Her eyes were the sea – you know, that mingled color between cerulean and aqua that changed and flowed and metamorphosed with the currents; sometimes turbulent and other times calm but with a flash of spirit, promising the abundance of her riches. Her ebony hair catapulted with the breezes, flashing touches of auburn and flecks of white. But ahhh – the skin – it was the silk of which dreams are born - tawny and rich, moist and golden. The lushness of her body lulled me into a false sense of security but when I plunged her depths, I encountered what true sensuality and eroticism could be. Long crimson nails drew blood in little trails down my back but left me begging for more. Her lush lips gathered me in fantasies and ecstasies that I never had encountered. Long tan legs went on forever until they reached her promised land, encompassing all that I ever was. My wild island woman lifted me to heights I never thought possible until she blew away, without a backward glance, caught in the tropical wind toward other islands in the sun, seeking the opulence of other treasures. But I knew that I would hear her siren call forever, way off in the distance, echoing in my mind, “Come to me, come to me!”

His name is Asher. He is just a little bit taller than me, and very like me. He has dark brown hair that is always getting in his face. His hairdo is like the Lego Ninjago Cole. His face is not long, but not short. His face is just right. His black eyes resemble an eagle's and he has amazing eyesight.

   He belongs to a family of eight. He isn't the oldest child and he isn't the youngest. He is the middle child. He lives on a farm in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania and has always been good with stuff.

     His fashion is different then you would think. When I say the name Asher, you probably think of a kid that is in tight jeans, ripped on the legs, girly hair and a girly shirt. He doesn't. He likes to wear loosed fitting black pants, and sweatshirts.

     His power? Earth

His hand rests

Middle digit cleft and cracked the evidence of childhood thievery detected by a clumsily flung car door

Safety crouches, along with hope, within that outstretched palm

I watch it, carefully, that cracked and deformed nail against denim blotted with oil that once dripped from now extinct hopes of breathing life into engines that died before I was born

Off rhythm tapping against the steering wheel radiating heat and a bass drum pounded pistonesque with new balance driven by their rods that must be steel or flesh but envied, no doubt, by Pelé himself

Big gulp placed at the base of a barrel, a shirt MUST be tucked in!

At least, while the safety belt is fastened, the leather one remains sheathed within loops

Sounds of Stones or a Zeppelin floating by surely haven't calmed the baby faced beast beneath the only haircut befitting a man (closely cropped, no sideburns, combed neatly from left to right)

Have they?

Surely not, but... steal a glance into that ageless face to see where I stand?

First, a glance down to see where I sit- posture, expression, hang of my clothes- all seemingly in order and not likely to offend

So, then- dare I lift my eyes?

And risk my momentary anonymity?

A fool's second thought rivals the wise man's first as his anger cannot be read in a face unmarred by hair nor line

Only the eyes foretell and a glance there would show only the reflection of trepidation in an aviator's lens

And that hand

I watch it, that cleavage at the end of his finger for when it disappears into the meaty mallet of a closed fist so follows safety

Our boots skid to a stop an inch from the steep drop off of the cliff. We lock eyes for a moment, realizing just how close we'd come to toppling over it. I'd make it easily but him? He's human. Fear of falling would probably kill him. I glance furtively at him. I can smell the fear on him and in him as he inhales and exhales through his nose, looking down in wonder that he's still alive. Humans have a distinct scent, especially when they're terrified. I've always thought it has something to do with blood pulsing through their veins, heart pumping it, forcing it through their bodies and minds, dying or living without sentience. I can see the sweat drip from his hair, past his face, and over the cliff's edge. His eyes are still wide but in a frown as if thinking "What the hell? How am I still alive?" Perhaps that is what he's thinking. I can feel the synapses in his brain connecting and disconnecting whenever the emotions or reality become too real. I just can't read them. And what hell would break loose if I let him--or anyone on this planet--know that. 

His sweat, now mixed with some man-made chemical to prevent odors, is tinged with fear--hard fear--and he looks at me through pale blue eyes circled with black in another synapse connect/disconnect. There is whimpering behind those eyes. Purely a human reaction. My species doesn't whimper at death or even the possibility of it. What can I tell him to make him smile again, make the fear and its odors evaporate? 

"Hey," I say in the most human way possible for me, "We made it. We're still alive. Now back up from that edge." I smile and try to make it realistic.  I hold out a hand and watch him debate with himself whether he should by rights be dead or alive until finally, he grins in relief and clasps my forearm tight as I pull him closer to safety. I can smell his relief too. Hot, sweaty, but a free breath without that fear that might have killed him. His teeth flash at last as he grins and walks past me.

"Thanks," he says in earnest. "We did make it. And I, for one, am grateful. Very grateful."

I grin back but say nothing. I glance down over the cliff one last time and wonder if I or my race convey emotions through bodily functions. But then, that's a different question for another species, maybe even the human one.

She would smile every time the breeze brushes her face. Naturally blushed soft pink cheeks all around the year with beautiful fuller lips. This is what every 21 years old usually looks but she had that pinch of extra charm in her personality with a tall, average built body whom she would like to cover with crop tops and distressed jeans always and shows her perfectly curved waist line and navel stud. Anyone who would remember seeing her has the best picture of her in mind which comprises of she flipping her flicks away from her face with a nod of her head. Fragrance of roses is what she always liked to be smelled of.. Being peach her favourite color, it would dominate the look always, sometimes being her nail paint and sometimes her socks color with converse all star shoes over them. Looking at her, everyone could guess that she must be a perfect shot of a hip hop dance. Her smile keeps the environment around her peached.

Weston was a mystery. He would float down the halls with a face that makes you want to hide. He was tall, giant height compared to me for I have to look up a bit just to look at him in the eyes. He gives out cold stares with his dark brown eyes to everyone who try to talk to him, not wanting to be bothered by other people's problems for he gave out the persona that screamed "I don't care", making all the girls drool over him even more.

Weston's hair was a brown color, probably a caramel or tawny shade. His hair would then sweep to the left in a devilish way, not caring how it looked while still looking as if he took his time to get ready this morning. His clothing style, on the other hand, was something different. He wore what seemed like a black and gray Bouclé coat, making him look sophisticated along with mint green dress shirt, a blue and white plaid tie, a mahogany red vest that laid smoothly on top of his dress shirt and tie, slim dark blue jeans that happen to be folded on the ends, showing off his black plain socks and tortilla brown Chukka shoes. To every girl, he was perfect. To every guy, he was a threat. But to me... he was just a guy who hides a story everyone wants to find out.

Everyone but me.

His name is Ash. He has dark brown hair the shade of coffee. Dirt covered his hands as if he was falling over and over again. Scratch marks cover the knee of his jeans. His breath was quick and almost sounded breathless. His eyes a pale blue and sunken into his skull like he has not had a good sleep in a few days. Jumpy too. He would jump up if anyone would come close. Also, very paranoid because he kept looking over his shoulder. He was so thin, he really has not eaten. His arms and legs of his jeans were covered in mud or blood, he must have been crawling. 

Unreliable scally with a heart if gold. No. Loveable rogue. Erk. Diamond in the rough? Definitely not. Angel with a dirty face? No.No.No.How would Fiona describe her feckless sister Caitlin? How is she going to introduce the woman who found it more important to swim with bloody dolphins than to attend their younger sister’s wedding to her new wife? Especially, when new, meant over two years. Fiona couldn't even muster a sigh she'd used those up years ago. The eldest is meant to be sensible. Measured. Grounded. Not so with Caitlin. After their mother's death, she had become worse. She'd always been restless, to Fiona's Cancerian composure. She had inherited errant from their father. Now, Caitlin had decided to press pause, and when she did however irritatingly itinerant she had been, everyone forgave her. Fine then. Never one to ruffle feathers Fiona followed suit. Argued with her partner explained away the social faux pas and excused the behaviour.

-Mina, can I talk with you?

-Ok that doesn't sound good

-My sister’s back from Iceland.

-And?

-Well, she'd like to visit?

-And you said no, right?

-Wrong.

-What?

-She's my sister we are all we have

-Please, she didn't remember her only sister 2 and a half years ago you know on that insignificant occasion called our wedding day?

-She apologised...

-Not to me.

-It was a little difficult when you would not speak to her

-How do you suppose that's changed?

I don't, but then, how can she apologise?

-Don't be reasonable, it makes it hard to maintain my annoyance. Besides, I haven't forgiven her

-I just said she could stay.

-Here?

-Of course here.

-No!

-Come on

-I can't, Fi, she has not even sent so much as a card. Not a phone call nothing.

-I know.

-Then why are you so OK about this? You were devastated, her suit is still in your wardrobe, like some relic from a saint.

Fiona had hoped keeping it would turn the clock back, but it hadn't.

-I know it's a hard ask, but I also know there is a compassionate part of you that can do this

-That's a vicious rumour

-Please.

-I was sad at first, then I was angry because you were so sad. She let you down, in the worst way

-Well her timing is right, it took this long to get over it, and we gave a daughter, she can be the bad aunt, to your prim parenting.

-I'm not happy.

-But you’ll say yes?

-Can I think about it?

-Well her train is here in an hour.

-You have got to be joking. When did you know?

-Sorry about a week ago.I knew you would want more time, then you would have said say no anyway, always do.

-That was only once, and it was about buying that ridiculously expensive car, and I don't believe you.

-OK, I knew a month back.

Mina made a noise like a broken clutch.

-I'm not staying

-Mina don't do 'her or me' that's not you.

-Clearly you don't know who I am. If you thought this would be alright.

-She's my sister, and for all her mistakes I love her she, she cannot undo what happened, but we can teach Anand how to be a bigger person.

-She's 18 months old

-Good place to start.

-Well it's done now.

Caitlin nearly missed her stop. She could blame her tiredness on travelling, but in all truth, she was still drunk on badly made cocktails. She fiddled with her wallet for the ticket. So many tickets. A small wad of Icelandic Krona. Caitlin is the sort of person who went to buy a round in a English pub and got Euros out to pay for it. Most others would annoy, but because Caitlin has basically always been known for nothing but travelling, she could get away with it.

Caitlin dragged the battered sack across the gap she was too squishy eyed to mind. 

She saw her face in the moving glass for a few seconds and wished she was a vampire.

She could see her wiry mixed Scottish-Jamaican hair still had the corkscrews that had made her sexy in college, but she could also see where her copper skin had put fine lines under each word of her history. The train left the station. Caitlin turned the camera of her phone back to front to chart the damage done to her psyche by the speeding reflection. Phew. She still had it. She thought. Along with the hair, her winning cards were her eyes No one could get passed them; one chocolate the other hazel like someone had run out of brown ink before completing her. She mashed her hair into an unruly top knot, slipped her phone back into her jeans pocket and made her way to the exit. Duty calls.

Her name was Ingrid, a skinny, short girl with a small frame. Yet with her zealous personality and ever-present smile, you'd wonder how such joy could be crammed inside such a tiny child. Her rich, brown eyes would sparkle with such delight at even the simplest things, and she had a habit of tugging on a strand of her close-cropped, dark, curly hair. Her fingernails would usually be dusted with dirt or caked with mud, the same color as her mahogany skin that seemed to glow as radiant as the sun. And Ingrid was indeed like her very own sun, with her infectious grin. When she smiled, a small dimple would appear in her left cheek, giving her a mischevious look. Her good-natured, outgoing, uninhibited personality and confidence made her a charming girl. Her perfect, sweet face with a pointed chin, her captivating, vivid doe-like eyes, and even the grime and dust on her hands was the perfect picture of a free child-- watching the world through wide eyes and a merry soul. Someone... just like Ingrid.

     William R. He's not always too keen on giving his whole last name as it's quite long and its translation in its original language isn't a nice one. So, R. it is.

     He's a pretty quiet person most of the time, but that's usually because his brother is hogging the center of attention. To make matters worse, the brothers go to the same school and share a lot of classes. This would be because they are twins, identical actually. Giles R. is the man of the spotlight. (So, yes, they are Will and Gil. Aren't parents so kind with name choices?)

     Anyway, William isn't resentful of his brother at all. He quite prefers fading into the crowd. He will gladly let Giles talk everyone's ears off if it means no one is looking at him for an extended amount of time.

     William and Giles are always together, always. So, they decided amongst themselves that they would each have a "thing" that could help others differentiate them. William keeps his hair long and messy along with wearing hats most of the time, and Giles has his hair quite short and usually wears hooded jackets. This way they don't have to deal with others's confusion.

     Since we're on the tangent of appearance, let's give some more details. They've both got light brown hair to the extent that some people think it's blond, but it isn't. They're fairly pale, but they don't have freckles. William is a little taller than Giles, but only by a few centimeters (an inch or so). They're both fairly lanky, so the height and hair are their only real distinguishing traits. That's about it for descriptions without getting stupid detailed.

     William enjoys reading and tennis. Giles doesn't much care for solitary sports or libraries, but he's always there with William anyway. In turn, William can be seen at all of Giles' football (soccer) matches as well as at weekend get-togethers.

     Although the twins may seem too close to come between, they do hang out with a group of five, including themselves. Dan, Georgia, and Morgan are the other three. The five are close and have good times together. But at the end of the day, William and Giles have known each other since birth and share a room, so they're definitely the closest.

     Now, as mentioned before, the twins's nicknames turn into the rhyming pair Will and Gil. They try to avoid this in most conversation as it sounds childish, so they try to go by William and Giles. However, their close friends and relatives still use the rhyming shortenings.

     Neither brother has been in any serious relationship before, but they're always there for each other as a wingman, advisor, or cheerer-upper if the other were ever to need it. And that sort of goes for anything in their lives. Ups and downs, good and bad, fights or camaraderie, they'd never leave each other behind. Unless one eats the other's food... Yeah. Then all bets are off.