Captured essence

Bottled and sold

Luxury with a price tag worth its weight in gold

Flashy with labels of names you adore

Anyone that is someone needs this and more

Buy it

Who cares if you can't afford it

Charge it

Paying debt with credit cards

You may not be able to eat

And you have nowhere left to sleep

But damn you look good

Or at least you think so

She is beautiful, but she doesn't know it. Her messy, dirty blonde hair flows from the top of her head down to a little past her weak shoulders. Her nose is a little larger than average, but her lips are tiny and a shade of light-fleshy pink. Her vivid, dark blue eyes dance in a way that seems to say she's lively yet calm. Her pale, fair skin seems almost malnourished. She had a pronounced jaw line, which sticks out from her neck. She stands about average height, but she is so thin and lanky that she seems taller than she actually is. She always wears long-sleeve shirts and hides her hands in the sleeves that are too long. She also always wears dark jeans that seem so bland but compliment her personality. She always wears mismatched socks and grey converse. She is shy, but she can be goofy when she gets to know someone too well. She is an introvert. Her thoughts run a million miles an hour. She loves art. She paints some and sketched almost all of the time. She also writes poetry, reads emotional novels, and loved indie films. She plays the piano and cello. She listens to everything from classical to jazz to blues to pop punk to dubstep to death metal. She is so forgiving and kind that she lets people hurt her. She has learned, however, not to trust hardly anyone. She never opens up to anyone who doesn't open up to her first. She has no clue what she wants to do in life. She aspires to be an artist, but she know it usually doesn't pay well. She doesn't go out much. She's never invited to parties. Instead, she usually stays in her room and expresses herself. She has always hated styles and fashions. Her wardrobe hasn't change since seventh grade, and she intends to keep it that way. She feels that if one needs nice and expensive clothes to cover up one's shallow personality, then one isn't worth talking to. She likes learning about different cultures and ideas. She tries to keep an open mind about things, and she doesn't lean in any specific political direction. She hopes one day to move to New York, although she has no clue where to get the money to do that. She's an amazing person. She loves life but hates living.

The cellar was dim, and a lone candle lit it. I curled my fingers around the candle's flame, desperately searching for warmth, which I had not had for many months.

Footsteps echoed throughout the cellar, and I sighed. Food was coming. Moldy bread and stale water. 'Food'.

But, when the door opened, the shape of the figure in front of me was not the plump old lady with a tray who brought me food. It was a lean figure, with its hands on its hips.

The figure moved closer, and I saw who it was. It was Scarlett, an old friend of mine, with flaming red hair and bright green eyes. She sat next to me, her eyes trained on the candle, and said nothing for quite a long time.

Finally, she spoke. "Things are happening outside of smelly jails, you know."

I nodded. "Of course."

She glanced at me. "Bad things, Ash. Terrifying things."

More silence lingered for a while, and I watched shadows from the small candle's flame dance along the walls of the cellar.

"How did you get in?" I asked. "It must have been hard. Did you bribe the guards?"

Scarlett looked slightly amused. "You really think I bribed the guards? Of course not. I broke in. How is a long story which I am too exhausted to tell."

"Okay." I toke in a deep breath. "So. Why did you come?"

"To get you out." Scarlett raised her eyebrows. "Are you really so daft to have not realized that by now?"

I felt heat rush into my cheeks, and, for a moment, I was glad that the room was dim so Scarlett could not see. "How are you supposed to get me out of here?" My voice was impatient. Annoyed. I looked down at the chains that grasped my ankles and wrists. "I'm imprisoned, and you can't have a key."

"Of course I don't have a key!" Scarlett snapped. Her voice became softer. "I... I don't have a plan, either. I just wanted to be with you, and I thought that maybe... Maybe we could figure something out. Soon."

I rocked back and forth on my heels. It wasn't like Scarlett to come without a plan. The Scarlett I had known before, that is. But she seemed changed. Older. Tired. Even though it had been only six months since I was captured and brought here.

"You came to keep me company," I said. "Not to free me. Just to keep me company."

Scarlett flinched, and for a brief, ashamed moment I thought I had offended her. But her shoulders relaxed, and I relaxed, also.

"That's right." Scarlett's voice was tight and strained. "I just came to keep you company." She sighed. "But it would obviously be a good thing if we could get you out of here, also."

She rested her head on my shoulder, and I didn't brush her off like I had some other times. For months I had longed to feel the warmth of other compassionate human beings, and now I had my wish.

"I missed you," I whispered. "I dreamed of seeing you. I had prayed that you were still alive, that you were okay, that they hadn't caught you, also, and brought you here."

Scarlett seemed surprised by my words. "I missed you too," she murmured. She wrapped her arms around me. I let her.

I hugged her back, and felt tears run down my cheeks. They dripped onto her hair. They shone in the candlelight like tiny stars.

Suddenly, I was laughing, too. I was laughing and crying at the same time, and heard Scarlett do the same, our sounds weaving together as a harmony, our shoulders shaking together with sobs and laughter. Together.

Soon the crying and the laughter died away, but we were both still smiling, our cheeks shiny and our eyes red from crying.

I fingered a necklace Scarlett had around her neck. It was a plain necklace, made of cheap metal, but it had a charm on it. The charm was a a circle that was not perfectly round--in fact, it was more of an oval--and it was black. In the middle, written in white cursive letters, said 'Love'.

"Oh," I said. My voice was choked from tears, and I knew I was about to start crying again. "Oh. You still have it."

Scarlett smiled. "Of course. I wanted to have a little bit of you with me at all times."

I had made Scarlett the necklace two years ago, when she was crying herself to sleep and refusing to eat. Her mother and father had died in an accident, and she missed them dearly. I had noticed how she'd had been feeling and threw together some glue, metal, paper, pens and my poor cursive handwriting together to make the necklace. She had been extremely grateful, and started wearing it every day. She even wore it to bed, and when she had told me this a year ago, I felt all warm and fuzzy inside, like I had swallowed a caterpillar. It was in those past two years that we had became closer, and my heart was swelling with the fact that Scarlett still cared enough to wear the worn down necklace I had made years earlier.

"You don't have to wear it," I said. "It's--it's pretty beaten up, you know."

"I know." Scarlett met my gaze. "But I want to wear it."

The silence that passed between us after that was comfortable, and I realized then why I loved Scarlett. She was extremely stubborn and loyal, and she could make anything comfortable that would normally be uncomfortable. Like silence after a conversation about a necklace that she refused to take off.

Scarlett may have been reading my thoughts, because she placed her hand on my hand. "Ash, I need to tell you something." She sounded strong, but I could hear a slight shakiness in her voice.

"Okay," I said.

"Ash," Scarlett said, "I--I want to know if you trust me."

"What?"

"Do you trust me, Ash?"

"Goodness, Scarlett, of course I trust you!"

"So--so you'll believe me when I tell you this?"

"Yes."

"Ash." Scarlett started again, taking in an extremely large breath. "Ash, I love you."

"Oh," I said dumbly. "Oh." Emotions rushed through me, confusion and gratitude and--what was that, heart?--love.

"Oh," I said again. "Scarlett. Scarlett, I love you too."

Scarlett opened her mouth to say something, when the door to the cellar burst open, and a man stormed in.

"What are you doing here?!"

"Hey."

"Who is this?"

"You know who I am."

"Not anymore."

"You know my name."

"True. Why did you call? I want nothing to do with you."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it."

"Well, I am."

"I'm hanging up."

"Wait!"

"Why would I?"

"You just did."

"Stop pushing me."

"I know you forgive me."

"Shut up."

"You just don't want to say it."

"I said-"

"I know what you said. Shut up. Can we please talk like normal people?"

"I am quite aware that you are not a normal person."

"All normal people have fights."

"Not like this."

"Yes, like this! I've been heartbroken before, and this is not heartbreak."

"Then what is?"

"Please, I really want to talk."

"Fine. Talk."

"And I want to know that you are listening."

"I'll listen, but I might not agree."

"I know."

"Talk."

"To start, I'm sorry. I was wrong. I just have let what happened get in the way of us."

"Us?"

"What we were."

"We 'were' nothing."

"You know that's not true. Let me talk."

"Whatever."

"Are you listening?"

"Yes! This is so dumb..."

"I love you."

"Liar."

"You know me well enough to know I don't lie."

"Maybe."

"You love me?"

"No."

"... Uh-huh."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, you know me too well."

"So..."

"Yes! Yes, I do love you, you idiot!"

"I love you too."

"I realize that."

"Meet me at the park, okay?"

"Okay. I... Need to say one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry also. And I forgive you."

"I forgive you too."

New writers.

The ones with a spark in their chest, excited to paint a world out of words.

The ones who, when their fingers touch the keyboard, or pencil, a shiver of exhilaration goes through them.

The ones who keep the other writers going--they are just so willing, with undying loyalty to the pen.

Well... At least, until they aren't "new" writers anymore.

The ones who look up to authors, with dreams of becoming just like them.

The new generation of words and literature.

Without new writers, there are no new books.

No new words to escape to when the real world seems too harsh.

New writers.

The ones who need support from older writers to get over their first wave of writer's block.

I respect new writers--as I am one myself. I am always excited to write. My first real thing of writer's block was just a little while ago, and Prose. helped me get through it. New writers, like me, look up to "older writers", who have been through it all when it comes to writing, and back again.

We have respect for you, older writers.

New writers--new literate souls.

New storytellers.

New word-spinners.

Writers.

And as the child's fingers squeezed mine, I realized what had happened. They were here. And they had killed this child.

Her pale blue eyes met mine, and a smile played on her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

"No," I said. "No, this can't be happening. You'll live. You'll live!"

But the child, only six years old, tops, was growing paler by the second. A pool of blood surround-ed her left leg. She had lost too much of it.

"Go," she said. "Or you'll join me, and the other side."

"What if I want to?" I murmured.

"Selfish," she whispered. "Don't be selfish... Think of-" but she was cut of, her breathing fast and shallow. "Go." Her eyelids fluttered shut, and a knot formed in my chest. It was too tight; I could not untie it, even when I wept, my tears falling onto her dirty face, making muddy tracks down her cheeks.

Her hand fell out of mine, limp, but still a bit warm.

I blew her a kiss, and said, "I hope that you'll have a good time in heaven, sweetie. I should not have let you die."

As I walked away from her body, I knew what she would have said if she were still living; "You could not have saved me."

And I knew, deep down, that she was right.

"Knock knock"

"What are we 8 or something?"

"Come on" Aden smiles "you have to play along."

Jess rolls her eyes "who's there?"

"Box" Aden barely able to contain himself

"Box who?"

"Box cause I love you"

"Wow that was terrible" Jess says trying to hide a grin

"Fine." Aden's smile faded "let's try again"

"Seriously? You aren't going to be a comedian you know"

"And you will never get your gift if you don't play along"

"Who says I want it?"

"Oh you'll want it. Trust me." He kisses her gently on the forehead "knock knock"

"Who's there?"

"Surprise"

"Surprise who?" Aden collapses down to one knee

"Surprise for you" holding out a small box with a shiny ring "box cause I love you."

Jess laughs uncontrollably as tears form in her eyes "you are so weird"

"Probably, you gonna marry me anyway?"

Jess shrugs "I guess so" as he slides the ring onto her finger.

You scolded me

with your acidic

tongue;

hurtful words

that forever stung,

and I took that,

put it in a jar,

to reuse on me,

to burn away

my identity.

Now I'm unknown,

left to roam.

Perhaps I'll start over;

carry new burdens

upon my shoulders,

and no longer count

my scars;

be one with

the stars.