Dr. Paul Pastorini welcomed and trusted people who didn’t always deserve it. That’s a dangerous and beautiful quality to have. I’ll always admire it about him.

He lived life with urgency. He was an Italian and a New Yorker. I met him before I can remember. But I always knew where he was from. That’s something else I admire about him.

He worked at the hospital with my dad. I didn’t know what a urologist was or that that’s what he did until I was probably 20. By that point, he’d already done enough good things for me that I didn’t care what he did for a living. He was a friend of mine.

I agreed to babysit his kids when I was in high school. That’s pretty much all I knew about the job when I first showed up at their house.

I was short on life skills at 16, but I was a fine big brother. That seemed a good resume for a babysitter. But I was nervous. There were two girls in there. Diapers.

They welcomed me. Dr. and Mrs. Pastorini laughed through my mistakes. The kids liked me to throw them in the air. I did one too many times. The youngest daughter, Sophia, bounced off the kitchen ceiling. I’ve never hated myself (or ceilings) more. I’ve probably told that story 20 times in my 2 years of fatherhood. I remember it so well because I was so worried. It’s a fun story to tell because Dr. and Mrs. Pastorini laughed off my failure. My failure was that I’d been trusted with three kids and I’d failed to exercise the restraint that distinguished me as the adult-having-fun from the kids-having-fun.

Restraint is the hardest part of being an adult. The greatest part of being a parent is that it feels ok to love your kids without restraint. It’s the first time since you were a kid that your conscience doesn’t tell you to ease up. You can over-extend yourself with professions of love for your baby. Nobody can blame you.

But there’s a burden to that, when you’re the kid, and Dr. Pastorini knew that. He taught his kids the value of restraint. His son was one of the most diligent students in restraint I’ve ever seen.

Dr. Pastorini and I discussed restraint in the roundabout ways of two guys in the gym, clanking free weights and spotting each other, round-tabling new workout regimens and eating patterns.

The really empowering thing about exercise is that it gives us a feeling of control, or restraint. I have a real weakness for that feeling. I’ve been an obsessive exerciser since I was 16. Dr. Pastorini knew that about me. Admired it about me.

It’s the people who flatter and confuse you that stay with you. When I die, I want to go in privacy. With the dignity of no one knowing what I looked like, maybe even where I was. A city name is fine, but not much more. Surrounded by people who knew what to order on my pizza.

Dr. Pastorini did not go like that. But he was an Italian, a New Yorker. He wore Yankees gear and a moustache in the 90s. Scrutiny sustained him. I’ll always admire that about him.

Dr. Pastorini will never leave me. He was a friend of mine. God rest his soul.

You were meant to be

Sunflowers in concrete

We used to drink the skylights

And we didn't know a thing

Pouring wine into the sea

Dancing on two broken heels

And the saxophone plays, forever

That tune that you nearly remember

You were like june and august, combined

Radiant neon lights to advertize

The brightness of your mind's eye

Chords that you inverted in your life's song

Screaming hatred at the moon

Blaming the rigid ancestry

Placing gentle questionmarks in all of the unbearable company

You were just the incarnation

Of everthing one wants to be

Smiling crystals from ice machines

Conversating with the wind and bargaining with seasons

You always knew when to live and when not to

Because you kept on breathing mist on mirrors

Until your breath ran out

To play with others, elsewhere

But then again

You are learning how to be

A sunflower that grows on streets

A song of falling raindrops

A footprint on a sandy road

An echo that comes closer

CHAPTER ONE

DIJAH

For the first time in her now-16 years, Khadijah Thompson's first thought upon awakening on her born day anniversary was not Happy Birthday to Me. Today, she greeted her slightly-older reflection with, "Tomorrow, I become a white woman". She didn't say it with either excitement or apprehension, but with more of a clinical detachment.

Taking in her dark chocolate skin, a color that Bruno's Chocolates would envy for sure, she spoke to her image. "Tomorrow, the surgery to make my skin white begins." She put her face right up to her reflection, dissecting every inch of herself, from hairline to chin. "Tomorrow, they'll take my wide nose and make it thinner." She sniffed. "I wonder if it'll hurt." Putting a hand to her mouth, she gently touched her plump, garnet-tinged lips with the tips of her fingers. "They'll make my lips thinner, too." She zoomed in on her eyes. "At least they’ll leave my eyes alone. I love their hazel color and long lashes."

Stepping slightly back, she raked a hand over her tight cornrows. "I wonder what they'll do with my hair. I hope it gets to keep its dark auburn color." Stepping further back still, she dropped her blue robe to the floor and took in her naked form. Cupping her breasts in her hands, she wondered, "Will these stay the same size?" Turning sideways, she looked at the buttocks that had been admired by so many boys in school. "And what about my BUTT? Will they take some of it away?!"

Looking at herself top to bottom, she wondered one final thing. "Will I still...be ME?"

She thought of everyone she knew and having to leave them for the next two years, the better to function as a Caucasian before deciding on her permanent "color". Her parents were proud that she'd volunteered for the experiment. It wasn't that they weren't proud of their heritage - in fact, they were very proud of it - but they also realized the need for man to see outside of their skin tones and if trying on another ethnicity was a step in that direction, they were all for it. But other people were a different story.

Her bestie, Shantilly, stood by her side, even if she didn't quite understand her decision at first. "But, WHY, Dijah?" she had asked. "I thought you were proud of being a strong sister!"

"I was...I am. And that's why I have to do this! I have to show that regardless of my color, I'm still me!"

Shantilly nodded, pursing her pink lips. "I hear you." She paused peeling her orange, her chewed nails making the job that much more difficult. "If I wasn't ultra-light already, I might just try it, too."

Loquacia, on the other hand, had shown her true colors. "I knew it. I am SO not surprised. I always knew you wanted to be a white girl and now you get to be one." She pointed her purple lollipop in Dijah's direction. "Watch. Your two years of 'trying it' - and HOW does one even 'try on' another color, anyhow? - will end up with you staying white! You ain't no real sister." She planted a caramel hand on her jean-clad hip and tapped her purple nails on her upper thigh.

"Yes, I am, Quacia. And that's why I have to do this! I have to show that I'm more than just a skin color! Why can't you see that?"

"Girl, please. You don't have to turn into some whitie bread to do that."

Before Dijah could say more, her so-called friend was gone, strutting across the cafeteria to go sit with a couple of other girls. Malycia, Tyrineice, and Nina had all turned their backs on her, too. Only Tilly and her sister, Vette, stuck by her.

She sighed. Better to know now who was really in her camp than to be disappointed later. She pursed her lips at herself. I really hope they leave my lips alone, though.

ANDREW

One week after going through the surgery, Andre - formerly known as Andrew Maxmillion Rutherford IV - opened his eyes and again saw nothing but white. White walls, white tables, even the talkie box had a white frame. Everything was white. Laughable, since today was the day the bandages would come off and he'd see his new, black, face.

He didn't feel any different. But then, had he really expected to? Had he really thought he'd go from stuffy, preppy, white-bread Andrew to cool homie, Andre, in a flash? If he was being honest with himself, he kind of thought he would. Besides wanting to take a stand against racism, he also wanted to see what it would be like to be a cool brother...But wasn't that, in itself, racist? Wasn't that thought right there thinking in terms of stereotypes? Who said only 'brothas' could dance, jump high, and spit lines like a mutha' (Eminem being the exception, of course)?

His father and friends sure didn't think highly of his decision. His father just about hit the ceiling when he told him what he'd signed up for.

"No son of mine is going to walk around in a black boy's body!"

"Father, it's only for two ye-"

"I wouldn't give a shit if it was for two minutes!" Andrew III ran a hand through his short dark blonde hair before pointing a finger at his son. "Tell them you changed your mind!"

Andrew stood his ground. "I won't, father. You'll see. This IS a good thing! And I thought you always taught me that all men are created equal."

His father curled his bottom lip before stabbing his half-chomped cigar into an empty yellow saucer on the counter. "They are. Some are just more equal. We are more equal. We come from a long line of Rutherfords and I won't have you sullying our name like this!"

Andrew looked at the veins popping from his father's forehead and straining to escape his neck. Even at such a tense moment, he had to keep from laughing, as his father looked just like one of those cartoons, turning red with indignation.

"Then you'll he happy to know, father, that as part of the program, I'll be moving across the country for the two-year duration. That way, I can fully immerse myself into my new...uh-" The look on his father's face stopped him mid-sentence.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, then Andrew cleared his throat. "Meanwhile, I'll go stay with Aunt Heather. She understands!"

And that was the last he'd talked to his father. Sadly, his best friends were no better.

Thomas J. Richener III and Harold P. Quinton, Jr. looked at him like he'd fallen off the oft-mentioned turnip truck.

"You're going to do WHAT?!" they'd said in unison. They could never agree on anything. Leave this to be the one thing where they'd come together.

"Oh, c'mon, you guys. We have black friends, for crying out loud!"

"True," Thomas said, straightening out his yellow sweater vest. "But having black friends and becoming black are two completely separate things."

Harold nodded, a lock of red hair falling into his dark brown eyes. "I like them well enough, but Andrew...this is really pushing it, man."

"I can not believe what I'm hearing! Haven't we always stood up for others, even when we ended up bullied ourselves? How many rallies have we gone to? How many petitions for change have we signed?"

"That's all well and good, A, but why do you have to become one of them?"

"To prove that I can have any face at all, be it white, black, yellow, purple, or green, and still be me because it's what's on the inside that counts."

That was two months ago. His friends hadn't brought it up again and neither had he, but after that, there was always a bit of tension in the air when they got together. Then, at his born day anniversary celebration last week, Harold had told him he still didn't agree, but maybe he could try some black pussy and let them know how it was.

Andrew shook his head at the memory. He loved his friends dearly, but now he could see what douches they could be.

Turning his head, he looked at the night stand and saw the picture of his former face smiling from the little 5x7 frame his nurse had placed there. He wasn't a bad-looking guy at all. Dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, dimples, just the kind of all-American white face America loved, while giving lip service to the idea of a "great melting pot". He'd exchanged the slick blonde hair for coarse black hair, the blue eyes for brown ones, and his trim nose for a slightly wider one.

Then a new thought occurred to him...Hmmm. I wonder if my schlong is bigger now.

I can hear the arterial pulse pounding in my ears. It is an intoxicating thumping that drowns out all other sound. And I can smell blood coursing beneath flesh, leaving me salivating and craving the delectable taste. As my throat burns with increasing intensity, all rational thought is lost as I give into desire and seek the source of my craving. As I follow the rushing sound of coursing blood, I spot a woman approximately two blocks from me hauling water from a well. With my enhanced vision, I can clearly see her pulse pounding in her neck from the strain of the water pale. Her eyes meet mine with recognition, and she drops the bucket to flee as I begin my advance, every nerve in my body craving the blood beneath her flesh. I begin to close the distance between us with supernatural speed, my entire focus on quenching my desire. Yet, midway through my advance, I feel the air shift around me, and I am caught off guard as a sharp, shattering pain emits from my side. Two further blows, and I feel ribs break as I am hurdled through the air only to crash land into a small cabin, bring the entire structure down around me. As I attempt to rise from the debris, a booted foot slams into my chest, re-snapping ribs that had already begun to heal. A guttural growl escapes my throat with a mix of pain and rage. I can still hear the arterial pulse of the woman not far from the well.

"Stay down, Soldier!" I glare up from my trapped position on the ground into blazing emerald eyes, ready to tear out the throat of my captor to reach my prey. As I make a swipe for her throat, the emerald eyed woman captures my wrist and breaks it with a flick of her own wrist, sending slicing pain shooting up my arm as I hear the bones snap.

"I said stay down!" she spits, pushing her booted foot further into my chest until I hear another rib break. The blinding pain finally overrides my bloodlust as I lay in a broken heap, close to blackout. As I feel my bones begin to heal, offering some relief from the pain, my coherent thoughts return. I feel my body shift from beast to human form as I gaze with shame up into Lady Aya's eyes.

"I have failed again," I state resolutely, as Lady Aya relinquishes her hold on me, allowing me to rise from the debris. I stand naked at her side, my eyes fixating on the woman by the well whom I nearly attacked. I recognize her as Morina, one of my caretakers from when I was first turned. Even from the distance, I can clearly see the fear still etched in her mortal face, and my shame deepens.

"Yet, your control grows stronger with each failure," Lady Aya states at my side. "You fought the bloodlust burning in your throat longer during this turn than your last. And you will gain control of it." There is no falter in her voice. Even after watching me fail repeatedly, she has complete faith in me. I admire her faith and resilience even as my own doubts creep in. I have been training with her for several weeks now, every night since my turn. She has me practice turning from human form to beast as we patrol the streets of Abderon. My many transformations are to teach me control of my new form and control of my bloodlust. I have mastered the transformation from human to beast fairly well. However, the control of my bloodlust has been a constant struggle.

"Do not doubt yourself. This is a battle every immortal has faced. And you will conquer this struggle." I return my gaze to Lady Aya to find her emerald eyes boring into me. Even after several weeks with her at my side, I am still not accustomed to her reading my thoughts.

As we linger in the street, I notice a shape hulking through the shadows out of the corner of my eye. I focus more closely before discerning the shape as Eradon. He shadows our many training sessions, gauging my progress in his own way. I learned after my very first transformation that he is Lady Aya's backup and assistance.

I was bedridden for two full days and nights after both Lady Aya and her consort Eradon injected me with their venom, a war between vamyre bane and lycanthrope bane waging in my veins. It was unsure if I would survive as my body fought the venom and the change. The struggle at times was excruciating. Those days passed in a haze, but I remember Morina, my caretaker, at my side many times attempting to ease my pain.

On the third night, I awoke with my entire body humming. The pain was gone, and I felt strong. I felt powerful. Both Aya and Eradon were at my side as I ventured into the streets of Abderon that night as a changed man. And it was in the streets of Abderon that my first transformation overtook me.

The pain of the venom that plagued me for two full days and nights was nothing compared to the agony of my first transformation. Both Aya and Eradon had delivered warnings about the pain of my first transformation, but nothing they said could have prepared me for the relentless agony. It was crippling and slow, not the quick fluid movements I had seen with Eradon's transformations. I remember crumpling in the street at the onset and screaming until I felt my own vocal chords would rupture as my body broke and reshaped itself into a monster.

When the agonizing transformation was complete, a thirst like I have never known consumed me. It was here that Aya offered me her own wrist, crimson dripping, and I drank heartily. From my entire human existence, I could never recall anything that tasted so exquisite. I drank until she wrenched her wrist from my grasp, proclaiming I had had enough. Yet, still my thirst raged! I felt insatiable, and all around me, I could hear arteries pulsing, brimming with blood. I lunged for the first mortals that came into my line of sight, ready to tear out their throats. Aya forcefully stopped me, but I raged. My throat burned with desire, turning my sight red and corrupting all thought. And, there, in the streets of Abderon, a battle between three immortals erupted. It took both Aya and Eradon, and multiple broken bones, to subdue. In all reality, the wounds I sustained at the hands of Aya and Eradon should have killed me. But I survived. And I healed, as I have healed many times since that night. I have truly become a predator to be reckoned with.

"Soldier," Lady Aya addresses me, pulling me from my reverie. "The night is young, and we have much to accomplish." I watch as Eradon's hulking lycanthrope form slips from the moonlight back into the shadows. Eradon has not had to intervene in my training since the first night of my transformation. But he never strays far from Aya's side, ready at any moment to intercede at her command.

"Soldier!" Lady Aya declares again, capturing my undivided attention with her slightly exasperated tone.

"I apologize, my Lady," I state, bowing my head slightly in her direction. This movement allows me to catch sight of my body, bloody, covered in dirt, and still naked, in the street of Abderon. My indiscreet nudity would have bothered me as a human, but, as a shape shifting immortal, clothing only hinders my training. I gaze back up into Lady Aya's eyes before asking, "Shall we continue my training?"

"Yes. We shall," Aya replies, a small smile creeping to the corners of her lips. "Your failure cost a family their cabin. You are going to rebuild it for them. And you are going to do it in your hybrid form."

"My Lady?" I ask, not seeing her motive.

"When shifted, you are both stronger and faster." She motions to the collapsed cabin before us. "You could rebuild this entire structure tonight. But it will take both focus and control in your shifted form, which you need to practice. This reassembly will further test your abilities." I gaze for a long moment at the debris, wondering how I am going to accomplish such a feat. I feel Lady Aya move to my side. "I will help guide you, Soldier. But you must hold your focus and control. Now, ready yourself."

I take in the entire demolished structure, readying myself mentally and deciding on a starting point. I feel a slight tingle wash over me, which I have linked to Lady Aya's entrance to my mind. The remnants of my human side are always slightly startled when her voice inevitably sounds inside my head. The beast in me is accustomed to it.

Ready? she asks, her voice reverberating in my mind. At my slight nod, I see her smile broaden to show her razor teeth. Excellent. I watch a glint enter her eyes, the same glint I always see before these familiar words sound in my mind. Now, shift!

drinking the sun through petal straws

     I climb the steps to the sun

     standing proud, leading the way

     turning my back on obscurity

     bobbing to dance of the clouds

drinking the sun through petal straws

     hanging on to wisps of dreams

     vibrant in rich June earth

     an unfinished sketch

     of pure vanilla delight

drinking the sun through petal straws

     a candle in my hands

     sunlight coursing through veins

     dripping my bouquets

     bees dancing tangos

drinking the sun through petal straws

     my luminous brown eyes

     wink in delight

     leaving scattered trails

     of seed progeny as I go

drinking the sun through petal straws

     nectar orgy of hummingbirds

     in cheerful sunshine emotions

     exposed roots of my strength

     transparent smiles of my soul

drinking the sun through petal straws

     a hundred smiles along the way

     sky sheeted with pillow clouds

     my spirit opens its petals

     knowing the sun always rises.

My words catch and roll

Like marbles in my throat.

Choke on the inarticulate,

Unreleased into stagnant air.

But do not despair!

For the night is far too quiet

For utterances of instability.

So swallow these stones

Coated in mania and chaos

And save this madness that creeps,

Unforeseen and steep,

For the coming dawn.

“Jasmine was such a beautiful baby with her ivory complexion, pretty rosebud mouth, rosy cheeks and stunning green eyes. Her hair was so black and lustrous with soft curls. I couldn’t believe that she was our child!” Ann Stewart’s body seemed to elongate as she sat up straighter in her chair. Obviously, she had once been proud and thrilled by her daughter.

“I noticed that she didn't really seem to bond with me, although I held her and rocked her and tried to do everything I thought I should do to nurture her. This was our first child so I thought that her reaction to us might be normal for a young baby. She never seemed to cry or smile or show any emotion. I became upset, fearing that she didn't like me, but I was so overjoyed at having a kid after so many years of trying that I overlooked her responses. My friends and relatives all cooed at her in admiration of her beauty but she didn’t seem to care. Her pediatrician told me not to worry since she appeared perfectly normal. He advised us both to spend a lot of time with her, holding and touching her. I wondered why she did not smile like other babies did. I began to wonder if it was my fault that she was not developing as I thought she should. Because she was my first child, I had little experience in child development and began to doubt my abilities. I could tell that she was intelligent as she explored her immediate area and watched those around her. She talked very early but her words were not really directed toward anyone. She seemed to be carrying on conversations with herself or with some unseen person. The only time she seemed somewhat happy is when she looked into the mirror on one of her crib toys and babbled at her reflection as if it were actually her own self instead of a reflection.”

I noticed that tears were coursing down Ann’s cheeks as she described her child. I could see that she loved her but was perplexed since she was unable to reach her. She appeared to have almost given up on Jasmine and was now beginning to direct her attention toward her other children who did interact with her.

I turned toward George Stewart and asked him, “How do you feel about your daughter? Do you have anything to add to what your wife has advised? Do you agree with her observations?”

“My wife and I are simple people,” responded George. “We own and operate a mom and pop grocery store here in the outskirts of Portland. I always thought that my daughter, Jasmine, would join us in our business after high school. If it’s good enough for me, it should be good enough for her! But, oh no, she wants no part of our business. She thinks she’s too good to do this type of work and refuses to even discuss it. I admit that she was an excellent student in high school, right at the top of her class. She graduated early when she had just turned 17. I thought she had the brains and ambition to eventually take over as manager of my store.” George pulled strands of hair nervously up from the top of his head as he vented his frustration. His face turned red in frustration as he showed his disappointment.

“I understand how you feel,” I sympathized with George. “But, tell me how Jasmine was as a child to your best recollection.”

“She was such a beautiful baby and I was so proud of her. However, she never seemed to care much about me. I tried to play with her and get her to laugh but I never felt she was on my wave length. My wife and I took her into our shop and put her in a small playpen behind the cash register. Every customer that came in remarked on her loveliness, wanting to hold her and interact with her. We actually did allow some of our long term customers to pick her up to see if she would be stimulated by someone else. We always felt guilty that she did not seem to like us. But she never responded to all the attention she received. I thought maybe she was just shy and would develop later but she never did. When she began to talk early, she would just ask for things that she wanted. She never seemed to give us any reaction no matter how hard we tried. I just hoped that she would become more loving when she became older.” When Jasmine was almost three, we finally were able to have another child, a wonderful little boy we called George, Jr. He was the polar opposite of Jasmine and loved us with all his heart. He often tried to catch Jasmine’s attention as he smiled and cooed, but she couldn’t care less. Jasmine was always looking around, searching for the other half of her body. She insisted, even then, that part of her was missing. I could not understand it! Later, we had two more children whom we adored. Jasmine might have felt left out but she never seemed to resent the lack of attention because of our other children who needed and appreciated our encouragement.”

“Is there anything else that you feel is significant?” I asked George.

“Well,” he reluctantly replied, “I noticed that she seemed to be flirtatious with the younger boys and I felt she was too seductive. My wife said that I was crazy because such a young child would not be doing this. She said that all little children played ‘doctor’ and that it was a normal part of growing up. But one night, both of us went into George’s bedroom to kiss him goodnight, as was our ritual with all the children. We were both absolutely horrified to find Jasmine, naked, rubbing up to little George. We did discuss this with their pediatrician who advised us that we shouldn’t put too much significance on this act because it would just draw attention to something that was probably a temporary thing. He told us to explain to Jasmine that we knew that she was a good little girl but we did not allow this experimentation in our family. George was only three at the time and too young to understand. And, Dr. Engel, can you guess what Jasmine said to me when I reasoned with her?”

“What did she say,” I asked with curiosity as I was taking my notes.

“She said, ’It wasn’t me that did it. It was my other part that I can’t find. If I

can find her, I will tell her not to do it anymore!’ ” Tears filled George’s eyes as

he related this to me.

I knew you,

River, you were

a kinder thing -

      what sunless wild tore

      your tongue into

      this spitting froth -

      knotted with your heart,

      what swallowed stone

      made home now 

      grates to frantic grit

the song that

held me gently

once?