In a small town that no one had ever heard of there was a police station. In that police station, stashed away in a back room that the public never sawwas a file cabinet, well-used and sturdy. In the file cabinet there were stories, some with an ending and some without. Some files sat in the front of the cabinet, relevant and prominent.

But in the back of those metal drawers were other files, patiently waiting, idle and still, covered with the dust of memories and age, crushed under the weight of time. They were forgotten and full of unanswered questions, unsolved days and hours and moments.

Here is where one such file sits, a file where the ending is not yet known, will never be known, they assume. There are ripped corners and creases and fading ink in those many collected pages. Yellowed spots and cobwebs adorn the sentences and words. Those words whisper of a night long ago, when the file cabinet was only half full, when the metal that coated it was new and shining, when young officers still naïve to the world they had entered laughed and joked and smiled, a night when a young girl disappeared.

Yet the whispers of those words aren’t loud enough to find an ending. So there isn’t one. Not then. Not now.

***

The rooms harbored a coat of dust that had long since settled. No child’s fingerprints could be seen on the wood. No footprints were visible. Just the dust. The air was still, untainted by breaths or swirled with movement. A lone bookshelf sat in the corner, encased in the shadows, hiding the journal of a girl whose words full of dreams and wishes had been interrupted.

But the house was not vacant, hadn’t been for a long time. Someone wafted in the walls like a cool breeze, lurked behind the silence of a secret, patiently sat mixing with the still air, listening to the sounds of a clock that lived on only in a memory. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time passed as the minutes melted into each other. The minutes seeped into hours and the hours into days. Soon, all too soon, time ceased all together as the days morphed into years. And with those years came the fading of memories that always follows the forgotten. Her name became lost among a sea of other names, became just a name with no history. She became simply a memory that only the bookshelf remembered.

Footsteps echoed in the empty rooms, voices floated through the walls as the air began to pulsate with the life that had entered. Children’s excited screams pierced the awakened air. The dust that hadn’t been disturbed finally was as little fingerprints appeared here and there. More voices, deep and gruff, louder footsteps and thuds could be heard throughout. Furniture and color and fabric could be seen by the walls whose eyes had only known shadows. Light and fast footsteps, squealing laughter, contented sighs filled that once quiet air, filled the ears of a not-so-vacant house.

She stayed silent, still waiting and still lurking, but no sound left her lips. She treaded lightly on the newly laid floors and through the freshly decorated walls, swiftly moving through the now circulated air full of life and love and hope. She witnessed their lives unfolding, changing, learning. She listened as the little footsteps became louder and the small squeals became full laughter. And she watched the breakdown of a marriage in quiet sadness, listened to the arguments relentless in what they destroyed.Eventually time began to slow again, dissolve into one continuous entity and with it so did the marriage. The air became stagnant with memories as half of the things disappeared, moved away just like the spouse, and dust once again settled in the now empty spaces. The quiet also settled in those spaces as it hadn’t been able to do for so long. And with the quiet she settled behind the bookshelf, letting those aged words from her childhood flow into darker words.

Little by little she let the secret that had been completely caged for so long breathe. Just tiny breaths that no one but her saw, but with each word she wrote, she gave the secret more life, stronger breath. But it still wasn’t time yet, not ready to be sent out into the world. So, there it stayed, behind the bookshelf, in the mind of a life that had long been lost.

To pass the time she paced the hallways and moved through the air as if she were a part of it, unseen and unheard just like it had been for years. She watched as the young girl grew into a woman, watched as she moved her own things into the house, laughed with her own husband, found her own children’s footsteps echoing through the walls. She watched the life she could’ve had, unfolding, growing before her eyes.

She watched the bookshelf, too, as it was filled with books of all colors and sizes, merely forcing what was behind those wooden walls into even more concealment. Sometimes a book would disappear, but it would always find its way back, would always return.

Things didn’t always work that way, she knew. When her secret that had been wrapped in silence for so long was brought into the open air, it wouldn’t find its way back behind the bookshelf, nestled by the wall and floor, couldn’t be returned to the world of secrets. But it was a secret that needed to be told. Soon. But not yet, not when the girl was surrounded by children’s laughter and sweet morning kisses from a loving husband. So, like she had done for so many years, she waited, watched and listened, patient against the melting time.

***

It was a sunny morning; the light shrouded the house in a soft glow, highlighting the features of an old, abandoned bookshelf. The girl was reading, lost in a world of words as she often was at this time of day. Divorce had turned out to be contagious, but it was quiet this time, softer, just the story of two people who had grown apart. The girl was alone in the house, with her children now grown and off to college, but she never seemed lonely. Instead, she seemed to enjoy the quiet days where she could soak in the peaceful warmth and breathe in the simplistic air.

But that simplistic air held something not so simplistic. It held confidence and expectation, impatience and eagerness. It held hope. Today was the day. In once fluid motion, she reached behind the bookcase and cradled the journal that revealed so much. She held it a few seconds, letting her hope seep within its pages then slid it between two well-read books. As she backed away, her confidence followed. Anytime now. The journal would be noticed and opened. The secret would live beyond the confinements of the page, would be brought to life fully and completely just like it was meant to be.

But today was not the day, neither was the day after, or the day after that. She waited, like she had always done, like she had always had to do, but each day passed with her secret still tucked between those two books, still secure within those unknown words. Each setting sun would disappear in the wake of quiet disappointment.

And with each of those passing days, anticipation swelled as that hope, so strong in the beginning, started to quiver with uncertainty. When the girl would walk toward the bookshelf those feelings of hope would peak and then fall again as nothing happened. When her thin fingers would gently brush their spines, searching for the perfect story, someone was always waiting behind that bookshelf, hoping that maybe, just maybe, her story was the one worth finding.

But it never was. Day after day, week after week it sat, untouched and unmoved, unopened and unread. The dust that had begun to settle once more was undisturbed much like the words waiting inside, poised in their eloquent script.

With one hasty motion that appeared to have no cause, but in fact had many impatient days worth of causes, the dust that had been so still was suddenly floating in the air, mixing with the sound waves as the book hit the ground, pushed by an invisible, desperate force.

She knew now that the girl would notice, would have to. She would come across the book that now sat in the center of the room. She would see the tattered pages open and exposed, see how they were worn with time. When she picked up those exposed words and read them she would find importance hidden within every paragraph, seeping through every letter. She would read. And she would know. She would know that this story had an ending.

The sound waves dispersed through the room, became merely a ghost as she waited for the girl to realize, to recognize the noise, to turn around and to untangle the secrets of her past. But the girl, it seemed, was simply too lost in her own world trickling with words, to notice anyone else's because she didn’t even flinch.

After those moments that would surely change everything didn’t, she let her own fingers curl around those pages, clutch that olden cover harboring a secret and remembered the words in her mind, determined to set them free, once and for all.

She crossed the girl’s path, as visible as a breath, turning the warm air cool and chilling, raising goose bumps and questions.

The girl shivered with that unknown cold, wrapping her arms around herself.

It was time. Finally. She was sure the girl would put it together, fit the pieces into place when no one else had.

She knew the words inside, could recall them instantly and perfectly. They were dreams of a girl, wishes of a young heart. She imagined her words, looked at them in her mind and knew they were wonderful, and true. She reveled in her words. Her words. For so long they had been hers and no one else’s, but that was about to change.

Each cursive letter looked perfect, sounded perfect, was perfect. And at the same time they weren’t. They were raw and lonely words. Words that showed her innermost self, that knocked down the thick walls of insecurity and revealed who she really was, told of a life being lived.

But they were words that left a bitter taste in her mouth, a musty feeling on her tongue, because they cut off suddenly, abruptly, whispering at a disturbance, a reason beyond the normal. They whispered at what had happened, what had never been resolved.

They spoke of a walk home from the store never completed, spoke of a simple bag of groceries pointing toward the signs of a struggle. They spoke of unidentified tire marks etched into the dry, revealing dirt. They spoke of a girl, unaware that her paths had been memorized, her routines learned, who found herself at the end of a gun, a plan of violence with its own mysteries, fearful and chilling. They spoke of the kidnapping turned murder that use to haunt the news but now just haunted the rooms of a not-so-vacant house, haunted the walls that stood witness to that end. But mostly, they spoke the simple desolation of a life not lived.

They were beautiful words, yet ugly and confusing all at the same time. Beautiful because of the truth they sang, ugly because of what they told, and confusing when they mixed with the lies. She didn’t care. She didn’t care what they were or what they became. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were there. And that they told a story. Her story. Her story void of desperate denial and lavish lies.

She hugged the journal to her chest, afraid that if she didn’t those wonderfully ugly words would disappear. She had read the words in her head, memorized them in her thoughts, branded them there permanently. They were important. And secret. And dark, she knew.

She looked at the girl who had truly become her friend, her first in a long time,who had no idea what was in this journal, this journal written by a life lost, dusty with memories and age. She looked at the journal, still clutched to her chest. She closed her eyes, and let the words free. For the first time she spoke, listened to the way her voice rang through the walls like bells, rhythmic like the ticking of a clock. She watched the girl’s face vacant with shock as she listened to the voice that didn’t seem to belong, but that belonged more than she did.

The words overflowed willingly, without even the hint of protest even though this was her first time speaking since that fateful night she told of now. They had reverence and power. They had weight, heavy weight that lifted with each passing word. Her voice filled the air, caressed each word as spoke, spoke the very thing she had thought she wouldn’t be able to. But the words, the story consumed her. And suddenly, it wasn’t a secret anymore. This dark secret that had been concealed behind a bookshelf was being told, being set free. And she couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to. She sat there. Letting it happen. Clutching the journal. Listening to the way her mind formed each word. She told her friend of that night, of the story clutched to her chest. She imagined each word in her mind as she spoke, she imagined each word on the page, beautiful in her own handwriting, in the very pen she had softly held as it glided and danced.

And when the words stopped, when there was no more to be said,when even the ghosts of words disappeared, she opened her eyes to her friend’s face. Her round eyes portraying even more words beneath the surface, words she could have picked out had she wanted to. But for once she let them be, let them lay peacefully in their place, alone and undisturbed.

She searched the girl’s eyes for realization, but found none. They were merely empty shells shimmering with acceptance at the waft of cool air, not vacant with shock after all, but just vacant. Nothing more. The girl lowered her head, continuing to read as if she had never been interrupted, hadn’t heard any of it, seen any of it.

She had waited for this moment, and the moment never came.

***

In a small town there is a police station with a file cabinet packed with files. One of them forgotten but well-read sits in the back, waiting for answers. In the middle of that file there is a journal, tattered and worn that spent its life protected by a bookshelf. It was put there by its author, and only the author knows. To everyone else, the journal does not exist.

But exist it does. The journal is only visible to the invisible, only seen by those who can’t be. And the answers are only known by the girl who experienced them, the same girl who brought the journal here to live, tucked it away between the pages of unknown moments and forgotten clues where it belonged.

She use to think that when you forced secrets out into the open, they never returned, that they floated into the open air never to be secrets again. But she was wrong. The secret she had told remained transparent, invisible to the living world. The secret returned to wherever secrets live, encased in silence between yellowed papers and fading ink, telling a story without an ending.

There are steps somewhere

that saw me fall for you

on that warm summer night

while the ghost of

Michelangelo looked on.

Long dead,

but you brought out something

so alive

in me.

You

were

my

lighthouse,

calling me home

in a strange world

I had never visited,

beaming me toward safety.

There was a little voice inside

somewhere deep,

buried long ago by panic

and consistency.

Maybe it rested in

Michelangelo’s grave?

Wherever it was,

you resurrected it,

cradled it

without even trying.

Her name passed your lips,

and I suddenly understood

Galileo’s urgency

to hide

his daughter’s secrets.

Secrets like hers

and mine,

no good comes

from exposing them

from showing them

the light

of the lighthouse.

And David took my breath away

from that first glance.

Perfection

bred from imperfection.

I stood

still,

awed,

not believing

that I was standing before

a masterpiece.

But as beautiful as

David was,

he was not you.

The Slaves,

they line

the path to David,

and yet the path

to you

was much easier.

I didn’t even have to try

or plan.

One glance

and you became

so important to me

that I immortalized you

with words.

And maybe one day

people will come by

to read these words

as if they were chiseled

on Michelangelo’s grave.

They will not understand,

just like you don’t.

But they will know,

as they slowly walk away,

letting their minds seep

into a past that

never had a future,

that somehow

Michelangelo

helped create masterpieces

even in death.

Roses are red.

Anxiety is blue.

No, not like violets.

More like hypothermia

or asphyxiation.

These numbing feelings

that are way too strong,

controlling,

like water in your lungs

refusing to let you breath,

to relax,

to be.

And yet I was.

Somehow,

I continued,

with water pouring fourth

with each word I spoke,

with the cold ice

cradling every inch of my skin.

I still was.

You couldn’t take that away from me,

though you tried.

Anxiety is blue

like the vastness of the sky

on a warm summer’s day,

but don’t get too close.

You’ll be burned by the sun,

scarred alive.

from the inside out.

You’ll smile while you burn,

trying to convince the outside world

that everything is perfect

while you are simply

trying to survive

underneath that fake façade,

clouds hiding the blue,

until the rain comes,

and all you see is black.

Anxiety is blue

like a small bird

falling from the nest.

Down, down, down.

Dreams splattering

as the seconds tick by.

Time plummeting toward concrete.

The second hand spinning

wildly out of control

and yet streaming by

in agonizing slowness.

Anxiety is blue

like the color of your lips

as you whisper “I’m fine,”

yet you gasp for air,

struggle,

crave.

Anxiety is blue.

No, not like violets,

nothing like violets.

Eight million heartbeats.

I heard every one.

Each like a sunrise I had yet to see.

I knew they were coming.

They always came.

Until they didn’t.

Eight million heartbeats.

Music always rang,

Rhythm always kept.

Cast out silence.

I didn’t know the concept.

Until I did.

Darkness,

But you kept me grounded.

I felt safe, warm, secure.

You were there.

Always like a beacon,

Until you weren’t.

They would call you

many names:

Vanished.

Reabsorbed.

Weaker.

I would call you

Twin.

I would’ve called you,

if I could,

when those

eight

million

heartbeats stopped.

Too young for life,

yet I learned death,

I learned about:

Silence and

alone and

a different darkness.

For 26 years,

all I’ve had are echoes,

buried somewhere

underneath an

unconscious--

The only grave you

ever knew.

I carried you in my heart

when you were still

just a yearning,

just an off-handed remark

for someone

I didn’t know I had.

Some people don’t need as long

to make an impression.

After all,

you only needed

eight

million

heartbeats.

*This is a short story I wrote that inspired a novel by the same name.*

Daddy used to tell me I was the prettiest princess he had ever seen, and right now I believed it. I held onto the watch so I wouldn’t lose it. It was so pretty. Its numbers sparkled like a princess’s crown.

I wish I was as pretty as the watch.

Mommy never tells me I’m pretty. She just cries.

But she wasn't crying tonight. She was smiling.

“Thank you for the watch,” Mommy had given it to Daddy for Christmas, and he wore it everyday until someone named Whore gave him a new one.

“You’re welcome, Mandy. Are you sure you don’t want to put it with the rest of Daddy’s stuff?” She pointed to the fire, and I watched as his plaid shirt turned black, mixing with everything else that had turned black as soon as she lit it. The air was thick, and warm, like Daddy’s hugs. I missed him. The plaid shirt was his favorite.

“No, it’s too pretty,” I said, looking at the watch again. She frowned. “What’s wrong, Mommy? Don’t you like it?” Maybe she had changed her mind and wanted it back.

“I don’t like that it belonged to him.” She watched the fire. It was so big. I felt so small.

“Why did Daddy leave? Is it because of Whore?” 


“Don’t say that word. And he left because he doesn’t want us anymore.” Her voice was soft, like when she told me a bedtime story.

“Why not?”

She looked sad. “He just doesn’t.”

And then I remembered. What if it was my fault? “Is it because I didn’t go to bed on time last week?

“No, sweet girl. It’s not because of you.”

“Oh. Why didn’t he want his stuff? Is it for the same reason he didn’t want us?”

“He wanted his stuff. But what he did was really mean, Mandy. And every mean thing has consequences. Do you understand?"

“Like when I do something bad and you take my toys away?”

“Exactly.” She hugged me. “You’re so smart."

“But you always give my toys back.”

“You’ve never done anything this bad. But you know what will make it better?”

I shook my head. She reached behind her chair and grabbed a bag of marshmallows and two sticks. “We can roast marshmallows.” She sounded happy again, and that made me smile.

“How do you do that?”

She took the clip off the bag. “It’s easy. Here.” She handed me a stick with a marshmallow on the end. She put a marshmallow on her stick, too, then stuck it in the fire.

My eyes grew wide as I watched her marshmallow turn black. It looked like Daddy’s shirt. I was suddenly afraid. The fire was so big. “Go on.” She guided my hand, until my marshmallow was in the fire, too. She pulled hers out, then blew on the small flame.

“It’s like a birthday candle.” I smiled.

“That’s right. Make a wish,” she said, as I pulled mine out and we both blew it out together.

“I wish Daddy would come back.”

“Wish for something that will actually happen.” She pulled her marshmallow off the stick and put it in her mouth. I did, too.

It was so yummy! The marshmallow was crispy, and sweet. It stuck to my teeth like candy, but I didn’t mind. “I wish for another marshmallow,” I said, smiling.

“That, I can do.”

***

There was paper all over the table. It looked like a mountain. My eyes lit up, and I could imagine the pictures I would draw. “Mommy?”

“What Mandy? Mommy’s busy.” Her head was in her hands.

“Can I have that paper?” I reached up to grab a sheet of it off the table.

“Stop it.” She pushed my hand away. “Don’t touch these, okay: It’s grown up stuff.”

“But I wanted to draw you a pretty picture. Please?”

“No, okay? Why don’t you go do something useful like play outside?”

My stuck my lower lip out, and I crossed my arms. “But I want to draw!”

“Not with this. There’s probably a notebook around here somewhere. Go draw on that.”

I stood there, watching Mommy write stuff on that grown up paper. I watched her face turn angry.

“Mommy?”

“What Amanda?” It was her not-happy voice.

“Why are you mad at the paper?”

“Because they’re bills I can’t pay.”

“What are bills?”

“Don’t worry about it. This is my problem. I’ll find a way to fix it, since your no-good Dad decided to leave us with all this debt. Just go do something. I need to figure this out.”

I didn’t know what bills were, but I knew they were bad. They had to be, if they made Mommy so upset. I didn’t want anything to do with them. They were mean, and didn’t deserve to have pretty pictures on them. So, I left and went to go find the notebook.

But I couldn’t find the notebook, and I really, really wanted to make Mommy a picture. It would make her happy, and she would forget about the bad bills.

Then I remembered all the other pictures on the wall Mommy always hung up. It was perfect. I could give her a picture, too! So I let my crayons swirl on the wall. It was so much better than a notebook, so big and my colors looked so pretty against it. I smiled, a big, wide smile. And I knew Mommy would smile, too, because it was the best picture I had ever done and she could keep it forever, just like all the others.

But she didn’t smile.

“Look, Mommy!" I said, as she walked in the room. "It’s me and you roasting marshmallows after Daddy left.” I grabbed her hand, swinging it in the space between us, my fingers warm and safe in hers.

She stared, her face blank. And I beamed, because she was so excited.

Then her face turned mad. “What have you done? Can you not go five minutes without getting in trouble?” She closed her eyes and pulled away from my hand.

That’s when I saw it: The fire was too big, bigger than the people. When we had been there for real, the fire had been smaller. That’s why she didn’t like it. It was wrong.

“I can fix it,” I said. She didn’t even look at me.

“Don’t you ever touch this wall again, do you hear me? Ever. I have so much to do, Amanda. I don’t have time for this right now.”

“The fire is too big. Sorry.”

“There shouldn’t even be a fire on the wall! What you did was bad. Very bad.”

I hung my head because she was right. It was bad. The picture was so ugly.

“I can make it prettier.” I said, but she didn’t give me a chance. She took the crayons and put them on a tall shelf, and then I had to go to my room. Mommy must want to fix it herself.

But a few minutes later, I peeked my head out, to see if she had made the picture pretty. It was the same, though and all Mommy was doing was staring at it, her hand touching the ugly fire, like she was thinking, the way I did before I decided which Barbie I wanted to play with. It looked more important, though, like grown up thinking.

She must be deciding how to fix it. I went back to my room, sad that I had drawn something so ugly.

***

I was sitting at the table, fingers flat out in front of me. I was a big girl now. Only babies messed up their nail polish. Right now it was perfect, and it was going to stay that way.

Mommy brushed her hand too close to the bottle of remover, causing the purple liquid to spill across the table, drip onto the tile floor.

I gasped, starting to hop up to grab a rag like she had always told me to do if something spilled. But I couldn’t. Big girls didn’t mess up their nail polish.

That’s when I noticed Mom wasn’t going to get a towel, but was instead on the other side of the kitchen, staring at the picture I had drawn yesterday. I had redrawn the picture I had put on the wall, since Mommy wiped it off. I watched the remover drip. Maybe she didn’t know she had knocked something over.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, dear?” A small smile reached her lips.

“It spilled.” Very carefully, I pointed to the puddle on the table.

“Oh, that’s okay. It’s not a big deal.” She held up the picture. “This is so pretty Mandy.

You’re such a good little artist.

She liked the picture when it wasn’t on the wall. “I’m not little anymore, Mommy. Remember, I’m five now.”

“That’s right, you’re my big girl!” She dropped down on her knees next to me still holding the picture. “And you know what big girls get to do?”

My eyes lit up. “What?”

“They get to keep secrets.”

“Secrets!” She nodded. “You’ve never told me a secret before. I really am a big girl!”

“Yes, you are, sweetie. Now, here’s the secret, okay. It’s really important.” I sat up straighter. I wanted to be the best secret-keeper ever. “You see this pretty picture in my hand?” I nodded. “Now, I’m going to lay it down, but if anyone asks you say that you put it down, okay? You were holding it, and you laid it down. That’s all you have to say.”

“Why?” That was the secret? “Mommy, that’s a silly secret. Tell me a better one.”

“No, baby, this is a super-duper big secret. I know it doesn’t make sense, but you’ll just have to trust me, okay? It’s a big, big secret. Bigger than me not telling you what I get you for Christmas.”

“Wow. Okay. I won’t tell.” I paused. “But Mommy, why can’t I lay it down?”

“Because I don’t want you to get close to the stove. It’s hot right now. Remember what happened the last time you got too close to the stove when it was hot?”

I nodded, and looked at the scar on my pinkie. After I touched the stove, Daddy had held me on his lap while I cried. He kept telling me that even with my hurt finger, I was still a pretty princess.” Since Daddy left, Mommy hadn’t told me I was pretty. Maybe I was only pretty when Daddy was around, and when he left he took my pretty with him. Maybe he gave it to Whore.

Then I thought about what she had asked me to say, “but I’m not supposed to lie. That’s bad.”

“You’re right, Mandy, lying is bad. But this isn’t lying. Not really. You’re just telling someone a story. It’s like how I always tell you a bedtime story. Those aren’t real, but I’m not lying. Lying hurts people. This is helping Mommy. Can you do that? Can you keep this secret?”

“Yes! I promise! I’ll never, ever, tell!” Without thinking, I hugged her and then pulled my hands back. Tears pricked my eyes when I saw the smudge on my pinky nail. “Oops.” But then I remembered. I have a secret. A really big secret. Nothing makes me more of a big girl than that.

Without another word she got up, and put the picture down next to the pot on the stove.

“Who laid this down, Mandy?” She said, pointing to the picture.

“I did.” I smile wide, proud that I’ve kept the secret so far.

“I love you, Mandy.”

“I love you, too, Mommy.”

That’s when I noticed the dark spot on the paper, spreading into the picture of the house I drew. It grew. Getting darker. And larger. Like the puddle of remover still dripping.

I listened to the dripping for a few seconds. And then saw a flame on the paper. My pretty picture was on fire. My eyes grew wide, and I tried to scream, but I stopped, because it was so pretty, like a birthday candle. It smelled like roasted marshmallows. The fire was so orange and bright. I decided right then that fire was my favorite color. I hated the color pink, now.

“Mommy?” I asked, just in case this wasn’t okay. It wasn’t my birthday. That wasn’t a candle. I hoped she would let the fire stay, because it was so pretty.

The fire stayed, but we didn’t. She took my hand and quickly led me out the door, far away from the pretty colors. My nails were messed up, but I didn’t care. Next time I wanted to paint them the color of fire.

We were standing by the curve--the place Mommy always taught me to go if something bad happened--when I remembered Daddy’s watch.

It was laying on my dresser, next to my bed. I couldn’t leave it! It was so pretty, the fire would make it ugly. And Daddy would be mad if he knew I had left it. I couldn’t leave the watch like he had left us.

I ran back toward the house. Mommy was screaming, but I barely heard her. I could hear the wind in my ears though. I was going so fast I felt like I was flying. I flew through the door, only thinking about the watch. But then I stopped.

It was so pretty. I watched as the fire got bigger. It spread, like it was running. It was faster than me. It went down the cabinet. Across the floor. Toward me.

“Amanda!” Mommy yelled then held her arms out when she saw me. I stepped away, finally remembering why I was here. I opened my mouth to tell her that I was going to my room, but those words never came.

The fire and the dripping collided. Mommy screamed again for me from across the room. She sounded scared, like I did when I got lost in the grocery store once. But I couldn’t answer. Those words I wanted to speak turned into a scream. There was heat. There was a bigger fire, bigger than I’d ever seen. There was burning as the fire and dripping collided with me.

Then there was blackness.

***

Before I was a big girl, I thought there was a monster hiding under my bed. I didn’t know I would turn into the monster, but now my face is pink (and not Barbie pink, an ugly pink), and it stings like the time I touched the stove. But worse.

Now, I look like the monster.

Mommy brings me a new stuffed animal everyday at the hospital. Most of them are pink. I hate the color pink. I’ve even stopped using all the pink crayons in the box.

I don’t draw fire anymore. I hate fire.

And I don’t care that the watch is still sitting beside my bed. If Whore had not given Daddy that watch, maybe he would still be here. Then I wouldn’t have gone back into the house, and I would still be that pretty princess. But princesses don’t have scars on their faces. Maybe their pinkies, but not their faces.

I hate scars. And I hate Daddy for taking my “pretty.”

Title: Pretty

Genre: Young Adult Fiction

Age range: 14+

Word count: 2,556

Author: Taylor Neal

Good fit: This story offers the unique perspective of a five-year-old thrust into the center of very adult problems, while still appealing to young adults with a darker layer of how desperation can turn disastrous.

Hook: A brokenhearted child. A mother's breakdown. Dire consequences.

Synopsis: Her name was Whore, and now  Daddy was gone because he didn’t like Mommy or her anymore. That was the story five-year-old Amanda got when her father left. Struggling to deal with the aftermath amidst her mother’s unhinged emotions, she finds herself entangled in emotional scars of her own. As the pressures and bills mount, Amanda’s mother makes a choice with dire consequences, leaving Amanda to now grapple with more than one type of scar.

Target Audience: Readers 14-25 with interests in psychology, the impact of relationship conflicts on emotions, and unique character perspectives.

Bio: Taylor is an aspiring novelist who enjoys planning her next adventures outside of Greenbrier, Arkansas and trying to talk herself out of adopting every stray animal. When getting her B.A. in both Psychology and Creative Writing, Taylor had a wide range of interests from studying abroad to judging poetry for her university’s literary magazine. Taylor was published in the Vortex Magazine of Literature and Art in both her poetry and short stories. She then went on to obtain her Master's in Counseling and now enjoys working with kids. Taylor loves to create eloquent pieces with a darker, psychological twist showcasing the resiliency of humanity and the emotional connections created through tragedy.

Platform: Taylor is passionate about rescuing animals and encouraging emotional health while erasing the stigma of mental illness.

Personality: Taylor may come in a small package, but is mixed with determination, compassion, a plethora of random facts, and a tiny bit of sarcasm (okay, a lot of sarcasm).

Please note: This short story is the inspiration for a novel I am writing by the same name. The novel includes three different perspectives (including Amanda's) with each character dealing with tragedies connected in an unsuspecting way.