An excerpt from a dystopia I am slowly piecing together. Feedback and critiques are always much appreciated : )

***

I reached for my journal, but I stopped short when my eyes fell on the empty space on my desk where the battered leather book was supposed to be. And then I remembered. In a flash of white-hot rage my hand swiped across the surface of the desk, sending books and papers and office supplies flying in all directions.

Six years. It had been six years since they’d taken it from me. And every day I still reached for that stupid journal, expecting it to miraculously be there.

I shook my head as tears stung the back of my eyes. I tried to ignore that all too familiar sinking feeling in my chest. The dread as the reality hit that, six years later, there was no hope of those pages still being intact. They had probably destroyed it – sifted through it to find all the information they needed, which I had liberally supplied in multiple entries, because like a fool I had assumed that journals are exempt from the desolation of war, and then burned it like the rest of the correspondents they had confiscated from the Freerangers.

Three pages. Three pages was all I cared about. To hell with all my recollections of the years spent in hiding. The years spent as a night creature, roaming the darkest city streets to document the ugliest of crimes, for the viewing pleasure of everyone west of the former east coast. All I cared about were the three pages I had filled before the bombings. Before every part of my world was turned upside down.

It was Momma’s birthday. She had spent over half her measly paycheck on that journal, for me. Thick, bound with real leather, durable, blank pages waiting to be filled with the musing scribbles and doodles of a dreamy thirteen-year-old child. And a pen holder too. It didn’t have one originally, but Momma sewed one on, using a scrap of leather she found in her little box of scraps – from her years as a seamstress, before Daddy died and poverty set in. She’d slipped her favorite pen inside, wrapped the book in the last of our tissue paper, and handed it to me when I got home from school.

I had admonished her for not spending her check on herself. But that was just how Momma was. Bringing joy to others was what brought her joy; and I knew that the giant grin that spread unbidden across my face when I tore apart that tissue paper, ran my hands over the smooth leather surface and leafed through the thick blank pages, that grin would bring Momma more joy than any gift she received for herself.

I dedicated those first three pages to writing all about Momma. I figured, if she was going to sacrifice so much for me, then the first entry should be about her. After I finished and I let Momma read it, she cried. She dropped the journal and pulled me close.

It was the last time she held me. I added that moment to the entry that night, before the city managers cut the gas lights in our district, though I didn’t yet realize how significant it would be. The next morning, the bombings started. I didn’t know they would happen…but Momma did. And she knew she was going to be taken away. That’s why she cried that night and held me so close, as if holding on to life itself. She didn’t scream when the authorities came for her. She didn’t fight back. She didn’t even look back at me as they shoved her into the car and drove her away.

She didn’t want them to know I was still inside.

Momma once told me that if anything should ever happen to her, to run. “Don’t get caught.” She looked me dead in the eyes when she said it, grasping both my shoulders firmly and giving them a little shake. I had a feeling Momma knew for a long time that they were eventually going to take her away. She was scared. She didn’t want them to take me too. Wherever they were taking her, she didn’t want us to be there together. So every week she’d remind me:

“If anything happens to me. If I never come home. Run. Run as far as you can, and don’t look back.”

And I did. I waited until dark, and I slipped out into the night, running as far from the city limits as I could get before collapsing with exhaustion. I waited until the bombings stopped and the police had done their sweeps before I returned to our shell of an apartment.

Every night before I went to sleep, I’d read about Momma by the light of my fire. Some nights I’d cry, but most nights I’d just smile. I missed Momma, but I knew she’d be proud of how I was getting by. Both her and Daddy would be.

When Momma journaled, sometimes she’d tear out certain pages and stuff them into her pockets. She saw me watching her curiously one night, and explained that sometimes certain memories aren’t safe even in a journal. You should keep them even closer than in a book. As I stared at the empty desk, at the glaringly empty space where my journal was supposed to be, a deep and painful regret filled my gut. If only I had listened to her – she would still be here. I would still have that last piece of her to hold tight to.

I wouldn’t be so alone.

“Anna?”

She didn’t answer me right away, and I started to doubt that it was actually her. Anna had left this small town ages ago. Fresh out of high school, she made for the big city. She had plans – she was going to study art. Spend her first year or two in the states and then finish her degree abroad, studying at only the most prestigious of art schools around the world.

Anna had always been an ambitious little girl.

I watched the young woman lift her crying infant out of the shopping cart, bouncing him as she patted his back and rocked him back and forth. I could just barely make out the sweet lullabies she hummed softly in his ear. With seemingly unwavering patience and the expertise of an experienced mother, the young woman unloaded the groceries from her cart and pushed it to the nearest cart return several yards from her car. All one-handed, a sobbing child flailing on her hip.

I didn’t realize I had rested my hand on the open hatch of her car until she turned around, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and fright. Her free hand reached towards the back pocket of her jeans, and I quickly raised mine to assure her that she was in no danger. She stopped, her hand poised on the phone protruding from her back pocket. Her grip tightened protectively around her crying son as her face hardened.

There was no mistaking her now. This was Anna. This was the bright child with dreams higher than the skies and a smile like the sun always illuminating her face. The sweet little girl who had been my companion for so many years on the playground and in the school halls. My lunch buddy, my study partner, my motivation and my unofficial tutor. I had always been such a stupid kid.

The twinge of guilt I had felt when I first saw her in the parking lot now twisted my heart with a painful grip. I looked into those tired brown eyes, once so full of light and ambition. The thin brown hair, once full of curly bouncing life, now faded and streaked with grey that made her look much older than she should be.

My eyes traced the fading creases in the corners of her eyes – kids used to tease her all the time on the playground for those “wrinkles”, until I showed her they were from her infectious sunny smile. I could still remember the way she beamed with pride as I stood behind her, telling her to smile and then tracing the creases with my finger. “See?” I had said. I would never forget that little giggle.

The pain in my chest made me want to double over, cringe in agony. I had always been such a foolish, stupid kid.

I swallowed hard. Cleared my throat. My voice still cracked as I croaked out her name again.

She didn’t bother to hide the pain my voice caused her. She cringed, wrapped both arms around her son as if to protect both of them from this monster standing before her. My heart broke as I saw the red hue rising in her nose, as the tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

I looked at the tuft of white-blonde hair rested on her shoulder, that was such a stark contrast to her dark hair. The baby had stopped crying, and as he nestled his face against his mother’s shoulder he turned red-rimmed green eyes shyly towards me. Shocking green eyes, like the ones I looked into in the mirror every day.

Dear God. I raked my hands through my own shaggy blonde hair. “How –“ My voice caught on the lump in my throat. “How old is he?”

Her eyes shot flames. White hot flames. “Do the math,” she spat, and then gently shushed her son as he began to whimper again.

I winced. The words stung. But she wasn’t wrong. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets as both of our eyes traveled to the ground.

I cleared my throat again. She sighed. A shaking sigh. A nervous sigh. “What’s his name?”

She nudged a pebble with her toe. Raised her eyes and stared out at some imaginary distraction to her left. I watched her delicate mouth move, silently breathe out a name. I heard her choke on her own voice; even that was a delicate sound. Despite her many strengths, she had always been such a fragile creature. She couldn’t be easily broken, but once she was, she was shattered.

My heart dropped to my feet.

“What does it matter?” she finally squeaked. She swallowed back tears and repeated a little louder, her voice trembling. She sniffed back tears and repeated her question quietly, weakly.

“Anna, I – “

“Don’t say it.”

The razor-sharp edge in her voice set off a waterfall from her eyes. My knees went weak as I watched the salty tears pour from her beautiful eyes. Her beautiful eyes that glared at me with such hatred, and such pain. I had ruined her. Every little bit of the Anna that I had fallen so much in love with, I had ruined in one selfish sweep.

“Anna, I was a fool.”

She shook her head, bouncing her son and hugging him close to her chest. “It’s a little late for that, Chase.” Her voice was like ice.

I nodded. “I know.”

The little boy whimpered again. I looked up as Anna shook her head.

“You weren’t there,” she growled. I started to open my mouth, but she cut me off.

“You weren’t there with me through any of it. Not through the term. Not through the labor. Not through all of the doctor’s appointments or finding out that your son is never going to be ‘normal’. Not through all the nights spent sitting outside his crib as he screamed the entire night. Not through all the random fits because he can’t express himself like a ‘normal’ baby. You weren’t there for any of it. You ran.”

She took a deep, shaking breath. I wanted to desperately to wrap my arms around her. To tell her I was sorry.

But sorry wasn’t enough. Turning back time and stopping stupid past me from running like the coward I was wouldn’t even be enough. There was nothing I could do to repair the damage I had caused. I had smashed her into a million tiny pieces, and there was no hope of repair.

“If you –“ Her voice caught in her throat again. “If you think that just showing up out of the blue is going to fix everything, you’re wrong.”

She lifted pained eyes to meet mine. I could feel the lump in my throat dissolving into hot tears behind my eyes as I waited for the words I knew were coming.

Her voice broke with a sob. She shook her head, holding her son tightly to her and burying her wet face in his puffy jacket. I shoved my hands into my pockets, balling them into fists tight enough to drive my fingernails deep into my palms. I silently pleaded with her not to say it.

“This is my son, Chase. It’s always been just me and him. You gave up your chance to be involved when you took off and left me alone.”

She stroked her son’s head. “Jack doesn’t need a father like that.”

My vision blurred as my head started to spin. I forced myself to stay on my feet. I nodded silently, not trusting my voice. My mouth opened and closed several times, but I couldn’t form the words I wanted to say. Why was she still standing in front of me? I wanted so desperately to make things right again, but she was right – I was too late.

“Anna –“

She shook her head, refused to look at me. She started for the back seat of the car. 

“Goodbye, Chase,” she whispered weakly.

“Anna, I’m sorry.”

Anna choked back another sob. This was it. There was no regaining even a hint of the precious bond we had once shared. I had lost her. Without looking up, she whispered those dreaded words again, with more finality.

“Goodbye, Chase.”

She was beautiful. Long dark hair cascading down her shoulders in soft moussey waves; luscious lashes brushing her flawless porcelain cheeks; pretty pink lips that surely once turned upwards in the most rapturous smile.

Her deep brown eyes stared blankly ahead. She sat rigid, like a statue. Her hand lay lifeless in mine. Such a delicate, lovely creature, so lost in her thoughts that she was as good as dead to the world around her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

They said her name was Emily.

A hand gently touched my shoulder. Tearing my eyes away from the girl beside me to meet those of the nurse above me was the most painful task I had ever had to perform. I held the girl’s hand tighter, sensing this would be the last time I would feel her touch. The nurse looked on with tears in her eyes; she was trying hard to keep them from falling.

“It’s time to go, Timmy,” she whispered. She held out her hand.

It had only been a few minutes. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t look away. I had only just met her. I longed to see just one look, one smile, one sign of the shining soul I knew was trapped inside.

But those gorgeous eyes didn’t move. Her hand remained cold and still on my palm. The only sign of life was a slightest of deep sighs—a nearly invisible rise and fall of her chest, an almost inaudible exhale.

“Timmy, dear.”

The nurse softly placed her hand over mine and gave it the slightest of tugs. I didn’t want to refuse the nurse, but I just couldn’t leave the angel’s side. I could save her. I was sure of it.

“Timmy. It’s time to go.”

The nurse’s voice shook with emotion. It pained her as much as it pained me to take me away. With one last squeeze to Emily’s hand, I stood. But before the nurse could lead me out of the room, I reached out and grasped a lock of the frail girl’s hair…

Only to find my fingers closing around nothing.

There were no soft waves of curling brown hair. There were no luscious lashes. Or pretty pink lips. The face before me was pale, with sunken-in eyes and a nearly-bald head. The skin was so light it looked green beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The eyes were surrounded by dark purple shadows. They were not shining and brown; they were dull, lifeless, lost.

But I did not see the dying girl. I saw the living girl. I saw the rose inside, not the ashes heaped over it. I reached out and touched the fuzzy surface of Emily’s fragile scalp and grinned, thinking of the wondrous mane that I was sure had once grown there. I brushed my hand against her pale cheek, imagining the warmth that I was positive had once colored them a rosy pink. I looked into her eyes, and I saw the Emily within, not the dying Emily that the adult world saw.

Suddenly I was being firmly ushered from the room. I looked up to see tears streaming down the nurse’s face. She quickly handed me over to a nearby doctor and rushed down the hall, bursting into heart-wrenching sobs. I hadn’t meant to make her cry.

I looked back over my shoulder as the door to Emily’s room slowly closed behind us. I had to get one last glimpse.

Emily was staring back at me, eyes alight with new life, her pretty pink lips turned upward in the most wondrous smile I would ever see. My heart sang. I smiled back, just as the door clicked shut. I never saw my little angel again. But I never forgot her either.

I know there's already a story for each of Peter Pan's Lost Boys leaving Neverland and growing up. I am by no means trying to plagiarize that. This is just a fun little thing I wrote in hopes of getting back into the writing groove. Enjoy : )

                                                             ***

The city was more lively than usual tonight. Or maybe it was just my agitation that made the blaring horns sound louder, the glaring lights shine brighter. Even that wretched whistle from the overhead vent seemed to climb in pitch and volume as the vent blasted ice-cold air straight down the collar of my starched-stiff professional button-down. And only one thing ran through my mind as I sat hunched over that cursed computer screen, pounding away endlessly at the keys, stopping occasionally to shove my drooping glasses back up the bridge of my nose.

We never had to deal with this in Neverland.

I smiled a little. That felt good. I couldn’t remember the last time I had smiled – had I even smiled at all since we left? I definitely wasn’t smiling when Pan learned the news.

We weren’t going to tell him. The plan had been to slip out at night while Pan was out and about. We tried not to think about the way he would feel when he discovered we were gone. We already felt enough like deserters.

But Pan caught us. Said something about how he had known this day was bound to come. All those kids he had brought over from the other side – one of them was eventually bound to convince us to leave. We didn’t even do a good job of keeping our plans a secret, he said. He had been onto us from the beginning.

Chaos ensued among the boys. Blame was tossed about like a hackey-sack as pointed fingers flew in every direction. I stood amidst the chaos, head hanging low as I dug my toe into the dirt and tried not to look at the pained look on Pan’s face.

I shook my head and returned my thoughts to the report growing on my computer screen. Choppy, professional, technical phrases. Anyone reading it aloud would without a doubt be mistaken for a robot. I rubbed my eyes and blinked at the screen again. My eyes were going out again. Guess that meant it was time to call it quits for the night.

Shutting down the PC, I slipped into my coat and donned my cap. The clock on my desk read 1:25 AM. My back was killing me. That definitely never would have happened in Neverland. As I limped towards the door, my thoughts wandered unbidden back to the days of endless escapades in jungles, dances with Indians, crossing swords with a clutzy crocodile-fearing pirate captain. That mustache of his always got me. I smiled again.

And then the smile slowly dissolved.

I wonder how Pan’s doing? Word had it Tinkerbell had fluttered off in a tiff and had yet to return. Poor Pan – he really loved that little gnat. I don’t know what he’d do without her. He was a mess when Hook got hold of her that one time. Guilt burned deep in the pit of my stomach.

Were we wrong in leaving him?

My eyes moved to the skylight. There it was. Shining right through the window. “Second star on the right.” It looked so far away now – farther than it ever had since our return so long ago. It seemed like it got farther away with every passing year, like a reminder that we had long since passed the point of return. Even if we wanted to go back, or see Pan, we couldn’t. We were grown-ups. We were forever bared.

My heart ached as it sank to my feet.

Pan had become a memory. Neverland was nothing more to us now than a mere star.

I wrote this in about 15 minutes of random inspiration, and I'm still debating whether or not I want to flesh it out. Comments and critiques are, as always, welcomed and greatly appreciated :) 

Imagine seeing the world through red-tinted glasses. Red’s linked to aggressive behavior – that’s what the scientists say, isn’t it? So imagine seeing everything in red, all the time. Imagine that anger boiling in your blood, every second of the day. Like an unquenchable, raging forest fire, increasing in its fury and wrath as it feeds on its innocent, weaker prey.

I didn’t pride myself in pummeling the poor little shrimp behind the school every day. When I stopped for a breath and took a moment to see the bruises my fists had left on his face, or the fear in his doe eyes as he stared up at me waiting for the next blow, my stomach never failed to twist with guilt. I could taste the bile in the back of my throat, my own behavior making me sick.

But then I’d see my poor mother, lying on the floor and peering up at my father from behind the black and blue arm shielding her face with those same frightened eyes. I would hear my father’s drunken curses all slurring together as he raised his huge fist high for another blow. My mother’s screams would fill my ears.

And then my own cries of pain would follow, as my old man turned his booze-filled rage on me. My guilt shriveled away in the searing heat of my intense rage, and I brought my fist down hard into the scrawny nerd’s stomach. An overwhelmingly confusing mixture of pleasure and disgust filled my gut at the sound of his groans, his pleas for me to leave him alone.

As always, I eventually let him wriggle out of my grasp and limp home. I watched the tiny guy round the corner, and waited several more moments before I was sure it was clear. And then, as always, I drove my fist into the wall and let the frustrated, angry tears fall. God, why did I have to be this way? There was only one man in this world that I despised, and I was becoming the same beast he was.

I continued to drive my fist into the brick, barely seeing the bright red streaking from my knuckles through my teary-eyed, red vision. All I could see clearly was that wretch beating his wife, who did nothing but love him unconditionally; beating his own child, who had never asked for his hatred; and my own fists following in his path. I was a predator, preying on those too weak to stand against me, never daring to challenge those I knew would fight back. And win. It was sickening. Enraging. Shameful.

Suddenly I felt two small hands wrap around my wrist, holding it from striking the wall again. “You’ll hurt yourself,” the all-too familiar voice said matter-of-factly.

The little guy released my wrist and peered up at my face. I closed my eyes as my vision cleared and I saw every one of the bruises and cuts that marred his face. I tried to turn away, but with a force I had no idea he even possessed, he turned my face back towards his, scrutinizing it like a scientist examines a specimen.

“I’m gonna assume you didn’t give yourself that bruise?” It was more of a statement then a question. He pointed at the dark blue bruise above my left eye, usually concealed by my shaggy bangs. He squinted his inquisitive brown eyes at me, his thick red brows furrowed with either the intensity of his observation, or concern from what he saw.

“I’ve never seen you cry before,” he commented, a hint of awe in his voice. He reached up and wiped a tear off my chin.

I wrenched away from him and swiped a hand across my face. “Scram, you little worm. And you tell a soul and I’ll give you a beating you won’t forget.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from wincing at how much of my old man I heard in my voice.

The boy shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized corduroys and shrugged, his curly mop of red hair bouncing as he moved. “Can’t say I’ve really forgotten any of your beatings,” he replied quietly. “It’s not like you can forget someone pummeling your face every day.”

He looked straight into my eyes. “I think it’s safe to assume you know what that’s like.”

I froze. He nodded and started to walk past me. As he passed my shoulder, he stopped and squinted his freckled face up to the sky.

“Just know that, it’s okay to not follow your parents’ example. Every now and then.” He shot that unnervingly intense look straight into my eyes again. “I certainly wouldn’t mind,” he added with a wide impish grin.

I blinked, speechless. “Don’t hurt yourself on anymore walls. You need those knuckles for pummeling me tomorrow,” the kid said as he continued walking away. As he disappeared around the corner for a second time, I sank to the gravel ground. My head was spinning with the overwhelming amount of thoughts racing through my head. I let my head fall into my hands and tried to breathe normally.

He came back. He stopped me from ruining the very hands that had caused him so much pain for years. He was scared out of his wits the entire time – I didn’t have to be a psychologist to hear the quiver in his voice, or to notice that he had shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the fact they were shaking uncontrollably. But he stood there anyway. Not to challenge me, or confront me…I wasn’t really sure what his intentions were. And it was uncomfortably unsettling.

And then it hit me.

Where was the anger that boiled my blood every moment of the day? Why did I feel nothing but raw pain now? There was no hatred, no rage, not even towards my old man. Just gut-wrenching turmoil with my emotions. And an intense feeling of loneliness. I suddenly felt the need to have someone beside me, near me. And not so I could beat them senseless.

I leapt to my feet and ran around the corner, my eyes searching frantically for the orange ball of curls I sought out with hatred every day. It was just disappearing down the street. I broke into a sprint, ignoring the pain from the bruises covering my stomach and my side. God, was this what he felt like every day?

“Kid, wait!” I shouted as I lost him around another corner. I skidded around the corner and nearly crashed into him as he backtracked to see who had called him.

He tensed, like an animal ready to flee, but expertly maintained a cool, collected expression. “Is it tomorrow already?” he joked, flashing another one of those impish grins.

I leaned against the wall. “A bunch of us are playing ball after school tomorrow. Wanna come?”

He mirrored my pose and eyed me suspiciously. “So you can make fun of the fact I suck at ball and drive my face into the mud again?”

I winced. There wasn’t any accusation in his tone, but there didn’t have to be. Dropping my eyes, I kicked a tiny pebble and sniffed. My nose was still running from all those stupid tears. “No, I was just –“

“There’s a pretty cool soda shop down the street from where I live.”

I raised my eyes to see him grinning at me. His eyes were bright as his grin stretched ear-to-ear. I could feel the corners of my own mouth curving upwards as well. “That sounds swell,” I muttered, sheepishly dropping my eyes back to the ground. Never had I felt so ashamed in front of a kid half my height.

His hand around my wrist startled me into looking up again. “I’ll see you after school, behind the dumpsters.” With a wink he released my wrist and turned to walk away.

“Hey, kid?”

He turned back with an arched brow. “Yes?”

I licked my lips and kicked at that pebble again, shoving my hands into my pockets and hunching my shoulders. “I’m Matt.”

The kid smirked, nodding. “Fagan.” He extended a skinny arm, and inwardly I winced at the bruises I’d left from the many times I’d wrapped my iron fingers around it. He gripped the hand I tentatively stretched out to him and shook it firmly. Confidently. “Pleased to meet you on such friendly terms, Matthew.”

I couldn’t recall the last time I’d smiled so wide.

I was blessed to be a part of a team of storytellers that went down to Nicaragua to tell the stories of people who are transforming lives. This is one of the many impacting events I witnessed.

“Those guys, over there. Those are what we are trying to keep these kids from becoming.”

It wasn’t exactly clear to us what Alvaro was talking about at first. He parked the van across the street from the group of men lounging on the sidewalk. They had snacks in their hands and a bottle sitting at one of their feet. James asked what they were doing.

“Sitting around, drinking.” Doing the very thing that had brought on the demise of more than one of Alvaro’s friends, and that had almost ruined his father. These men had lost hope in their circumstances long ago, probably around their teenaged years, and turned to the bottle to drown out their hopelessness. They had at one point been children much like the little ones that Alvaro and his family minister to now. They had given up on school, and traded in their dreams of a better life for alcohol.

James made the first move, and I followed soon after. Adjusting the settings on our cameras, we started snapping shots of the men through the windows of Alvaro’s van. But the heavy tint on the glass used to keep the heat of Nicaragua outside made it difficult to get ‘good’ shots. James snapped a couple more and then asked Alvaro if we could get out.

“Yeah. They’ll probably even pose for you, actually.” Alvaro shut the van off, and all three of us crossed the street, James and I with cameras ready. Alvaro asked the men if we could take their picture, and the men eagerly obliged. Some of them held up peace signs or gave us a cheesy grin. Some assumed tough, serious poses. None of them minded having their photo taken at all.

One of them came up to me and started saying something in Spanish, gesturing a roof over his head and pointing across the street. I heard something about “Mi casa,” but I didn’t understand anything else. I tried to motion for him to lead the way, but he kept mumbling and then finally walked away. I suddenly wished I had been more diligent about my Spanish in high school.

I watched as the man started talking to Alvaro, and then both of them approached me again. “He wants you to come take a picture of his daughter,” Alvaro said. I was more than happy to.

The man excitedly led the way to his house, just a few yards from where the men had been sitting, and ducked inside. He came out with a young girl in his arms, and two more little ones trailing behind him. His face beamed with pride as we greeted his kids. After I took the pictures of his daughter, he grabbed his son and held him up high in the air, despite the boy’s vehement protests. The man’s excited grin got wider with each snap of my shutter.

We thanked him and his friends and piled back into Alvaro’s van. The next day, I went with Alvaro to his puppet ministry. And as I looked around at all of the kids that had come to see the puppets, I couldn’t help but think about that man and his kids. 

What would become of them? Were his children destined to the same fate he had chosen for himself? Was he eternally bound to that fate?

Or was there someone who would reach out to them? To show them that there was hope despite their circumstances? Someone had been there for Alvaro. Someone had given Alvaro’s family the hope that would eventually break his father from his alcohol addiction, and prevent Alvaro from ever having one.

I hoped and I prayed as I interacted with these kids that someone would be there for them as well.

Did I actually write that paper?

I know I turned in that assignment...didn't I?

WHERE IS MY STUDY GUIDE.

I'm going to fail this class.

I thought that presentation was tomorrow!

I need coffee.

The schedule definitely says that final was...today.

Theology final in an hour? Plenty of time to become an expert on Trinitarian doctrine.

Mug empty. Coffee more need.

My brain is melting out of my head.

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Another novel-in-progress, of the "steampunk" variety

The molotov rocketed screaming through the air, exploding into a ball of flames as it collided with the massive sitting-room window. The long, heavy velvet draperies flapped in the force of the blast, flames clinging to the fabric. Another bomb sailed through the blown-out window and collided with the solid oak desk across the room. Glass and flames flew everywhere.

I stood in the midst of the chaos, watching as my mother screamed and sobbed, shielding the wailing infant in her arms from the dangerous projectiles. A shard from one of the bombs jutted out from her shoulder blade, spilling blood down her back, and staining her dress dark red. I closed my eyes and looked away. I cringed as the whistle of a third cocktail drew nearer, knowing what was about to take place. My fingers subconsciously touched the jagged scar that disfigured the right side of my face. I mentally braced myself for the inhuman screech that I knew was coming.

My gaze fell on the cloaked figure concealed in the shadows of the far corner of the room. Bright yellow eyes met mine with a cool, even stare from behind a mask of Thalia. His arms were crossed over his chest, his stance conveying a stern warning. I averted my eyes like an obedient dog.

And then Mother’s howl of pain rang through the entire house. The walls shuddered with haunting, unearthly sound. It ripped through my soul and shattered all previous resolve I had to do as I had been instructed. I watched as the baby fell from Mother’s arms, the flesh of the right side of its face torn and bloody. Mother fell backwards, her own face shredded and wet with flowing blood. The bomb had exploded mere feet away from her, granting her no time to dive out of its blast. Searing shards of glass bit into the flesh of her face, neck, and chest. Very few of the shards had managed to sink into the skin of the child, who was truly deserving of the entire blow.

I started towards Mother, and then felt the eyes of the figure in the corner stabbing into me. I stopped.

I have to make it right. I clenched my fists at my side and set my jaw, daring to meet his unsettling stare.

You cannot change what has already been set in motion, Minerva.

I have to help her!

What’s done is done. You cannot change what has already been set in motion.

I screamed aloud in rage, sinking to my knees as I dug my fingers into my head in frustration.

She’s my mother!

You cannot change what has already been set in motion.

This is my doing!

You were a child, Minerva. You had no control.

Mother lay still and deathly silent in the floor. The infant was still wailing, and its cries only fueled my rage. I glared at the little being, who lay soaking in its own blood, its body tense with the immense amount of pain that coursed through it.

I gasped, doubling over as I felt that pain once again. I glared at the shadow, knowing it was his doing. His gaze remained cool and unmoving. But I could also see the firm warning still burning behind that veil.

Let me help her!

You cannot change what has already been set in motion.

I weakly collapsed to the floor. You can’t make me do this…

You must.

No! Just let me help her! I can make it right!

You cannot change what has already been set in motion.

Yes! Yes, I can!

Minerva!

I leapt to my feet and lunged toward the child, unaware of the shadow closing in behind me. Just as my hands reached out to wrap around the infant’s neck, hands as cold as ice wrapped around my face, roughly yanking me backwards.

No! I inwardly seethed, fighting the grip until it released me.

You cannot change what has—

SHUT UP! I lunged forward again.

Suddenly he was between me and my target. Before I could double backward, he reached out and grasped my head between his cold hands. A searing pain even worse than what I had felt when shards of glass had been embedded in my face wracked my entire being as a blinding white glare filled my vision. My body went limp, falling into the figure’s arms.

You cannot change what has already been set in motion…

A rough excerpt from one of my current works in progress.

The wind howled as it shook the old rickety barn. The window shutters banged open and closed over and over, the sound growing more deafening with our rising tension. 

Then, as suddenly as it had started, everything went still. The shutters banged shut. An eerie silence fell over the place. 

Here we go. I motioned to the group. We moved as far away as possible from the barn door.

My senses buzzed with adrenaline. The only thing I could hear over the ringing in my ears was mine and Marci’s heavy breathing. Lance dragged Chase's unconscious body, blood running down his own shaking arm. Justin held the sobbing twins, one in each arm, his mouth set in a hard line and eyes glued on the door.

Then it came. We knew it was coming. We had braced for it. And our hearts still froze when it happened. Lance moaned, burying his head in his hands. Marci doubled over, throwing up at my feet. I wished I was dead.

The blood-curdling scream filled the air. And then came the bone-chilling howling, as if from an animal straight from the pits of hell. It sounded so far away, yet right in my ear at the same time.

They were coming.

He was coming.