed animals from birthdays and fairs long past sit on a shelf next to my collection of goblets in varying shapes and colors. I'm not weird; I'm eclectic.

My aunt starts to get uncomfortable and leaves the room. I go to my closet and grab a white shirt and black jean bottoms, put on my claddagh ring and bloodstone dragon earring, drop my pentagram necklace around my neck, blow out the white, black and silver candles lit around my room and drive to school.

I sit through my drama class; nothing I haven't already learned. People look at me strange. One girl comes up and introduces herself as Ashley. I smile as she uses "like" for every other word, hold out my hand and say "Kat. Nice to meet you." She looks like she doesn't want to touch me with a ten-foot pole, much less shake my hand, but she gingerly grasps it.

I walk down the main hallway after 1st period and see a wall of kids who look like cool people and sit down in the corner. A guy with a blue spiked Mohawk comes and tells me his name is Dan. I smile up at him.
"I'm Kat."
"First day?"
"Yeah."
"What music do you like?"
I shrug, "Punk, Metal, Green Day." He smiles.
"Ozzfest or Warped Tour?"
"Ozzfest." He smiles again.
"Come over and meet some of my friends." He introduces me and his friends smile mile-wide.
"Hey Kat," they say.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

I Met Death

I met Death on a hill one day, we exchanged some pleasantries. She stood, back to the sun, smiling down at me. I asked if I were to die today, she said 'Follow me'.

She walked down the hill, and to a path, bright and full of day. Flowers blooming, birds chirping, and children out to play. Down the path she led me still, to older people eating their fill, to babes in mothers' arms gurgling and crooning to get their way. Fathers sitting with families in their homes eating dinner, smiling at crayon drawings on the walls. Looking through me as though I was not there, though if I were not there, then I do not know where I was at all.

Further down, she led me, to a cove among the trees. And there, sitting on a throne of wood, sat a man, till he stood, and turned into a girl of no more than 7, then to a crone of what must have been 111. And in 3 voices this thing told me, 'Child, you have not died, you will wake up warm and alive, in your bed, at home, with another day of school to dread. But child, you have asked a question. Many do not dare ask, giving in to conformity, which is, alas, the only sign of humanity, which we see today. You asked if there was a god, or a goddess, or a divine at all. Many would tell you to go to church, or synagogue. But that I will not tell you, but I will tell you one thing, I am as real as you choose to make me, and as imaginary as well.'

'Who are you?' I asked quietly.

'I am one of many names, all are valid, in their time and place. Currently, many know me, as Yahweh, or Jesus Christ. Though that is simply the male facet of me. In other times, I was known as Artemis, Diana, Venus, Mary, and many other things.'

'Why am I here?' I asked more boldly.

The God-Goddess sighed and knelt down, picking up a leaf, he turned away from me and when turning back, became a simple figure that reminded me of my grandmother, ever-youthful, but ever-wise. She showed the leaf to me, where it had once been green, was only brown, dead. And sighing once again she told me.
'Soon this world, will not be, families live in only poverty, church means nothing at all, and immorality has covered this world. I am asking the young, the truthful, the thinking, to stop this.'

'Why me?' I asked uncertainly.

'You think, you care, you don't think only of your hair or who is going out with whom. You wonder of tomorrow, you remember yesterday, when the world was simpler, and you did not have these awful things that happen everyday.
When humanity was first here, there was no murder, or rape, and there was no thievery. There was only survival, a community, Socialism at its best.
When humans began to have an ego, to think beyond the next kill, literature began, and entertainment, and slowly things stopped mattering. In the last ½ a million years, the human society hasn't advanced. You are now only over-glorified monkeys making toys so you may be lazier.' The goddess stopped and looked at me, me biting my lip, trying to make sense of this awful trip. What had once been lovely and caring was now cruel and bitter. This goddess-thing took a breath and began speaking again.

'Over the years, Religion and Science have been at war. Finally science has won, but now your "progress" will kill you all. Children will not live beyond 30 because of this awful place. This was once a beautiful planet. Now it may as well be destroyed once again. I will give you a century. You and your descendants will stop this or I will start from starch, and that silly story about Noah and the arc will be true, except that there will be no arc.'

I bit my lip and bobbed a curtsey. Turning up the path, I left this Summerland of happiness and returned to my Winterworld, my world of pain and hate, which I must change.

And that is why I ask you to be nice to everyone, to never be cruel, to remain honest, to love and never hate, to put differences aside and become a community. I beg of thee, don't turn into what we most hate. I beg of thee, remain innocent and true and never lose your trust. For if we do not trust ourselves, who have we to trust?