Here's the kicker, he wasn't even mine. I only knew him for fifteen days.

My family was on vacation to my Father's little pueblo in nowhere Mexico.

And we stayed with my Aunt who had a whole cabal of four dogs. A skunk blotched, arrogant kind of dog who sauntered as he walked. Canela, who was quite a rough Mother.

And the light haired Chauplin.

But Ratoncito-- who had two other names-- Mirruna and Ghandi, he was a tiny puppy with paws too big for his body.

Walked like a soldier.

March on in the clouds and leap in fjords.

Now love has gotten quite the sensational reputation.

Of stopping heartbeats.

The grandiose declarations.

The kiss at the finale of performance pieces.

Bear with me children, I am a slow typer. I am quite the aged and worn woman. So do mind me with some respect-- and I'll do the same. I find the idea of a diary across the Interweb fascinating.

What an amazing idea!

Well first off, I am an Angel.

Yes, one of those in Heaven. And yes, we have certain rigid rules.

However we are not servile to any God. There is no bundle of molecules that forms a singularly human figure to represent "God" as you on Earth can comprehend.

And secondly, Guardian Angels, is actually one of our lower positions of hierarchy. The highest of course, being the Angels of Vengeance and for the war of Rapture.

Oh but that isn't for a long time yet. So don't worry. Well okay, worry a little, your world as streamlined and constantly revolutionary as it is-- it is still quite the moral and dramaturgical mess!

I believe you humans may need to get those feet back on the ground and to appreciate the Earth under your feet.

It was not made as a plaything and while it may be yours, it is no vanity project to paint in whatever way you wish.

But of course, this isn't that entry.

Not yet. I do apologize for my ramble and I hope you may be patient with me.

This is about Cupid.

This concerns myself, a Guardian Angel.

And love. In all the forms it takes.

You see, what you first must know is that there is reason for every myth. You humans were always startlingly intelligent. Your eyes had stunning clarity. I would dare say they had much more clarity in the past. You-- humans-- were more willing to trust yourselves.

Humans you see, had quite good reason to construct every myth and moral that they did.

Because they are morals to live by to respect the creatures you share this Earth with.

You are quite distinct beings, you humans quite intelligent and controlled, well I will give you this, other creatures-- Angels included-- act with much more abandon. We act more on our instincts and the emotions that we feel.

Other times we do have more fluid, vastly far-reaching intelligence of the dust in stars or the last breath of a nebula. Concepts, that thought of too deeply is simply beyond what you humans were programmed for.

As a result, creatures are much less compatible to intermingle than you humans are. Another one of your virtues.

While an ill suited congregation of creatures would either eat each other or suck them dry of all that makes them up, from their bones to their very soul. So that not even what would be granted entrance to eternal rest is left behind. Too mangled to constitute a once thinking, existing trace of a presence on this world.

Angels are, to remain objective, absent of many negative emotions. For all the rules we do have, we simply do not judge. We do not persecute. Angels as a general rules, accept that with light, goodness, and Order, there must be its singular and opposite darkness, rot, evil, and Chaos.

As an unexpected result, even the positive emotions we feel, are blunted.

But that especially helps a Guardian Angel human.

For you see, once they are assigned a human, a Guardian is cast down. To live and walk upon the Earth and appreciate it. To see its working parts from the eyes of you humans.

A Guardian Angel is per request.

Whenever a human genuinely asks to the sky for assistance. There are certain procedures but that is very select knowledge and can yield better, integrative service but as long as the request is of genuine intention-- than you have a Guardian Angel.

Mine was Aya.

Who had asked for my help when she was a teenager of fifteen years old. Of a low-income family and who didn't have a prayer otherwise of paying for business school. She wouldn't have even been able to scrape together to pay for the license she'd need in a few years to sell food.

And so, I was sent to provide my assistance. In a small, intimately tight-knit seaside town with a city twenty miles away where she would attend one of its older public universities. I found my services quite popular when she had moved there.

I have taken many forms in Aya's life, sometimes even in the lives of those around sweet red-haired Aya. Including her brash and doting husband-- well, before they'd been husband and wife. I stayed in the distance when they'd married.

Watching such naked adoration in their eyes as they made those vows before an appointed agent of that being you humans call God.

Such a look, that is so fundamentally human.

That is one love my little humans. The one you know so well with that Angel called Cupid. Well humans, Cupid is quite the character, much more conniving than you would realize. And Cupid has far more arrows than the red ones.

He has pink and white and yellow and even black.

He also has, a color for that love between a mother and her child.

But that color, is quite the elusive one. It isn't one that can be pronounced by the human tongue.

But is always, without fail, the color of that child's eyes. And the nettle of their soul is its wood.

An Angel is naturally charged to help all whom they come across.

Including, a human girl with fiery dark eyes that burned like a ravaging forest fire.

Who had had relations with a monster.

The alluring thrall of a dark, tempestuous love eater.

Yes, they are primarily women. Men are almost a species all their own in their rarity. But a succubus mother, does in fact produce a succubus child. Boy or girl.

And that torrid affair, produced a lovely green eyed boy and his human Mother's thick dark hair fluttering and curling gently to cover his ears, whose hands from the start grabbed for any source of love it could find.

Love that currently, only a Mother could provide and goodness did that girl give so selflessly.

"That baby will kill you," I told her.

And she had been told that before.

Injuriously been told before that the baby was a mistake, a curse, that the baby was better off in the ground or on one of those-- well that may be a bit too far for public consumption. So we'll leave such language there and in the smog of hateful air.

In all fairness and grace of the universe, she'd had every right to scratch at my unfeeling fixture shadowing her sadness with the claws of a harpy.

I got down to my feet, hands settled on my knees as she flinched away on the street bench she sat on.

"That baby--"

"Marcel."

"Marcel," I accepted which rolled off my tongue and a giggle-- a giggle my children!-- bubbled in my chest, "Marcel--"

Marcel. Marcel.

"Was made by unnatural means, you know this. Much as you hate yourself to think it. You know."

And I held my hand in her warm one. That was somehow still warm in the cold as the ocean at this close-knit, selective little town's edge turned grey.

"I love him," she warbled, voice hushed and fractured as the harsh winter wind. But no less strong, so admirably strong.

And the slight tightness of my hand seemed to wrest something out of her.

"Would you like lodging in a single woman's home? It is nothing fancy but is near the hospital and the neighbors have been nothing but lovely to me as well," I said with a teasing smile, "for all my lack of a man or in any interest of such thing."

I am what humans call... "an asexual." Love in that manner is foreign and I believe, simply outside an Angel's purview.

"They also bring large amounts of kugel and uncalled for questions about my mood on any given day."

Which coaxed a laugh from her which was so beautiful.

And which the baby lapped up as fiercely as he would his mothers' milk.

As I said, love like that, it is so fundamentally human.

Still, I could love a human.

I could love a harsh, burning, startling woman whom never ceased loving. Never ceased fighting the world for the bundle in her arms.

An Angel's love is infinite. For it is the love of The One, of life itself, of each and every grain of dust and in the perfect formulation of flowers or of chaos in the forms of storms or of fae now limited to the farthest flung wilds of Scotland or Old York or of vampires and werewolves who turn humans wrong and deformed. Members of a wholly different pack. Members, of a Holy Balance.

So Marcel could eat, he could live.

Marcel in consequence of being raised by an Angel and a human, could learn.

Learn that love was just as much giving. It was about pleasure and pain in equal measures, for equal parties.

As an Angel it was a moral duty to temper the succubi Marcel so he did not eat his way through the coming high school class of 20XX.

As his Mother, it was with all the love in my heart that my son Marcel have the life no succubus has ever been allowed, a life in the open where shame and subterfuge are foreign concepts and that the taste of a kiss or the warmth of an embrace-- those things linger and write upon their heart beneath their skin.

A heart that turns out, was swollen when on a doctor's medical picture.

And another note, yes I know, but much as an Angel could give love-- something like a blood transfusion, a marvelous use of alchemy by the way-- and an Angel's infinite love could also be made into an infinite battery in the shape of a green charm on his choker, when he was young did I learn that an Angel's love is diluted. It isn't the pure form that his species feeds on.

So he was consequentially always going to be a little thin. That is what I will forever regret.

And as the town grew around us over the years, so did its distance from the ocean it originated from.

Aya obtained her diploma and a license to sell food. Her husband's friends knew the developers for new expansions such as a state of the art hospital, a mental health clinic, a stretch of new suburb housing, and an entertainment district. Which necessitated restaurants with that kindly, little tight-knit community charm.

She had never expected to run a fully functioning cafe with eight employees under her from the word 'GO.'

But a visit from an elderly woman who wished for a simple cup of coffee and of course congratulated her on the coming arrival, settled her nerves a bit. And that old woman, and a young college aged worker just moved to town, became regular customers. Who appreciated the sense of home much more than any material product or how big the sign was.

Her son had flowing red hair and slightly purple tinted eyes, he sat in the cafe, and marveled the customers with his portraits.

And some of his landscape sketches were framed and hung on the walls with the family booths.

And at the same time, where I, a human Mother, and Marcel lived in what had once been a bare, lifeless little chamber that passed for a house-- I peeled away different figures with different hair colors or facial structures the way other women unzipped business skirts.

Marcel always had a kiss for his working Mother.

That is, until he became a teenager.

When he became a teenager, there was much more fingering of the choker that contained a piece of an Angel's love.

"Is someone bullying you?"

Marcel's birth mother still had eyes that bore through you with fire.

Marcel jolted, "of course-- Absolutely NOT!"

She never flinched at the fangs in Marcel's mouth. And in fact, they'd been received with almost reverence and certainly morbid fascination at school.

It was on quite the casual day when Aya dropped the news.

To the old woman who'd never had grandchildren of her own. Or, so she knew. Her girl-- and yes, Aya was something like my adult daughter-- "my Newton's finally found someone."

In that moment, well I was taken aback. Even stuttered to a stop in taking a sip of my latte.

You see, Newton Burberry had quite the interesting string to Cupid. One lined black.

Lined, as an accent to one of the most evocative reds I'd ever seen as an Angel.

__________________________

Newton Burberry.

Is the name that was on his sketchbook.

He liked the smell of salt, the sound of the fishing boats.

His mother had talked about what was once just a quiet beach when she'd been twenty.

Newton couldn't imagine it.

At the ocean, was always a noisy, sailor's harbor. It was how he knew it. A fact as fundamental as his own hair was red and Vampire Marcel who wore chokers and lace fingerless gloves ordered online absolutely knew what he was doing when he batted those lashes! And released the power of his round, doe-like eyes too green and too delicate to be human!

He breathed in more of the salty air and turned to a new page. Coming to half of his sketchbook. Marcel, like a sleek feathered Magpie had presented Newton with a black decorative ribbon to be a bookmark.

The scratch of his pencil louder at the moment than the sway of the ocean water or how it foamed and then crashed into the bridge.

Light steps slowed his hand until he stopped.

Marcel just seemed to glide. His smile seemed to skirt just over your head in the tone of a joke with a riddle as a punchline.

The joke seemed to be the look on your face.

"Hey there," Marcel said a purr always at the back of his throat.

"Hi," he said back, with a smile.

"You must have had-- some day. You-- you are rocking right now. Did you-- are those contacts? No wait your eyes are always like pearls--"

And then he did that and blushed scarlet at the slightest smile.

And still, Marcel stopped his heart just about every time.

One of his mothers was a poet, or she spoke as if she were in a Jane Austin novel which did have that kind of poetry.

"What are you drawing?"

They sat beside each other.

Newton noticed the way his thick black hair, just like the feathers of that Magpie, framed his face and that cat-like smile that lightly stroked on his features.

"I wanted to focus on Chupacabra this time, the really big, freaky types of legends this time."

Marcel edged closer so he could have a better look.

"I'm writing about a sailor."

It was some more chatter like that, about their hobbies and trading ideas, before they rounded back to why Marcel had requested to meet here of all places.

He'd wanted the ambiance he'd said, because he loved Newton he'd said, and since he did he needed to tell him this secret.

_______________________________

I'd put on a nice blouse and long skirt for this particular Sunday brunch.

We did it at least twice in a month.

Make a to-do about breakfast with adorned waffles, some arranged fruit bowls, and cold juice.

Though on this occasion, Marcel had decided Sunday brunch would be just the casual environment to introduce the boy he was seeing.

There'd been nothing but hugs when Marcel had admitted he liked boys. He'd cried a bit just a little bit nervous. That there would be disappointment or that his mothers would be offended that he was so nervous.

But what really mattered is they both supported Marcel.

He leapt to answer the door, grinning ear to ear.

And gently led the boy on their doorstep along by the hand.

"Mama, Mother, this is my boyfriend," and he twined an arm around him, laying his head on the red-haired boy's shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. To mark one's territory.

The tinge of pink in the black of his eyes exposed just how deeply that love went.

And perhaps, that went to explain the black lining the string around Aya's son.

I think you'll agree with me, Cupid, had a lot to answer for.

Once he stopped laughing.

Also, what I would have entered into 'The Emerald Challenge,' but I'm out $5.99

Stinks pretty elitist if you ask me. Anyone who reads this, please @Prose for me.

______________________________________

…This is hush-hush classified information, and very important before anyone proceeds…

Handle it wisely, you have been warned by the Reese Publicity Team.

Was it any special kind of day when the event had happened? When they’d been found miles away from each other– grasping at a hand that would never hold theirs again? No. Absolutely not.

And it wasn’t rainy or horribly hot or windy or balmed gray when they were laid into the ground either.

Dad had been found face down just before the city had woken up, not really having drowned in a puddle, but it was better than what the papers in a manila envelope had said so Mason had gone with that. And Mom?

Mom had made a big mess on a highway.

The day of the funeral, when Mason and Ryan both wore itchy gray suits and almost obscene sweater vests to cover up that all they had were their school shirts, it was just a blue sky. Blue sky without a hint of cloud or even the sun save for a pinprick.

An absolute pain, to the very end. Such a stupid thing to do Mom and Dad.

Ryan’s all alone now, or what, was he supposed to take care of him?

He was eighteen and had just managed to not get booted from school much less barely graduate on schedule with his dismal grades.

And worse yet, they did do the job well. Better than he could have ever hoped to do.

Did they leave Ryan on the weekends with a babysitter only paid for Monday and Tuesday? Yes.

But Mom always eagerly cooked Ryan’s favorites to see him smile. And she always had to have pictures of Mason eating the same cute bear face pancakes.

Dad was always there when Ryan needed the sound of his strong heart to drift off, and never said no to reading an extra bedtime story.

Did they ever tell Ryan in any way what they did? No, they hadn’t come up with the right story yet, they would have lied to Ryan.

Had Mason not told him first.

“Mom and Dad take money from other people, probably put them under spells or something because they always take a lot. Sometimes they can’t afford that much and that doesn’t even cover when what they sell just plum done breaks.”

There, he’d told and it didn’t look like three year old Ryan loved them any less.

“Oh yes it's true,” Mom admitted, just like that, “What we do, well, it’s not legal and– oh just promise you’ll be better than us. That you’ll both be better than us! Do very well in school.”

She’d pinched his cheek.

“You have big, attentive eyes, did you know Mason, that means a child’s going to pay attention to every little thing. Every. Little. Thing.”

What he had, Mason wasn’t sure he could call it grief.

It wasn’t about them at all, who, hard as they had tried, were people rather than “parents.”

He’d have to say, it had to do much more with what was broken. What was dead and slipping from his fingers. No dreams. No future. No future, except Ryan.

No future, except the crooner. Whose cheeks often burned red at the nickname and stupid older brother’s smirking face.

Ryan had always adored to sing just as his parents had adored to listen. Clapping in all the right parts and playing music in the house so he would learn about rhythm and melody and rhymes.

“What now?! We can’t– we need Mom and Dad! Why would you say that?! Where are they?!”

In time, as soon as next year Ryan may not remember they’d had parents. But society had affirmed children needed adults and Mom and Dad had introduced him as “brother.” And brother he’d remained.

Obstinate, dismissive, and occasionally a horror. Not a caregiver, but he was all Ryan had left and so accepted his hug in their parents’ bed.

A hot room never failed to put Ryan to sleep so he’d blasted it on and now he was too lazy to turn it down.

His pillow was moist with tears.

Why?

Why?

What was wrong with you both?

A lawyer was in charge of them now, paid in monthly installments from an otherwise sealed account and who knows what else before then. Considerably so, given that their parents had never seen a day’s jail time for their cons. Of which the lawyer had a list.

“Hmm well alright, perhaps when you’re a bit older,” he said, “sir.”

This was too much! He was a kid! And the adult– the adult could or would do anything. Mason was scared.

Mason spent the whole night scared.

So he wouldn’t spend the morning scared.

So a little boy still buried deep down; defiant and bitter, with simplistic concepts of justice– a pretty, palatable lie to feed society– would know he belonged down at his very depths.

“It wasn’t personal.”

And snap.

When Mason beat that child dead with the shovel to bury the evidence.

Poor child. He deserved a grand, beautiful bonfire as his parents had done with 550,000 euros of counterfeit cash.

Date: 05/14, 1 yrs. later. (please excuse coffee stains)

“Come on, get your butt out from under the bridge, goblin,” Mason chided cheerily.

Ryan came out an absolute mess, he knew so and Mason’s laughter wasn’t helping.

But he’d tried! He’d really tried.

“You did good, now come on and eat. Your favorite.”

No, actually, Mason had just made eggs and put the cereal box in front of him.

Divvying both brothers up. Hey! Not polite.

Fine, if he didn’t want Ryan to see all his work stuff.

When he poured and put on milk without spilling Mason nodded approvingly again.

And Ryan smiled, even if it wasn’t nothing really, ugh brother-old man, it was confusing.

“Listen I did get permission to leave work early, I’ll be there by the time lunch gets out and you have your band right?”

The one taped to his wrist after bath time last night? Ryan raised his hand anyway to show it was still on his arm.

His brother laughed lightly.

“That’s good but hey I’ll still bring you some actual snacks.”

Bleh.

Why couldn’t they just go watch a movie? The teachers had said he didn’t have to actually be in school today.

And Ryan didn’t wanna, he wanted to sit and watch TV to catch whatever was on Mason’s “adult cartoon” channel. Couldn’t be so adult if old kids gave big brother weird looks.

If only he were still allowed to make fun of stupid Mason when he was being stupid.

“Done,” he said, shoving the plate in his brother’s face.

“Thank you, you filthy gremlin,” he chortled with an eerie, con-descend-ing smile.

“Okay hop down, spot check,” he said.

Ryan’s legs moved before Ryan did.

And his arms stretched as if big brother had swapped him out with a robot a long time ago. And hey, he absolutely would do that.

He squirmed in revenge.

Still, his shirt got straightened and dusted even if it was as white and clean as when he’d left it on his bed.

Mason, such a grown-up. Picky and blabbing all the time about nothing. Quite a do and big fuss about the tiniest dandelion duffs.

In the car, he let himself look a bit sad, or was he lying again?

“Can you sing this time? I like that better than what’s on the radio.”

But he did like it and he’d come up with something but Mason had been too busy to hear then.

“When the sun peeks, peeks peeks, and peeks the light comes too. The light comes warm and the birds chirp, chirp. The sun is saying: Hi everyone, say hi to you and you and you and all, and all who are sad!"

---------------------------------The sun says hi to all who are sad.--------------------------------------

“Can you believe that?” Mason asks his coworker at a bar. One where he often stares at the large piano.

It definitely had that smoke room, jazzy theme.

The older man put down a load of glasses to restock the back of the old place.

“Sorry,” he said, “your brother, he’s what. Eight?”

Mason simply nodded. “But he is good and he’s getting better. I mean, sure he sings as good as any kid probably but then at home there’s just something in his voice. His music teacher–”

“I think that’s something he should know,” his coworker had come beside him and nudged his shoulder. “And I do mean from you, I think it would be a little weird if I asked around.”

Why wouldn’t–?

Oh.

“Not that it isn’t a good idea to hire someone to finally play the old girl.”

Just that the only people who praised him on it were– in the ground.

Mason put his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey now none of that,” he said, and with a strong heave placed the box down on the floor. Stepping up to Mason whose head was down on the counter in his grim stupor.

“Listen to me okay,” and Mason rose to find him leaning with his arms on the counter, “you are a good brother. Say it.”

“I am a… good brother?” he repeated in more of a question than anything else.

“You’re damn right,” and Mason flinched when he had just slapped his back like some fraternity broski would… Completely out of NOWHERE!

“Listen,” he continued– okay. “You can’t be perfect, that's just the fact of life. You honestly could have chucked the kid into foster care for the state to raise and really, pretty valid.”

Mason gave his superior a withering glare at that moment.

Hands up, he acquiesced, “sorry, what I mean is man, ease up on yourself and tell the little singer now that he has the chops.”

His manager thwipped the rag off his shoulder and toward Mason, “it isn’t so hard honey.” And went off with the most smug grin, as he whistled a tune.

Mason would ask later, just how did the music teacher coax that shy disaster into singing in a red wig and equally garish red church shoes.

Matter of fact, where did she get her props? Those shoes looked store quality– good store quality.

But onto the point, which was that he lived with this shy disaster and he’d complained at length about how scary and confusing and not worth the time— or risk— it was to make friends.

And Mason stopped clapping, when he saw the grin spread across Ryan’s face. The way his eyes sparkled under the lights, how he looked up at them as if– as if a dream had come true.

And, his songs were getting better. And he was listening to his best-liked bands and Japanese idols. Or Korean. One of the two.

“Say for argument’s sake Ridley—”

“Ryan,” he corrected, “what is this about?”

“I dunno but I mean you like music right? Come on don’t think about anything else, not the future or costs whatever– what matters is that you be honest with me. Do you like this jumping around and belting out poetry stuff?”

Mason would like to say he’d been going for casualness with the whole thing.

And all the same he got the answer.

Ryan stared into his jeans, picking at where the pants had been viciously torn into “fashionable,” and then nodded. Nodded furiously and with conviction that yes– “I feel safe and go to– a different place when I do.”

“A better place.”

Then he had his work cut out for him.

The duplex had no computer and until it was a sure thing, Mason couldn’t risk Ryan having to go alone in the evening, by himself, while he hunted for an Internet signal.

Just eight years old. He grit his teeth, held his arm as if it could protect against the cold.

"Help me."

"Help me."

"Just some food."

"Please!" He was growing a bit angry, speaking through almost closed lips.

So many hands that would reach out, so many kind eyes before--

This time it was a girl no older than fifteen, in a school uniform with the most clear blue eyes.

And as if caught in a flash they widened.

Her hand retracted, muttering about an adult doing the deed.

Shouldn't be involved.

He stumbled to sit back.

Alone. And cold.

Mara had assisted her brother-- her barely thirteen year old brother-- keep his unnatural hero identity a secret.

She'd kept silent at the table every time their Father who was part of a steadily defunding police department disparage a "young, brash thrill-seeker" with his suspicious eyes and mind working to furrow out any lies from what he had fed the media and an adoring crowd that day. 'The child's press skills,' he'd sharply noted, 'were a slow developing trait.'

Which unfortunately, had developed well.

Likely, had the right type of personality for such work in the first place. And it was with some grief that he remarked, "what a waste."

She was there with a hand under the table or a pressing look to at least eat one or two bites when the comments hit too close and too sharply.

She was there with an excuse for their parents, the notes to fool his most apathetic teachers-- and a note for herself to bring it up to their parents of how teachers in that middle school were hardly up to par-- she was there as his big sister to patch him up and put ice on what had been twisted or squeezed to intimidate or just-- to shatter his bones.

Turns out, she'd been the second to find out.

Her brother, he had gotten a partner first from his best friend Carson.

Carson, had been the one to help organize his affects if it ever became necessary. If Nick one day didn't come back. If he failed as Earth's front line in an intergalactic war.

Yes, her brother had been hit by lightning one day by the planet's designated guardian, because the woman had needed manpower. Why she chose a twelve-year-old, she would never forgive nor forget. She had her eyes on the motherly patron who came around every so often.

She'd found the rudimentary letters and even-- a will-- that he had written. Mostly who got what, as she was searching among the chaos of his steadily neglected room for a specific videogame. Where he had also hidden a thumb drive of police case notes concerning odd doll-related disturbances.

It was all in a girl's jewelry box, certainly no one who was allowed in his room would dare touch such a thing. He likely never figured Mara would become one such person. Or that she had picked up how to break these simple locks as a necessary skill as his big sister.

'Mara,

There are things you should know. About how this happened to me. Please don't blame Malloria for this. She did what she had to.

See, it started with that day. When there used to be stormy skies all day and everyday, lightning with no hint of rain and the gales of wind. When we could find bits of UFO scrap.

It was such a normal day before then, I don't think she had a plan. It wasn't "supposed" to be me. It just happened that way. I was the one on the court who got hit. The lightning hurt though I won't deny that. The pain alone, I thought it would kill me before I even thought of what lightning actually does do. Did you know that getting hit by lightning, you really do feel what it means to be so hot that you feel cold?

I woke up in the nurse's office, I guess my vitals weren't too messed up and namely, I wasn't a charred hunk of boy stuck to the pavement like wadded up and stepped over gum until it flattens over into a pink splat on the ground. Dried by the sun-- but back on topic.

From there is where my electrical powers came from and it came on quickly and suddenly. And also, I didn't get my costume through a transformation sequence. I had to make it out of old Halloween costume pieces and accessories that happened to fit the theme.

I did notice my powers building, it was sparks between my fingers, popping fireworks, the lightbulb. I didn't completely know what I was doing, I didn't know what was happening to me. What I did eventually know is that I had never-- as my big sister and the person who seriously did pick up a lot of slack-- seen you scared. And you were scared, when Dad hadn't yet come home, when it seemed that he wasn't coming home.

So I put on a poorly made costume and went investigating. And yeah, that's how I found out I had the strength and super jump abilities. The first building I jumped off from-- please don't resuscitate me from the grave and hurt me-- I fought a bunch of mutant lizards in a fish factory-- that's where I met Jalen the first time-- he's an example to his species, unfortunately, and sure I didn't "save-save" Dad, but I made sure his shift ended well before midnight.

I seriously just wanted to help Mar. I swear, and I'm sorry. That that's hurt you.'

--Your brother, Nick.

Mara's breath shuddered once she finished, there were all types of other drafts, more and more pages to have been added for the initial letter.

There were ones for Carson and David. Not one for Mom or Dad. Oh God.

She took a deep breath and with a small, determinate flame, placed everything back where she had found it. Her brother would surely notice the lock broken but she would deal with that. She would tell him the truth, what she saw and what the plan was now.

She walked downstairs without the game, without the notes, Nick and Carson were still pored over the computer and its blue screen doing murder on their eyes.

"You guys should take a soda break. give me a shift," Mara said, pointing to herself.

Mom never talked about Dad. He'd left when I was no more than six years old. She and him, they'd been the uber cool kids in high school. Many people had many theories. A prevailing sentiment, was that he'd run off in disappointment when his son was decidedly the opposite. Just the kind of kid he'd beat the snot out of. Mom and Drake assured me that wasn't true. Well after finding a wind-up time machine, we'd see who was right. Because I'm about sure it was Dad staring down on us when the garden shed door opened. In 1985.

Spring uniforms.

As usual Fuwa-san wore it with confidence, a shirt just one size bigger and a longer skirt than was expected. But boys still looked anyways.

She would swap out the charms on her bag from snowmen and cool tone anime characters for summer edition shoujo girls in their beach outfits and a smiling sun.

Smiling vibrantly toward me, while I cringed at the length of my own short skirt she offered up, one of her wonderful, fun ideas. "We should hang out over the summer Kita-chan! Whaddya say? Come on please say yes," holding my manicured hands in her own equally long and delicate fingers.

She still wanted to hang out. Even without a cake to make or a fall festival plushie fundraising stand to organize.

People called me smart, they called me astute and collected. A prim, perfect little lady.

That is not what happened.

All I could force out of my gaping mouth was a squeak, nodding my head as my whole body to my hir went hot.

"I hate you," I despaired a bit later, clutching my bag close.

Fuwa-san laughed in delight. "I am so sorry, genuinely."

Placing that sisterly hand on my shoulder, holding me safe from the eyes I always imagined found me worth even a single glance.

But then, I figured she'd sign up for some athletics camp or a neighborhood contest and forget all about it. And it would be training season, me with the stopwatch as I wrote up her scores. And printed them out for her later.

We'd go for boba tea and my choice of sweets to get out of the hot sun. I did know food.

She did not forget. As the sun beat down outside, two days into the school break I'd received my first guest.

Fuwa-san marveled at the property and then the spacious apartment I and occasionally my parents called home.

"Oh wow, diligent as usual!" she called out already in the living room. On an oblong apple wood table I had spread out my booklets and a new notebook for scratch work. "Man you've run through your Calc like it was nothing. That's amazing."

"Thanks," I said quietly.

She had on quite a nice casual outfit with a white pin up skirt and thick black overalls, a graphic tee, and a pink plaid shirt over that several sizes too big.

I was looking way too much.

She continued talking and praising me.

I put a hand to my mouth, feeling that rush of butterflies in my stomach, taking well-detailed note in my mind of how she bent over my notes. How her hair hung down her face.

"I-- I wasn't, do you need some help?"

Her eyes went a bit big before she quickly swatted a dismissive hand. That she had manicured with the Nexus Violet I had once recommended her over Christmas.

"No, no nothing like that I swear. Like I said, I hoped we could hang out some."

Fuwa-san put her hands behind her back and smiled, looking to me for permission, the picture of innocence.

As I was in a horrible grey nightgown not having bothered to change or even run a comb through my hair. And I knew it was horrible, I knew it was the last sort of garment to take for a sleepover with girls-- exactly so my mother didn't insist on it!

"Just let me change," I decided with a nod.

"Okay," she acquiesced happily.

"Please, raid the fridge if you want. The housekeeper made chili pepper karaage last night," a comment that made stars light her eyes. "Housekeeper! Dang your parents must really do well! That is so cool. My Mom runs a gym," and said with as much pride a princess might, wrapped up in a nostalgia, "I never had a chance I guess. It was run like my life depended on it or don't bother coming to where Mama was during work hours!"

"I suppose so," I agreed smiling softly at the absolute beauty of her laugh. That brought to mind a storm of flower petals. Their sweet smell. Their delicate texture and the way one had to be so gentle to hold them between two fingers.

I'd labored in my closet for at least a day to try and find something that was remotely fun and fit for the season. And not another grim, notice-me-not ploy or just my absolutely abysmal grasp of femininity.

The best I could end up doing was scorching hot black pants that wore a bit tight around my hips and a large red crop top shirt.

And then went through the agonizing process to make my hair remotely presentable with one right-sided length brushed just so in a sweep over my brow.

Beginning to hear the sounds of oil sizzling in a pan and then the hiss of ingredients being added-- I incredulously wondered just what in the world Fuwa-san was doing.

But I otherwise surrendered. Having gotten used to much more audacious and out-of-pocket. My parents need never know of such a borderline rude friend.

Not that they'd seemed so disapproving of my very passive walk across the cherry lined walkways of school life.

I decided some makeup could, make such a ridiculously bold look work for me. Exercising just a moment of caution before darting for my Mother's room and her bloody red deep lipstick.

When I finally came out, it was with tense shoulders-- a constant run of thoughts darkening the corners around my mind-- but in some little corner protected by white lilies and the fond touch lined with dirt, was the knowledge at least Fuwa-san was never laughing.

Even so, she was struck completely dumb to see me.

She was struck, with such overwhelming pride. She was struck from seeing me at my best.

"Oh my goodness, I wish we could take you out and show you off. But men better stay away because you, you are all mine," and in that sentiment collared me by the neck with her upper arm. But it didn't hurt. It never did.

She had prepared braised asparagus shoots with carrots and red potato in black pepper and virgin oil to join the spicy chicken.

Fuwa-san had also found a pitcher of pink lemonade. I got out two large glasses and filled them with ice, then poured in the drink to the tip.

"Thank you very much for the add on," I said as I passed each glass, one for her and in front of her, one for me. "And you did it perfectly."

She put a hand to the back of her head, I noticed how she sat on the chrome stool with her legs splayed much as they would go. "Thanks, that's high praise. Heck Zoo-zoo you really surprise me, I mean you never do have to cook if you don't want to," Fuwa-san blew her piece before placing the entire fried meat in her mouth.

I looked down, a bit abashed when remembering--

"And you just up and decided I'mma learn this all new skill and the lifestyle associated with it for a guy," Fuwa-san huffed, "I still say he's absolutely an idiot to pass on someone that dedicated. But then again not that I'm complaining, I like in-her-books, fashion forward schooltime goth princess much better."

I jolted at the remark. And guzzled my lemonade.

Standing, I took up the landline, "I'm going to order some dessert. They have no strawberry flavor, so is raspberry flavor and lemon custard cookies okay? Or we can go with strawberry cheesecake."

"That raspberry thing sounds absolutely perfect. Don't worry too much," she assured, "I can't wait to taste your upper crust bakery sweets."

I turned away, angrily humiliated and having turned a vibrant pink.

I took up a happier tone than usual to speak with the representative on the call. See Fuwa.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon, summer assignments completely forgotten that I was criss crossed behind Fuwa-san, weaving a braid into her usually wild dark hair. She'd elected to take off her flats, letting bare toes experience cold air, and often fidgeted her legs.

The bakery box was just beside me, half empty.

Our glasses sweating on the carpeted floor of my room as well.

No, because Prince Henry, from Red, White, and Royal Blue is the expert and absolute King-- near God-- of literary knowledge and prestige that every book nerd wishes they had. That sheer variety of readership and to wax on about theme and era and oh yes, the very social implications of certain writing styles and genres being introduced to society, injected within cultural spheres until they require their own name.

I am a writer, and perhaps a bit too generously, I consider myself above just an amateur writer penning vague ideas or the dreams she occasionally has. Believe it or not that was my start.

But when you write, let me tell you, it is a process of minute details, of sweeping themes and how certain ideas you wish to bring to life through other people who happen to be made of ink, all connect together. It is how certain gestures within a line of dialogue, or word choice, or diction and vocabulary, of just one single line changes the meaning. Pivots tones and intentions of a story so even a moment between lovers becomes dark and sinister, or the supposed "villain" of a work is all the more human and tragic. Or better yet, ridiculous. Even comedies have something to say. And I can, with fair confidence declare that in some way comedies achieve the most poignance and emotion from their stories and characters than any other genre. It is almost universal, perhaps in the last few decades or perhaps it has always been an author's subtle intent. That humor and bliss must inherently be paired with heartbreak, anguish, or the bittersweet garnishes so common in real life. Until the reader or the viewer is not laughing anymore but crying.

And that is only juxtaposition and intent!

Consider themes next. All the myriads of ways they can be portrayed in stories. Of course, each and every theme is constructed through repetition. As broad concepts the best provides multiple examples within their casts of characters or the settings around them. It is often better when the world itself showcases the more broad thematic elements of the story. Highlighting the most important aspects in the smallest moments. We may not think much of small moments when they occur to us-- not at the surface-- but rather we do subconsciously. We may feel a twinge of loss to see another child holding their mother's hand in the way we never got to, because our parent left us. Or cover more concrete rules to live by or empathy towards those unlike us either of different race or age group.

Consider the Bluey episode "Space" that as the title suggests and analysts will argue(as media and fiction is by its definition quite subjective and fluid, never confined to a single meaning) has themes of personal space as well as the impact of physical space and what that may do to a person. Physical distance-- "space"-- is equated with the unknown. The space the children in the episode explore through the planets, asteroids, and sun belt, away from their familiar Earth. Much can and occasionally does go wrong in their game. Space is the great unknown and as a game it appeals to imagine exploring these places even grown-ups don't have all the answers to.

Then there is the black hole, explained within their play as a space where matter nor light can escape and where others would be unable to follow, one would be completely alone, adrift, lost and to the subject of space.

However, the main child Mackenzie, is interested rather than uneasy, terrified, or belligerent to the idea of such a thing existing, and instead desires it. She desires space from her friends for an as of yet unknown reason.

Space in this case also represents clarity and comfort, and speaks to those instances a person doesn't want to be among others or children may need time to themselves to process or socially recharge even from the company of those they enjoy. And that's okay and even healthy for them to pursue, it is a boundary. One that cannot always be voiced effectively. But, Mackenzie tries even if he doesn't exactly know how.

Mackenzie is eventually able to get the space he desires, with his friends understanding that it is something he wants and even respect the desire to integrate it into the gameplay. Which is when the concept of space gets flipped on its head. While space is still equated with the unknown that can be dangerous and induce fear, we also see that space has deeper emotional connotations for a child.

The writers of Bluey did amazingly in subtle nods and imagery to present this definition of "space" as both a physical and mental thing. Mackenzie imagines the space under a bridge to be a black hole. And that space is completely dark with no way to see even an inch inside or to see even a dog's own paws should they choose to walk into it. The 'black hole' essentially represents the anxieties that come with wide physical space and the emotional reaction of being alone-- having space from those who care about you. In the ways that Mackenzie physically and emotionally made space between his friends and himself.

And as he enters the black hole we are suddenly in the colorful, idyllic imagination of a child. Or, a child's toy as that child remembered it. A memory that the episode had been building up to with the topic of space and the need to have some space when in a low emotional state. Mackenzie had seen a reminder of an experience in his formative years-- 2 or 3 as established by the author-- and was somewhat uncomfortable remembering, therefore, needed some time and space away from the noise and distraction to collect himself.

What this memory shows, is that he had previously experienced a temporary separation from his mother-- completely by chance and only for a brief time-- as he had seen her before going into a child slide in a play area only to come out and not see her. And experiencing that physical separation as well as not knowing, culminated into a separation anxiety that has made her associate certain spaces with fear and not knowing, it creates anxieties in her that ironically require some space to work through when an adult isn't readily available.

This is startling as it is beautiful and dazzling character writing in a brief aside away from the present plot of the episode. It lets viewers come away with the important lesson just how important steady and consistent presence of parents and other caretakers is to a young child. We see that Mackenzie was left alone for no more than a couple minutes by his mother and within that time was gently reassured by his teacher to ease his anxiety in the moment-- and notice that the mother comes back quickly and is prepared to offer her own physical comfort. This is a good mother and it shows in the way Mackenzie is reassured when in her mother's arms in the memory. But at such a formative age the experience still affected him deeply and as stated, is the root of some separation anxiety that he faces in that episode. So that by the end the black hole is no longer impeded by darkness but by light.

It is amazing and can teach so much, but does so creatively while maintaining intelligence yet adds reality and sensitivity in presenting the perspective of a child in a way that can then touch the adults that would be around them. And does so while being fun as well as accessible to young children who would feel the characters are just like them. Which is always great, but a difficult thing to do.

Again, small details can change the entire theme that is taken from a story or gives common morals and messages a different twist. Hence subversions, inversions, deconstructions, and reconstruction which are especially fascinating for how they dissect established topics or conventions of genre or archetypes looking at them from different angles-- in deconstruction often interrogating them or subjecting them to a much more realistic standpoint-- that nevertheless make for compelling narratives and often pairs with deeper societal issues in the real world or makes for useful allusions that again, are presented in more creative and engaging fashions.

The examples of this particular style I could think of is the Oshi no Ko anime which deconstructs the idol industry and culture surrounding teen-- often female idols-- as well as other entertainers young and old within the entertainment industry, taking harsh looks into how both young and old stars may be exploited and sometimes that there is an unfortunate lack of protection for stars. As it's an almost silent consensus with executives and even the public at large that you forsake the right to be human or to be regarded as an individual in the eyes of your audience or your agency and essentially become a product.

There is dialogue that is dedicated to explanation that perhaps can get awkward but does make sense for the most part as it is often directed toward newcomers into a certain field such as an actor who is now an as of yet unknown idol talent, since there's little money to make in such a risky investment then her group will get less accommodation and space in a given stadium where the more established stars will get dressing rooms, or the manager character pulling away the truth of what an idol can actually make in way of revenue for themselves, to her client's still young-- if not prodigious-- children.

From a meta perspective getting these bits of information is mostly organic since it's characters are fresh into this world, which is called an audience surrogate and serves the plot not just for the experience points and lore, but also since the characterization means certain people can use that information in other ways that further their own motivations.

Also used and twisted in the anime is the reincarnation trope, where the subject is a doctor who had treated an idol pregnant with twins, murdered and then reborn as the idol's son. While another girl joins him reborn as his twin sister in that life.

The reincarnation actually propels the plot forward as well as a plunge of negative characterization for Aqua-- who has now genuinely loved Ai as a mother-- so has all the more reason to avenge hers and his own death-- making the anime a murder mystery. And what is never acknowledged, is how differently adult behaviors can come off at different stages of a child's life in these situations. Where his overall serious and unaffected demeanor along with an already formal vocabulary made Aqua appear to be the poster boy horror movie child, giving him great acclaim as a prodigy actor due to the dissonance he'd managed to accidentally create at elementary school age, that effect ended as early as first year of high school since teenagers can have many personality types that can otherwise be correlated with life experiences and influences around them such as the adults responsible for their care, upbringing, as well as education or resources of learning. Furthermore, any discrepancies can be chalked up to the traumatic event of his mother's death and him being old enough to understand and remember the loss, not to mention having grown up around stars and entertainers through Ai and later raised by her manager.

Many parodies do well in deconstructing conventions and even the 'facts' of their world through exaggeration, understatement, or usual and theoretical shenanigans taken to their logical extreme. When done in fanworks it frankly shows a passion on the author's end for the original work, and an ability to analyze construct stories that don't follow regular formulas and often eschew the typical tropes found in that work or those similar, and usually the most quality fan works are in those where the characters are kept in character and nuance is presented in the situations they're faced with even when it is tempting to simplify things. This honestly makes for very compelling narratives.

And compelling narratives make wonderful use of outside features such as color, setting, or even objects and other characters as symbols or allusions for certain ideas or give clues to story arcs, character progression, and foreshadow key plot points.

It is in the little details that make the sweeping themes of a story but also provides crystal clarity on character-- from superficial status and prestige to their inner turmoil or their coming character arc. It takes a bundle of research in itself to find the right symbol for what you want to convey and then in how to utilize it properly.

Color creates tone in the setting and often evokes certain feelings or perceptions within the reader from the word "go." Comparing the lush mystery of a green forest in earthy tones that just smells of nature and its magic, to the often saturated palettes of a horror movie where the world is a little darker and a demon stalks prey into a slow state of despair and often followed by death.

Also fascinating is in the way colors may contradict themselves and so in their dissonance astound the reader and again, present more nuanced ideas or sometimes make difficult concepts more palatable to deal with. It's often said that in the horror genre the anime is more terrifying than the live action movies. There are pages upon pages of nightmare content buried in animated media even when it is for an audience of children. Often since animation and drawn scenes give writer full, absolute control of their environment in a much more free way than live action productions are provided. Whereas anime can convey their ideas through visuals live-action is in many ways heavily restricted and must rely upon sound and don't have the freedom of getting into a character's headspace, their psyche, it cuts out some of the metaphor.

Whereas anime has more freedom to perhaps explore more existential dreads or those that often lie more subtly and more common to real-life than the larger than life monsters, demons, and aliens that permeate live action horror and thriller/slasher films or TV. Take Happy Sugar Life, an anime that covers a "kidnapping" storyline where a female villain protagonist takes up the "yandere" trope towards an eight year old girl named Shio. An adorable, vibrant character with bright colors and her own cute little outfits. Now, the kidnapping definition can get a little muddy and there is debate on whether Satou-- our villain protagonist did actually abduct a child, she did keep Shio unequivocally imprisoned in her apartment which is deeply detrimental to any child's development even if they don't realize it as such, but as for abduction there isn't much of a case to charge her for picking up a child off the street whose mother by their own recollection and the child's did abandon them.

But the point is about the colors and contrast of those colors to create an effective horror. As I said, Shio is the "cute" character and throughout the story a "cute" motif is used for much of the main cast; for Satou who is perceived in her world as an unthreatening beauty and a hit working at a maid cafe, Shio who in the anime is often likened to a pure angel by other characters, Taiyou the male protagonist who could be mistaken for a girl on initial viewing, he garners sympathy for the sheer amount trauma he goes through, a choice quite intentionally made to contrast his own deeply disturbing and negative trains. And Asahi is also no exception to "cuteness" being a round faced child despite his serious demeanor and dark clothes in comparison to the rest of the main cast, who the audience can easily see as vulnerable and lashing out at a world that has already hurt him before. Similar to how a small dog might bite and nip at those who try to feed it because it has already been abused.

Overall the anime is overall disturbing in its themes and yet contrasts with a "cute" and vibrant color scheme where save for sparse moments per episode things are completely bright and cheery. It feels like the original cutesy, girls doing girl things anime a title like Happy Sugar Life would imply, yet when the darker moments do hit, it's that much more profound, through its visual medium, being able to capture instability in such a jarring way that leaves the viewer suspicious and concerned afterwards. The otherwise constant calming environment of a bright world lulls viewers to feel safe and so be horrified to see characters so easily shifting into a state that screams danger for anyone unfortunate enough to be around them.

Also, is in the grim, staticky way negative experiences and memories are constantly buried in the characters' minds in either greys, dark shadows, or slit grins on otherwise faceless anomalies, and even the red of blood to portray hurt and violence done to these kids-- they're all kids-- in many different ways even when a hand isn't raised.

All in all color and setting are used to great effect to induce a very different, lingering sort of horror that stays with the viewer and forces them into a given character's headspace without a single word. Delving into personal traumas and how they have shaped their ideologies in later life or now as the story goes on around them(Taiyou is an example of the latter).

The other best example is quite opposite on the cynical to optimistic spectrum: Cursed Princess Club which is a WebToon comic. Again, the format of a comic gives much more visual freedom than one might usually have with a typical book or live action format. In the world of CPC color is a fully integrated aspect of the world from their character design, their worldbuilding, and denoting social status or character beats on a meta-level.

Ships were somewhat decided among the fanbase through real color theory and make speculations on how the 'Red' and 'Blue' characters could pair together based on how their primary colors pair together-- also making the astute allusion that as primary colors, they can be considered the oldest and are in fact the oldest siblings in their respective families. Certain colors and patterns in this world are considered a personal brand that denotes specific reputations and expectations.

Which for the youngest male protagonist-- the youngest brother Prince Frederick-- is often a burden since in his Plaid kingdom he does not meet the standards of typical male strength that his father enforces in the kingdom. This has caused many internal issues within himself that skewer his confidence to attempt carving a place for himself. He has become content to be the brother in a dark hole, unnoticed and unacknowledged by both his family and the world around him.

For a majority of the comic he is in a standard Prince outfit with his own green plaid to compliment with his brothers' red and blue. But when it comes to his chosen fiancee, their best moments is when he can simply be himself-- shy and nerdy as that personality is, whatever weaknesses and doubts he may have-- is when he shows himself and is always received with gentleness and support, something he had never received so unconditionally. These are their best moments as a burgeoning couple and makes the fandom go crazy, and that they quickly made the connection that when shrugging away the role of a Plaid Prince he is also often without the plaid jacket. His jacket serves as a symbol to what others have expected from him and what is imposed as acceptable in opposition to his own wants and nature as a person.

Unlike his brothers he is not a soldier, not athletic, and not extraordinary in military combat situations, nor is he a King who would bravely ride among his army or present an image of sophistication and power similar to a model for his people. Freddy is very much an administrator, able to handle the technical aspects of ruling a country, something of the brains behind the throne that present issues and falling economy charts to the wise ruler. Had the brothers been in harmony and the Father possessing a healthier idea of what makes a man, much less a King then Frederick likely would have been advisor to his older brother. He would be the one getting to organize all of the infrastructural, cultural, and humanitarian improvements to his kingdom with his brother Blaine's signature approving and advertising the projects.

Instead, he is stripped of any slight prestige he had by the comic's final act, now in a black and white color scheme essentially a blank slate. In this arc his Father has been revealed for the villain he is and the true depths of brutality it took to mould the images of his older brothers as "ideal men and Princes." While Frederick is in the deep, dark hole he has always feared, supposedly with no identity nor purpose. Nothing to make him a worthwhile person. Except he finds strength and resolve within himself to do what is right.

The final act is what cements his character arc, that while his identity may be unclear he is free from previous expectations and his own insecurities to find one for himself as a blank canvas, starting over from the toxic home he first came from.

It truly is a very inspiring story and like many I've spoken about on this topic one that I highly, highly recommend and make sure to remember just all the work it takes for an author to deliver high quality stories especially on independent platforms such as comic sites or writing platforms like this one, fan works as well that can grow and evolve into their own beloved universes that expand on beloved characters or introduce us to new heroes that come from the old.

**SHIZUE**

There'd been a saying.

In one of her many comics.

About that thing called love that saturated any novel girls her age liked to read and were always recommended.

To fall in love is to constantly be within the rush of cherry blossoms. The first fall of blushing pink lining a school walkway pink for the special occasion. And sure enough, her school shoes had crushed many blossoms that day meeting Aoki Nakamura.

When she had seen him.

**NAOKI**

Squinting, she couldn't find her name in the middle slots.

She'd ranked third.

Naoki laughed boisterously.

Number 2: Shizue Kita.

Self-Actualization is a need so few achieve. So, they change their name, change their bodies to match the person they are inside their minds. It is no less real, no less valid, then the vague ideal self that's often no more than smoke in the insecure-- so why deny them their name?