It's The New Black

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Blackwaters is diminishing before my eyes. Each day the city is becoming worse, fires blacking out the sun, confusing storms from the thick throng of dark clouds, building crashing down into piles of stone pieces and splintered wood beams, and the river that splits and wiggles its way around the small islands carrying bodies and debris down stream. Corrupt leaders, rioting masses, and self-acting soldiers made it this way soon after the war began to bloom once more. Apparently it never died but instead was tucked a way until the next attack was made. And it has, ten years after the public thought it was through. Now three major cities lay in a nuclear dust cloud, their skies tinted red and their building skeletal outlines of great beauty brought down by the need for power.   

I feel useless. My great promise to protect the city is backfiring with the amount of events that happen day in and day out. My kind can no longer keep up and save those in need, the effects of the war quickly playing catch-up with its people. It had to make up for the years missed and was completing its destructive power and fear induced crimes in what would be years within just one. Giving up feels more like the better option each day because of the little effect we are making. People talk bad of us instead of the usual pride for having such a great “guard” to promise them relief of any troublesome connections that tie down their lives. A bowed head of shame replaces the smile that I wore when I heard these comments as the war carries on.

At the moment, as I watch the Harbinger’s Gazebo be licked with the flames of rioter’s torch on top of the Altus Chapel dome, its eight foot spire rising above with the flag of the people fluttering in the wind of a coming storm. The flag is red and white and ridden with holes. On it is the symbol of the rioters’ resistance: a fist in the air with the thumb tucked underneath the fingers instead of on top. I heard from eavesdropping on the norm of the current public that it is meant to show the missing idea of the war: its people. I’m not sure if it’s a specific section or type of people, but that is the most I have ever heard when the flag is pointed out and discussed. The dome itself has had its beautiful grace destroyed by an explosive of some sort, a large, jagged edge gap revealing the innards of the building on the western side. White bricks that make up the dome slip and fall on to the delicately chosen pattern of black and white tiles below on the chapel floor each time I climb up here to gaze upon my dying city. The entire thing is slowly slipping a way from repair should the war ever cease or, better yet, disappear completely for striking workmen to fix. But in truth, I think I’ll be still be alive to see the city fall from the grasp of a much need savior. Like now, I’ll watch each little island crash and burn, murdered by blood thirsty, war influenced minds. And like the three cities that sparked life back into the war, it will be a reminder of power hungry fools willing to kill for the world.

I close my eyes and take in a slow, deep breath, wishing with all my power for everything to return to what it was. The bustling, gleaming city of Blackwaters that I grew up to love. The people smiling as they walked among the vendors and return to their families with warmth in their hearts and food in their arms. Even the daily storms that blow through are only but a symbol of love for the city. The people welcomed it with open arms, young women and men dancing arm and arm under the heavy sheets of splattering cold, laughing as they do. The rivers that twists its fingers around the islands runs with dark, forbidding waters that we steer far from when it turns torrent during the rain. But it is the reason for our name and we don’t fear as much as we should.

But of course, that Blackwaters is gone and I doubt its return. I open my eyes to my callus ridden hands, all my times of free running the city is showing its signs. A fat drop of rain hits my palm and I watch as it dips into the lines of my hand and pools near the middle, the water gray and fogged. More drops begin to slowly fall from the sky, its clouds a mix of storm and hellfire smoke. I tilt my hand forward, allowing the drop to meld into its original shape and drip from my fingertip, its body heading fast to the cobblestone streets below.

What is to become of us when the city is gone? Our use will no longer be needed with the grounds reduced to rubble and the remaining people turned to beggars looking through the decaying ruins for some sort of shelter or food. Will we gather our things and head for a larger city with a greater need for protection? Though I fear that their laws won’t be as loose with our ways of help. There our heads would be chopped clean off and put on a pike for the civilians to look upon, their fear for the government escalating steadily with each new head. My hand folds into a fist with the thought of it all.

“I hate to be a bother to you,” A smooth, deep voice interrupts from behind. “But the storm coming is said to be the worst of the year.” I turn around to stare right into the dark eyes Darcy. Well eye, since the right has a patch over top. He must have been hunting an enemy for it to completely filled in black, the trademark of our kind. Everyone can tell if one person is part of us when they see our hunting eyes. The parasite makes it so and sometimes that very fact can give us away to our targets. 

“I suggest you find shelter before you’re stuck in the middle of it all.” He continues. His shirt’s high collar is up and buttoned to block the lower half of his face so only the eye and up are visible. Even then he wears a black cloak with its hood up to block out the rain and his shoulder length black hair that is probably tightened into a ponytail like he usually has it. I blink once, allowing a raindrop that has clung to my eyelashes to fall, the weight a very little improvement to the one on my shoulders.

“Maybe it’ll kill me,” I say monotone, refusing my eyes to stray course of his. “The city won’t miss me.” I turn back towards the gazebo, the flames not giving up the fight with its mortal and worst enemy. Darcy snorts and I don’t react when he’s suddenly beside me, his footsteps lacking audible sound. Like we were taught to do. He joked he was trained to do the job we do while still in his mother’s womb, and you almost want to take it seriously because there is no better “guard” then Darcy. He is the one to make the hardest of targets seem as easy as breathing. We all envy him.

“Twenty-five, fully trained, and you’re already giving up on me, Arawn,” He says it as a statement and not a question. “I always thought you were the most determined. Even a leader, perhaps. And leaders are captains. They always go down with the ship.” His eye looks over at me, but I do not crack a smile at the first thing he said to me during training. The city is the ship, but I don’t know if she’s really worth dying for anymore. She’s that beat up, old thing that people jeer at when it passes by. Not worth it at all.

“I think the city is ball and it’s fumbling in our hands,” I say, turning towards him. “We’re losing a grip and fast.” He doesn’t break my gaze for a moment, but then sighs and looks back at the islands ahead. His hand with a quarter of it and his ringer and pinkie finger missing threads its way through his hair and his grasps it, deciding whether or not to rip from his scalp.

“We have one last try, Arawn,” He says, pronouncing every word slowly. “And God help us that we don’t lose it”  

Eleven Years Earlier

My father tells me the war is finally dying. But it confuses me still. A month before he told me we had to move before the battle comes over to our side of the country. I ask him why we can’t stay here if it is nearly over and he tells me that at any moment it could spark again, burning like wildfire and continuing path towards us. He doesn’t want his family to die because of his careless state of mind.

So we pack. I share a room to myself with my two sisters’ room on my left and my parents’ on my right. My room is the smallest, Father having to give up his study when I became ten so that I didn’t have to share a room with two girls. Not only is it indecent, but he also said that every male should have his on private area before he hits puberty. I enjoyed the small place at first, but I was young and little and with my growth spurt behind me, becoming my full height of five feet ten, the area is cramped. The metal frame bed with its old mattress, itchy, wool blanket, and lumpy pillow is pressed against the right wall near the back and beside the tall, arch-topped window. It has dull yellow, stonewalls that have small, hair thin cracks in almost every area you look. The wooden floors are in need of polishing and are also dull and scratched. Besides the bed, the only thing that can fit in the room is Father’s old desk. In closes with an arched cover that you have to grab by the crooked, brass handle and push up and over to see the flat top with all the little drawer, nooks, and crannies.

A few notebooks with school studies and books sit on top of it now, waiting for packing. I have my leather and brass suitcase that holds my few articles of clothing and personal items on my bed. A pocket watch, long dead and that belonged to my great-great-grandfather, is one of the few things I keep very close. Its golden top has a symbol etched into it: the outline of a half circle with what looks like an upside down letter “A” connecting to its bottom point. When opened, the face has spider web cracks running from the top corner and across, the hands stopped on the time 12:07.

My father tells me that my great-great-grandfather was part of secret organization and the watch was given to the first of the family that joined it. When the first member died, the watch was broken the moment of their death and then handed down to the generations. He also tells me that the time on the watch is like an omen that is either good or bad and something is meant to happen to the next family member who holds at the exact time. My father says I was his omen because of my birth at 12:07 in the morning and at ten years of age he gave me the watch, telling me the story. I just fear the outcome if my sign if it should be a bad omen instead of good.

I close the watch, my thumb rubbing over the etched symbol and through the sunlight that glints of it like it is a tool sent from the heavens. There is a knock at the door and I turn in time to see my mother’s face poke in. Her light brown hair is up in a bun, a few stray, curled locks falling in front of her creamy brown eyes. She smiles at me the same smile that is warm and friendly and took my father away.

“I knew she was the one at that moment,” He told me while we walked through the city streets, a twinkle in his eye. “And I would fight to the death to see that smile everyday for the rest of my life.”

I smile back at her, but in a sad sort of way.

“Are you ready? The carriage is already here and everyone else is strapping it.” She says. I look back at the watch slowly, nodding as I pocket it and close my suitcase. Through my window I can see my sisters climbing into the carriage, giggling as a boy I know from my school studies throws two roses at them. Mel, the middle child and a year younger then me, catches hers and smiles as she sniffs at it, looking at the boy through the petals. Joule misses her rose by a fingers touch and scrambles to get it from the puddles on the cobblestone road and away from the horses’ hooves. She nearly trips on her white dress that is for an age older then eight while making a quick grab for the flower. She steps into a puddle and the dirty water splashes over the hem creating an ugly water and dirty speckle stain.

I roll my eyes and grab the suitcase by the handle, walking after my mother out my now old bedroom. I know the boy well. Jackson taught me a few ways on how to woo a woman and it has worked for me numerous times. But no girl can resist Jackson charms and he learned over the years of how to make a girl really fall to your feet. Some in the sickliest romantic ways that even I won’t try.

The second floor, on which our rooms are, is more like a balcony that hangs over the first floor. In has a small walk space to the stairs that spiral down to our living area with a small television, two puffy red velvet couches, that were a gift from a rich family member, and bookcases that line the entire wall from floor to the wooden border underneath the balcony. We walk out of the front door where a tall coachman is waiting for my suitcase to finish the loading. As he reaches for it I put a hand up to stop him.

“I have it.” I say, giving a small smile. He bows and walks over to the front of the carriage to ready the horses and sit on the driver’s bench to steer them towards our new home. I walk to the back and fit the suitcase between two thick ropes of twine. It scratches my hand and small cuts criss cross over my palm, burning like paper cuts. Blood seeps up quickly and I have nothing to stop it from spreading into the lines of my hands. I curl them into fist and stuff them into my trouser pockets, only taking them out to pull myself up into the carriage and sit on the black leather bench next to my sisters who still faun over Jackson’s roses. Mel is in the middle of the seat while Joule sits next the window. My parents sit on the bench in front of ours, my mother looking out the window with her hands in her lap and my father staring down at some documents, his thin, metal rimmed reading glasses squat on the bridge of his nose.

I already know it will be a silent and long ride over to Blackwaters. Three hours to the ship docks and then a four-day ride to the city across the ocean and into a river that leads to the lake where it is stranded like a forgotten child’s toy, separated into twelve tiny islands. The sound of a whip cracking starts the horses to the docks and I watch through the mirror beside the window as our old home, stuck between two shops, turns into a pinprick of color then nothing at all. 

I gaze at your picture

Loning to meet you. 

I have everything you’ve done,

I know it all

But does it matter,

No…

I kiss the screen when you appear,

Hoping it will satisfy my own yearning.

No one understands why I love you.

You are a famous face

I’ll never meet you,

But it feels like I already did.

Chapter 1: An Angel of Mercy

            Cassandra let her eyes wander across the crowded square. The busy buzzing of market activities was thriving in full strength this day. Around her whirled and whizzed vivid colors of beautiful fabrics and woven tapestries, being shipped, packaged, and rudely bargained for by hungry merchants. She used to love and admire the colors; the loveliest shades of dark reds and bronzy greens, corals, honeydews, and cornflower blues. Once she had bought a gorgeous scarf just like a cherry tree, white and lacy with all the bridal flush of a pinky-white bloom. She remembered it longingly as she stared among the rows of hanging garments, each resembling a shade of the desert sky, pale and ethereal gold to mysterious purple twilight.

            As a child, Cassandra was never strong enough to resist the power of such captivating colors. However no color did she love more than green. Not just plain green but all greens. She possessed the richest clothing with every glorious shade: bonnets of tea green, coats of leaf green, hose of apple green, skirts of sea green, gloves of bottle green. She always looked and felt the most beautiful when wearing green. Maybe it was her royal crimson locks that suited the color, for her eyes were not green, but a wood-brown with golden glints. Or perhaps it was her fair skin, which used to be creamy pale and freckle free. Or maybe, just maybe, it was that something inside of her yearned to remember the lush, dark green glens of the north instead of the amber-hued belt of dry, sun-beaten, sand dunes that had always surrounded her.

            Cassandra sifted through the memories of herself in those times, a girl that seemed so foreign to her now, just as foreign as any native here. Suddenly, she laughed, startling the leather-skinned merchant who had been eyeing her from across his stand. She laughed a laugh that was somehow tight and hollow at the same time with a lingering condescension, a whisper from when she was somebody. And as she laughed shoppers and buyers shifted their attention to the ragged, yet well-dressed, and probably half crazy, young woman wandering alone.  Cassandra was awakened from her deranged spell by a growing silence and she looked up to see many black eyes with stares so cold she almost forgot about the sweltering heat. Instinctively, she gripped the pearl-handled pistol in her petticoat pocket. Suddenly, sharp cracks of a whip broke the silence, soon followed by a hoarse cry that rang throughout the marketplace.

            “You useless, good for nothing fool! You’re weak old man! That’s the third time this week you have dropped and wasted another bucket of water! Do you know how much work it takes to find and haul that water here for building?” The slave driver sneered at the old man face down in the ground, showcasing to all the deep, glistening, red strips of missing flesh streaming down his back. His body caked in mud, the old man wearily stared at the guard.

“ANSWER ME SLAVE!”

            “Yes,” he replied in a pained but steady voice. “I do know. Because I did it.”

            Gasps erupted in little explosions from the crowd. “Do you dare defy me?” pure loathing was most evident in the slave driver’s face but Cassandra could detect the panic rising in his voice. “You will now beg for mercy and pray that the Gods stop me from killing you, old man!”

            The old man did not even flinch, but instead began to slowly stand upright. As he did this he said determinedly, “I have been groveling and begging at the feet of your people for 72 years of my life. I…will…no…longer.”

            “ARGHHHH!!” The guard, intensely angered by his own humiliation, gave no mercy. Cassandra had to look away as she heard the blows of the guard’s strong legs and the cracks of his whip against the cries of the old slave. People stood by, some frightened and some entertained by the violent display. Cassandra’s thoughts flew. Stop. This must stop. End. Please end. Cassandra realized she was gripping her pistol so hard her hand was cramping. She pulled it out of her skirt pocket and eyed the weapon beneath her white knuckles. Only one bullet. She was saving it. Last night, she decided that bullet looked like her only friend. The silver sheen against the pearl handle twinkled temptingly. Then she heard another hoarse cry and dull thump. She looked up to see the slave was bleeding and broken but horribly, still breathing.

Cassandra sighed. “Must everything be taken from me?” she said aloud. No one noticed her at all, the crowd being too enthralled with the morning show. She slowly lifted her gun toward the miserable lump on the ground and –

A strong hand closed around Cassandra’s mouth and a deep voice whispered cruelly, “I would not do that if I were you.”

Chapter 2: Among the Sand Dunes

A scream began to rise in her throat, why wasn’t she more careful? But before she could even realize what had happened she was ruggedly dragged backwards and pushed to the ground behind a nearby vegetable counter. Cassandra pointed her gun desperately at the person holding her, to find shockingly that the stranger was already holding it. Scrambling to be hidden underneath the counter, the figure swiftly jabbed Cassandra’s own gun under her jaw and whispered urgently, “If you even think about making a sound I guarantee it will be your last.” A woman! Her voice was low and husky, but definitely female. With that, the woman released her hand from Cassandra’s mouth and began to bind her hands. Cassandra’s mind raced wildly. How did no one see me?  Suddenly, blood-curdling screams erupted from the crowd, quickly followed by deafening gun shots. Panic descended thickly in the air like a smog, touching anything and everything. More yells and cries rang above a human stampede. Mass hysteria consumed the herd of market people running every which way. With the gun still pointed at Cassandra’s neck, the captor raised her head above the stand to see the chaos on the other side. Taking this opportunity, Cassandra bent painfully and struggled to move her bound hands across the vibrating ground, searching for a knife, a rock, anything. She felt for anything that could be of use. Her search was in vain. Disheartened she turned back and was met with nut brown skin and a pair of dark, cat-like eyes looming at her from the shadows. She was surprised to see that the girl was young, only a few years older than herself. Her eyes darted back and forth between Cassandra and the uproar happening just a few feet away. She glared at Cassandra obviously agitated, but more than that she seemed anxious and…torn. The girl snatched a glance once more, almost longingly, at the chaos erupting beyond. With a jolt she slammed herself to the hard ground as Cassandra made out a whistling glimmer of silver light shoot overhead and strike the wooden post in front of her.  A knife. Her state of pure shock had faded as Cassandra gaped open-mouthed at the now splintered post. Fear, raw and real, began to consume her. She glanced a pleading look at the girl beside her. Had she been trying to save her? She watched the girl pocket the weapon, harshly whispering to herself what must have been curses of the Old Language. She was dressed as a man.

“Raj ha mei, toh beh naku!,” and with a icy glance at Cassandra,  she yelled “Come on! We’re moving.”

Before she knew it Cassandra was grabbed by the waist, gun still at her neck, and being pushed forward among the calamity in the street. She felt as if she was in a sea of madness, people running and screaming, the smell of metal and copper was rich in the air. Cassandra knew that when the smell of copper wasn’t copper it was blood. With a sudden zing, she saw two more flying knives emerge from the shadows and land in the gut of a man in uniform. “Run!” her captor pushed the pistol into her back and began a full out sprint through the pandemonium. She struggled not to trip over her own skirts and run into one of the many waves of incoming people. Whipping and weaving through the crowds, they finally escaped the chaos as the captor turned her sharply down a dark alley way. Three mares were tied to a post. Her captor nodded to the blackest of them all and yelled “Up!” Cassandra stared at her in a daze. There was no saddle. “Quickly!” she yelled motioning frantically with the gun, glancing over her shoulder.  “Jua tan!” frustration and anger burst from her words, and suddenly Cassandra felt herself being somewhat lifted and more so pushed onto the fiery mare in front of her. Before Cassandra could settle herself the girl had swiftly mounted the same horse with ease and they rode off into the never-ending desert.

After what seemed like hours of riding under the smoldering sun, night mercifully fell upon the sand dunes. The rhythmic movement of the horse had a lulling sensation, and night began to leaden Cassandra’s eye lids. With a sudden jolt, the horse stopped and suddenly alert, Cassandra looked up to see a small cave with an abandoned fire circle and many small shelters surrounding it. Her captor dismounted and after what felt like hours of saying nothing, yelled “Off!”After tying up the horse and starting up a fire she turned to face Cassandra, her black eyes reflecting the wild flames. She took in her appearance, haggard as it was, glanced dismissively at her dress, and rolled her eyes. Then she glanced at the pearl handled pistol gleaming in the firelight and sat in silence for a long minute. “Who are you?”

“Wha-what?” she croaked. She had not expected that. She had no idea what she expected but she had not expected that.

“Who are you working for?”

“I…I think you have confused me with someone else,” she said tentatively.

The young woman narrowed her eyes. “Listen, I wasn’t looking for anyone. Especially, someone like you. Now I’m going to ask again. Who are you?”

Cassandra stared blankly. Becoming impatient, the young woman swiftly pointed the gun again to her head, “Who do you work for!”

“No one!” Cassandra raised her hands in defense, “I work for no one.”

“Then what the hell were you doing waving a pistol around during the attack, hmm? Were you trying to sabotage us or lend us aid? Either way would have been idiotic. Out in the open like that and dressed as you are. It became apparent no one was with you, or they abandoned you when I came. I never—“

“Now, you listen! I have no idea what you’re talking about, sabotage and what not. All I wanted to do was help that poor man. Maybe I was acting rashly but it’s not like I have a reputation to uphold, not anymore! I had the means, I was just trying to grant a little mercy, then maybe God will show some mercy on my not-so-immortal soul!”

The woman stared at her and laughed bitterly. “Are you telling me that you are actually what you look like? You just- just wanted to shoot that guard on a whim? Some…some debutant? Ash te mal, This is a laugh. I can’t think of a quicker way to die-“

“I wasn’t aiming for the guard.”

The woman crossed her arms. “Oh, is that supposed to make you noble or something? This whole ordeal is such an incredible joke. Who do you think you are? Besides, what does a broken down princess like you care about an old slave?”

 “What does it matter? That man was an inch from death, I was sparing him-”

“You think you’re some kind of ‘angel of mercy’? That’s not your decision to make princess! Can you give life? Can you take it back?” quieter she added, “We have some good healers among us, he will recover.”

“What do you mean you have healers among you?” she glanced around, “What is this place? Who are you?”

She began to stoke the fire. “We are the people who decided to save the slave rather than kill him. We are the people who decided to kill that guard rather than obey him.” The flames crackled loudly and rose higher. As they grew, a fire seemed to light within her words. “We are the people who decided rise up against the tyranny over our people rather than let it stifle us into nothing. We,” the young girl looked at her, her cat eyes smoldering in the light. “are the resistance.”

Chapter 3: Revelations

Cassandra had to remind herself to breathe. As she sucked in too much air, her eyes, once again scanned her location, really seeing it for the first time. The nomadic tents, the packs and horses all tied at posts. Nothing was made to last here, but to be ready to pack up and leave at moment’s notice. These people never stayed in a place more than a month, that’s why they’re so hard to find. Why had it not occurred to her before? “The resistance,” she whispered, angry at herself. The Ashira, the natives of this outpost, had had several unsuccessful uprisings for hundreds of years, all led by the same people, those who call themselves The Resistance. Her father had told her…her father. Cassandra’s eyes hardened. Remembering was not something she wanted to do. Her captor suddenly spoke.

“So I have answered your question, princess. Now you must answer mine.” It was an order, not a request. “as you held up your gun,” the girl smirked at that, “you said, ‘must everything be taken from me?’” Cassandra’s eyes widened in surprise. She nodded. “Why did you say that?” Again, not a request. It was Cassandra’s turn to look at the fire. How did it get so cold? A shiver ran through her, raising her hair on her arms. But as she remembered that time just some hours ago, so long ago it seemed, she remembered her sadness and forgot her fear. Her cynical outlook had made her strong, but only strong enough to accept, not defy. She finally spoke, her voice resolute.

“I have one bullet in this pistol. That bullet was not meant for an old man. It was meant for me. It is my angel of mercy.” Now she looked up, challengingly.

Surprise shown on the girl’s face, “Kala ha. Just when I think you can’t get anymore pathetic. I have no patience for people who have no patience for themselves. Especially people who get in my way. But despite that, I still have to know.  Who are you? And don’t think I’m asking because I want to know because I don’t. It’s them that’ll want to know who almost ruined our mission. You’re not nearly as interesting as you think you are.”

“No one.”

Eyeing her clothes suspiciously, she said, “Fine, then. Who were you?”

“I was…” she looked up at the twinkling web of crystal stars. “I was one of those,” motioning to them.

The captor blinked. “Excuse me?”

 Cassandra ignored her and continued. “I was one of those. Admired, polished, untouchable…an ornament,” she sighed. “Yes, that’s what I really was. An ornament. That’s the role of a daughter of an Icenian Lord. Even more when that lord is Lord Erlington of the Ashiran province.”

They sat quietly. It was the first time her captor was without a snappy reply.

 “You’re Cassandra Erlington.” she whispered solemnly, her sloe eyes wide “It appears I was wrong about you all along.”

Cassandra’s head snapped up in surprise. She smiled a half smile. Could she really come to an understanding with this woman?

“You’re not a princess at all. You’re a duchess. Disappointments.”

Or maybe not. Cassandra reeled. “Look, I told you who I am? What do you want from me? Why did you bring me here?”

The captor stoked the fire. “Oh no, I call the shots, duchess and I’m not done yet. Cassandra Erl – you – were supposed to be sent off to court more than a fortnight ago, to the Palace of King Ronstand. They made the grandest of ceremonies for your departure, and “Cassandra” boarded the carrier for all to see. Yet you are here. Explain.”

Cassandra blinked “They did? They…had a ceremony. I suppose my father has to keep his image in tact. Who you probably saw was-”

“I didn’t see anyone.” she interrupted, “I don’t waste my time watching the frivolous celebration of the elite.”

Cassandra glared and spoke slowly and clearly. “Fine. Whoever was watching probably saw Maria, one of the maids. She has similar coloring to mine.” She paused. “Do you believe me?”

Her captor nodded. “Yes. Who else could you be? A maid like Maria who stole royal clothes (tattered as they are) and starts wandering around the market in them? No. You’re Duchess Cassandra alright. You know, there are many people who would love to take advantage of this. The damage to Lord Erling-”

“You don’t understand. I don’t care what happens to him. He’s the reason why I ran.”

“Ooh, cryptic. Look princess, my patience is wearing thin.” She looked up at the sky, “They will be returning soon and trust me you don’t want them interrogating you.”

 Cassandra hesitated. She had not thought about that. The resistance, they were dangerous. She may as well tell this girl something. It may help her.

“It happened three weeks ago, as you can guess. I was out…riding in my carriage. You know the one with in green with silver-”

“Tell the story, princess.”

 “I was with my nurse, Shlita. I wanted to shop the market for fabrics. A new dress was to be made, after all, I was headed off to court soon.” She laughed darkly at the irony, “The carriage stopped and as I stepped out, a man was there. One of the Ashira, aged maybe fifty years, haggard in appearance and frantic in countenance…with wood-brown eyes.”Cassandra’s voice cracked. “He bowed to me, as custom, but he scrambled toward me just upon doing so and wrapped his arms around my neck. Shocked and afraid I screamed. But he was not attacking me, he was embracing me. My personal guard, Karim, flung him off me and threw him to the ground. By this time, all the guards in the market had come and began to bind his arms. He struggled immensely but was no match. And so strange to me, then as they hauled him away, he screamed ‘You are my niece! Believe me! Free us! For your mother, free us!’ I assumed he was insane. But upon seeing Shlita’s face as I reentered the carriage, I noticed she was white. Whiter than I was, whiter than the ivory trunk of an elephant! And an Ashira woman at that! I had never seen anything stir her. I asked her if she had known that man and she did not answer. But the look she gave me was one of great fear. Later that night, in my bedroom she came to prepare my bed pan and as she folded the covers over me, I felt a piece of folded parchment slipped between the sheets. She did not acknowledge it and said nothing though surely she was the one who put it there. I said nothing either and opened it late into the night, once everyone was asleep, and read it by candle light. I memorized its contents. It read:

Lady Cassandra, there is something I have known which I have kept secret from you for a long time. Being a servant, one learns things, even things they wish were beyond their knowledge. This is one of those things. But you must know. It is unfair that you should be ignorant of the truth. Raising you as if my own child, I care greatly for your safety and I am risking my own in telling you this now. Your mother, Cassandra, I am very sorry to tell you is not Lady Erlington. Your mother is of my kind, Ashira. She was a beautiful, strong, woman and you would have been proud to be her daughter. I knew her very well, as she worked in this very household. However, your father, Lord Erlington, found her very beautiful as well. And he forced her, until she was begot with child. You. On your birth, your father wished to see you, but she would not allow it. She screamed and vowed that he would never touch you. She attempted to run away from the house with you, but she was captured. Lord Erlington was so mad with anger he had her killed. He was set on killing you as well, but on seeing you, his own flesh and blood, he loved you instantly. You see, Cassandra, Lady Erlington is barren. The Lord was enraged when he first found out, but to stay respectable, marriage remains sacred. You were his only chance at a legacy. I am so sorry Cassandra. I believe that man today in the market to be your mother’s brother, Aashish. Forgive me, Cassandra. But you must know.”

By the time she had finished, her face was blotchy and tears stung her eyes. She whispered, her voice choked, “After I ran, I inquired on the street about the man Aashish. When he was taken away, no one ever saw him again. They killed him. He was my uncle. And they killed him. They knew…they all knew.”

“You believed what the letter had said, so easily?” her captor inquired. His smile had vanished, whatever he thought was so amusing before had now escaped him.

“Yes. This may sound strange but the moment I read it, I knew it was true. Everything makes sense. Why my moth-Lady Erlington never had any other children, why my father was always so easily angered by her, and why she was always so easily angered by me. I thought it was proper for girls to grow up hardly knowing their mothers. I was raised by Shlita. But now I know why. The Lady did not even stand the sight of me let alone love me. No, love always came from my father. I find him disgusting now.”

“But you do not look-“

“Yes, I thought about that. But then I really thought about it. No one in my…family… has my eyes, see? And I’ve always thought it strange that my pale skin should tan so easily, when others I know acquire terrible burns and turn stark red. But it is clear that my traits are dominantly Icenian, which is reason for Lord Erlington keeping me as his own.”

“You hate him now?” she suddenly became alerted to his presence again. She had been wondering. There was an unexpected eagerness in his face.

“He’s a murderer. He murdered my mother!” she snarled.

“Then you were wrong both times,” his face solemn. She stared back, her golden eyes confused and angry.

“What are you talking about?”

“That bullet was not meant for you or the old man. It is meant for your father.”

Chapter 4: Decisions

The cries of several men tore through the silence of the desert. Alarmed, Cassandra scanned the horizon to find scattered orange orbs of light floating across the dunes. Torches, at least a dozen.  The Resistance was returning. The young man jumped to his feet muttering wildly. More whoops and cries sounded in the darkness, followed by the odd, padded sound of horse hooves on sand. Cassandra resisted the urge to jump up and hide herself. Instead, she spoke to him, “It appears they have been victorious.”

He hastily gathered up braids of rope laying from the other side of the fire. “Yes…yes…good spirits.” His gaze fell on her. “Nevertheless…Come with me.” She struggled to stand with her hands still bound around her back but he grabbed her shoulder. “Quickly! Follow now!” Sprinting as well as she could with no arms, he led her back behind the shelters into a lush area with leaning palm trees and burbling of clean water. An oasis! Well, now she knew how they were able to live out here for long periods of time. Suddenly, he jerked her hard against one of the palm trees, pushed her to the ground, and loosed the rope around her torso. She winced as the bark scratched her back, making it sting.

“What do you think-“

“Oh, trust me, I am doing this for your own good.” He said this as he finished knotting the rope behind the trunk. “Now don’t…Oh wait.” Cassandra rolled her eyes. He tore a piece of cloth from his sleeve and proceeded to gag her with it. “Much better. And this is for your own protection. And you may want to die, but my people are used to worse things and some of them are not shy about afflicting them.”  And with that he was gone.

It only took a few seconds of staring into the musky black of the forest for Cassandra to realize that it was most likely not as empty as it appeared and being restrained as she was on edge of its abyss was not an ideal place to be.  The discordant sounds of insects and whatever other animals rose into the night air, rejoicing in their freedom from the glaring sun. Resisting the urge to scream in frustration, she fiercely scratched the rope against the bark that had so easily pierced her own back before, but thick braids proved too strong. Cassandra sighed, even if her efforts succeeded she was not sure what she would do upon escape. Where could she go? Even if she did manage to steal a horse, she would surely meet her death wandering in the desert. But isn’t that what you wanted all along? A mocking voice sneered. Telling her life’s story to this…this boy had made her feel so incredibly stupid and childish. What had once seemed so noble and tragic now just seemed selfish and melodramatic. At least she had conquered fear of death, she thought to herself. Cassandra shivered and began to miss the fire. Maybe she was wrong. She had not feared death any less, but merely feared life even more. I am pathetic. But before she could continue to ponder this, a violent rustle of a bush behind her warned her she was not alone. 

Cassandra stiffened, her back like a board against the palm tree. “Aden, by God what is it that…Oh dear lord…” a voice emerged from the darkness, high in pitch but worn with age.

And then one Cassandra had heard before, “Uncle, please. Come around.” Amidst the black, the first thing Cassandra made out was a mass of thick, ivory locks cascading down in heavy beard. The rest of the man called Uncle, was disguised by the cover of night.

“What on earth, Aden, have you done?” spoke the floating beard. Beside it, Cassandra could make out the faint presence of her captor. She squealed angrily as best she could with the bundle of cloth bunched in her throat. The beard grunted surprise and unhappiness. Cassandra could see nothing, but she could feel the glare her captor must have been stinging her with. He turned his head, his quiet voice sounded strained and urgent.

“Please Uncle, let me explain. This is Cassandra Erlington. You would not believe what she has told me…She can be of great use to us.”

“Aden, how could you? The danger of-”

“You don’t understand! She believes she is one of us!”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“But you don’t know!”

“None of it matters! Do you understand what kind of damage this will cause!”

Somehow the noises of the night had been engulfed by silence. That familiar voice once again emerged from the black, soft but resolute.

“I believe she may be the one we have been waiting for. With her, the Resistance can have the advantage for once.” A long silence followed.

“Aden, even if that is true, no matter what you tell them, they will see her name, not reason.”

“Then I will make them see reason!”

“They want revenge!”

“So do I!”

“They’ll kill her!”

Cassandra’s heart stopped in spite of herself. Yes, perhaps you still have a ways to go on conquering that fear of death, she thought grimly. She looked toward the voice that had just spoken. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dark and she could make out the outline of an old man behind that beard and a set of twinkling black eyes trained right on her. “They’ll kill her,” the voice whispered. “They’ll kill her and worse.”

Cassandra closed her eyes and released a staggered breath. No, life doesn’t seem so great right now either.

My hand twitched a little. This distracted me from my thoughts for a moment. I then realised that I had been sitting on a sofa in my living room for hours, thinking. The room was quiet and dreary. I pressed a random button on my phone to view the time. It was almost five in the evening. My husband would be home at any minute from work. It did not affect my mood though. I remained seated, staring emotionlessly at a painting on the wall. I heard his car pulling into the driveway. Part of me was urging me to stay seated, for I had found comfort in just sitting and doing nothing but think. I was not done yet. I had to get up though. Walter expected me to be in the kitchen, holding his dinner, awaiting his tall, dark figure, to walk through the kitchen door. After all, I was nothing but a housewife. My duty was to cook, clean and eat…he made that pretty clear, countless of times. It seems like only a minute ago, when I met Walter. I thought I knew what love meant. He was such a gentleman. He loved me back, and treated me with respect, like…like I was the only woman to ever grace his world. He told me that I was the most beautiful woman in the world. He loved my daughter too. I never thought a man such as him existed. A man who could love another man’s child and treat her like a princess; give her a father figure. When we got married, he promised to take care of us and he suggested I leave work to take on the full role as a mother for my daughter. She was five. I found him irresistible. His warm bearded face and his warm lips which seemed to produce only the right words just for me. I loved him. That was ten years ago. Everything was routine now. He went to work and left me at home to attend to household matters. He barely looks at me, or holds me like he used to. That sparkle in his eyes that he used to have when he saw me, has faded. I am his maid. I cook, I clean and I eat. The only other things I do are to shop and to fetch my daughter from school if she needs me. The only ‘me time’ I have is going to church on Sundays. That’s if he allows me anyway. I don’t understand how things flipped over for the worse. I don’t understand how I fooled myself into marrying such a controlling monster. I should have seen the signs before hand; it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have left work when he asked me to. He met me when I was independent and a single mother. I should have kept the same persona, instead of weakening to his charm. Just a few months ago, I discovered a chain of his mistresses. He told me his personal life did not concern me; that it did not matter what I thought because I was just an accessory. Accessories are there to decorate and remain quiet. He said that, right after bruising my cheek with a punch. I should have left him then but…where would I go? What would I give my daughter? I have after all been out of work for almost a decade. How would I maintain my child’s education, her private school with a low earning job? I had to think about it first; I had to stay. I have sacrificed a lot my whole entire life, and the only thing I’ve hoped to come of it was liberty. I too had a stepfather. He was a strict man. He used to discipline me, every time he came back home from work provoked by something. When I was in my early teens, he molested me occasionally. I couldn’t tell my mother that…oh no. She treated him like God. She would have never believed me if I told her the truth. When I was eighteen, I left my mother and her husband to carry on with life as they wished. That is not important anymore. That is my past. This morning though, my daughter dawned on me a truth I have let my thoughts fear to even think about. He has touched my own daughter. He has touched my dear little fifteen year old right under my nose. She said, “Every time you go to church on Sunday, since the beginning of last month, dad-, he’s been molesting me, ma.” I did not need to hear anymore. I felt a strange numbness fill my whole body. I felt a ray of darkness, shadow the light in my thoughts. I let her go to school but my body felt like holding onto her tightly and never letting go of her. A smart woman would go to the police and report him, but then what? I was only good for being an obedient housewife. I tried turning to some of his prized alcohol, but I don’t drink. I feel absolutely disgusted; by myself. I was supposed to be protecting my own daughter…from the world, and he promised to help me. Then it hit me. If I suddenly died, my daughter would be left in his custody. He would be free to treat her like he wanted. I watched his shadow closing in at the kitchen entrance and I swallowed hard. Walter walked in and dropped his suitcase on the floor like usual. He rubbed his hands together and started to talk. “So, what will I be having today? Did you roast the chicken like I asked you to?” he said. He walked over to the fridge and opened a can of beer. I remained quiet. My frail figure was resting on the counter, my mind drifting in between thoughts. My hair was tied up into a bun. He said he didn’t want hair dangling over his food when I was cooking. He took a long drink from his beer. “Phew, it was really hot today, did you feel it? I hope it rains or something tomorrow becau-.” I cut him short. “So that’s what our marriage has come to, talking about the weather. You walk in here and you don’t feel the urge to greet me or ask me how my day was. All you care about is your food.” He chuckled. “Miriam, what’s the point of asking you about your day? You’re only going to tell me about ironing all day and cleaning the toilets. There are more pressing issues in the world like children starving in the streets that need more attention.” He took another sip of his drink and then placed the can on the counter next to me. “I’ll tell you one thing though, you really look like crap these days, and I thought I give you money to spend on yourself. Why don’t you go to one of those women’s beauty shops and get yourself sorted. I don’t want my business partners to see you and wonder why my wife looks like crap. Throw that can away and bring me my roasted chicken, I’m starving.” I took in deep consecutive breaths and screamed out my husband’s name. “Walter!” He stopped and looked back at me. “What now? Are you insane Miriam, screaming out my name like that?” My face welled up with hot tears. I made sure to keep a stern expression though. “You will never touch my daughter again, do you hear me?” my breathing rate increased. I felt the adrenalin kicking into my system. My hands were shaking; it was from the rage I felt. “My daughter told me everything and I want a divorce. I want a divorce and I want it now.” He laughed hysterically. “You can be funny sometimes you know that? Miriam, you are an intelligent woman, and you and I both know you cannot divorce me. Where will you go? No one will hire you or even consider you looking like that. Now, bring me my food and I will take my seat, alright. Do what you are good at and stop all that nonsense.” “No.” “What?” “No, I will not allow it. I will allow it any longer. Not my daughter, not my innocent child!” “Miriam, I’m losing patience here.” He walked over towards where I was standing. “Where’s my food?” “Why don’t you ask your mistresses where it is?” Walter got closer, back slapped me and I fell to the ground. “Don’t ever give me that back talk again!” I tasted blood. I got up feeling a bit dizzy. Either way, I charged towards Walter and slapped him back. He retaliated with a punch to my nose and began strangling me. My eyes grew wide as I struggled to leave his strong hold. Eventually he let go and spit on me. “You like making me angry don’t you? I will kill you one day. Now, I won’t say this again, get me my food! I’m starting to lose my appetite.” He screamed. He was a little out of breath. I picked myself from the ground after frantically coughing from being choked. “As you wish,” I said. I walked over to the kitchen counter and opened a drawer and grabbed a carving knife for the chicken. I opened the microwave and took a tray with a roasted whole chicken. I walked to where Walter was sitting and placed it in front of him. “Was that so hard? Now, carve me a piece.” I got hold of the knife. Everything that happened after that happened without intension. I had not been thinking at all when I stuck the knife into Walter’s neck. I was also not thinking when I watched him slumping to the floor, and the floor suddenly spreading with blood. I was in another world, a world where reasoning dissolved and everything happened for the sole purpose of happening. A world where it felt good, watching my demon, losing life on the floor. A world here I was in control. My daughter then walked into the kitchen. She was from school. She found her stepfather, who had bled to death, on the floor and me, her mother leaning against the counter, looking at Walter without any emotion. I heard her scream. That was expected of her. I raised my eyes for a while and saw fear in her eyes, but I could not contemplate fear in mine. I was angry and vengeful. My eyes softly rested back onto my lifeless husband. “Mom, what did you-?” she put her hand over her mouth. “Is he dead, he’s dead isn’t he?” “Call the police,” I said without once taking her eyes away from the body. “Mother,” she cried. Tears had already dressed her face. “Diane, call the police…I am a murderer,” I said, choking on the tears I had tried so hard to bury. “It’s over, he can’t hurt you anymore.” Diane shook her head in disbelief. “No, mom I will not let you go to prison for this man.” “I killed him, there is no other way.” Diane sat on the dining table next to his body and cried for a while. Tears were flowing from my eyes, but I insist, I felt no emotion or remorse. A little voice was screaming in my head, telling him to die. “Yes, yes there is a way.” My daughter got up from her seat and leaned against a wall, her arms akimbo. “I will- I will get a shovel,” she said. “The builders are coming tomorrow to lay the foundation of the new garage outside. That’s where we’ll bury him.” My eyes shifted to my daughter’s. “Diane, wha-?” “Don’t worry mom. Just-just get some cloth or whatever and wrap him up. We need to move,” she said while throwing paper towels over the blood on the floor. “We will be fine, I promise you. It’s my turn to protect you.” I shifted my blank expression to my daughter’s idea. I still felt numb all over, but that would have to wait. “Okay, I will get a sheet from the guest bedroom.”

I’m going to try a not be cliché while telling my story. This isn’t your typical scary story; there is only one part of this story that’s really scary, the rest is just suspense that is supposed to be scary.  This story didn’t start on a dark and stormy night. It actually all began on a relatively sunny day.

 First, let me begin with a little background on myself, my names is Delilah Rose Crenshaw and I’m fifteen years old. I live in a really small town right outside of Coshocton, Ohio; called Newcomerstown. Ironically, this town hasn’t had any newcomers since 1908 (this was the first question I asked when I moved here), and that’s when the town was “booming”. Unfortunately, my parents are VERY eco-friendly and they wanted to get away from all the “luxuries” of the city life, so we moved ALL the way from Berkeley, California to Newcomerstown, Ohio. This is where my story begins; it all began when I was unpacking my things and moving them into my new room.

“DELILAH ROSE!” my mom yelled, “YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM SOMETIME!” Sitting, I listened to my iPod pretending I couldn’t hear her. I wasn’t really in the mood for talking, or even reasoning with my mom at this point. She was the main reason for us leaving my home of fifteen years Berkeley, CA, to come to Newcomerstown. I was thinking, okay maybe we’re getting one of those Smart Cars or something like that, but NO, we had to move to dusty, country, ugly, Newcomerstown, OH. While I was getting lost into my thoughts, my mom was softly knocking on my door. “Delilah, sweetheart, I know you’re not happy about the move, but please get out of that stuffy room. If you do, we can go school shopping.”

I completely forgot about starting a new high school! This should be an interesting experience. “Sure mom, I’ll come out and go shopping with you.”

“Thank goodness! I was hoping you would come out soon.” She exclaimed.

“Yea, uh huh, let’s just get to this mall, fast so I can get back to my room.” I said. I knew the shopping wasn’t going to be as good as California, but hopefully they at least had a Gap.

We began driving, but there wasn’t any mall in sight. I was beginning to get a really bad feeling about this whole “Shopping Extravaganza.” The only store we’ve seen has been a dollar store. Finally, after driving all around town, we found a grocery store. I went inside to see if they knew where the nearest mall was.

“Excuse me; do you know where the nearest shopping mall is?” I asked. The cashier just looked at me with a blank stare and before I knew it, he was busting out laughing. I mean what could be SO funny about a simple question? Once he was done having his laughing seizure he answered my question.

“Ma’am, the nearest shopping mall is in Columbus, and that’s about three hours away. Most of us around here shop at the local Wal-Mart. That’s right down the road.” He said.

I looked at his nametag and it said James. “Well James, are you sure that Wal-Mart is the ONLY place to go shopping in this town?!”

“Yes, I’ve lived here my whole life and that’s the closest thing we’ve gotten to a mall as long as sixteen years.”

“Well thanks for your help.” I briskly walked out of the grocery store and walked towards our car. I couldn’t believe what that boy had just told me! WAL-MART!?!?! I mean I’m not really that high-maintenance or anything, but I have a SERIOUS problem shopping at the same place I can by my groceries, toys, and get a flu shot. That’s some serious one stop shopping. Thank goodness, I didn’t really need any new clothes. Just because I lived in Newcomerstown didn’t mean I was from there.

Once we got home, I decided to call it an early night and get some rest before the first day of school. It had been a long day, and I needed a break from all the newness of Newcomerstown.

The next morning, my mom came in at 5:00am. It felt like 2:00am for me, because I was still really jetlagged. Me + Early Morning + No Starbucks = Cranky Delilah. I was not excited about going to this new school, but hopefully there would be at least ONE person who could relate to me. Eyes drooping, feet dragging, I eventually made it out of the house looking half- way decent.

“So Delilah, are you excited for your first day at Newcomerstown High?” Mom asked.

“Well mom, not to rain on your sunshine or anything, but No, I’m not excited at all.” With that, I put my hood over my head and tried to get some more sleep before I got to the dreadful Newcomerstown High.

Well pulled into the “parking lot”. I guess it was supposed to be a parking lot, I mean it was just a big, dusty, barren, lot. Anyway, I walked into the front entrance of the school. Surprisingly, it looked pretty normal. Just like one of those high schools you see in one of those old time horror movies. Not that it was scary, but it looked like the building had a few secrets, just like the whole town and the people in it.

My mom and I walked to the admissions office and something just didn’t seem right. Usually at seven in the morning, I’m not that observant, but on this particular morning, I was noticing the smallest things. Like how the woman at the desks skin just seemed like it wanted to peel off. I mean hadn’t she ever heard of sun screen? After they were finishing getting me registered, the woman from the front desk walked me to my first class. The woman was just staring at me, and then she said the oddest thing:

“Why what nice skin you have. Make sure you cover it up, some of the kids might get jealous, and we don’t want that now do we?”

“Um, sure, I mean of course not.” I mumbled. I’m used to random old women saying things to me, but this I’ll have to admit was the oddest. Mind wandering, I walked into the classroom, dazed and confused. I was greeted by the cashier boy from the grocery store; James. He looked startled, probably surprised that I’m still in this town considering there’s no mall. I walked up to the desk in front considering we had a little history. I was expecting him to start up some sort of small talk, but that didn’t happen. So I thought I should initiate it.

“Hey, so does school always start this early or what? If so, I’m going to need someone to build a Starbucks soon!” I began to laugh at my own joke, but I noticed James wasn’t laughing; he wasn’t even looking at me. All he was looking at was the teacher talking at the front of the class.

“No time for laughing now, the teacher is talking about the ceremonial bonfire tonight.” He said robotically. “After the teacher is done, I will talk.”

“Oh okay, that works. I have no problem with kids who pay attention in class; I’m down with the cause!” I said. He just stared at me, not like I “you’re annoying stare” but like “Save yourself” stare. This town and the people in it just got stranger and stranger.

I finally turned around to try and pay attention to what the teacher was talking about. After a few minutes of being confused I figured it out. Tonight there was going to be a HUGE bonfire, it was a big ceremony for something, I’m not exactly sure what but it seemed like a pretty big deal considering it caught the attention of the whole class. Once the teacher was done talking everyone began to get up and walk out the class. James began to walk ahead of me but I caught up with him, I had to know why he was looking at me like he needed some serious help, but I was going to be real subtle about it.

I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey James, so what’s this big bonfire about?” I asked.

He turned around a little surprised I had the guts to talk to him again, but he responded. “Follow me.” He led me to this small closet that seemed like a janitor’s closet. “You can’t let anyone know that you know what I’m about to tell you, but if you want to save yourself and your family you better do everything that I say.”

“Excuse me?!?! I don’t take well to threats, so I suggest you let me out of this closet and if not you’re going to regret it.”

“No, I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to help you, but you have to trust me.” He said.

“Why should I trust you? I just met you!” I exclaimed, I was not about to let some random boy tell me what I was about to do and not do!

“I’m the only one in Newcomerstown who isn’t out to get you and your family.” He said.

“Wait, what? Out to get me and my family? What do you know about me and my family?”

“More than you think. That’s not the point; Newcomerstown is under what I would call a fog. We’ve been under a fog since 1908. The “kids” that you see in this school have been the same age since 1908. Now in 2008 it’s our 100^th anniversary, and every a hundred years when a newcomer comes to this town we have a “bonfire” basically killing off any newcomers. Killing off newcomers gives us another hundred years of youth.”

“Okay hold on a minute, this is A LOT to digest. If this is all true, why are you helping me?”

“I’m helping you, because I believe that people should live for a certain amount of time, and then die. That’s the way life works.” He said.

“Okay, so what do I need to do to save me and my family’s life?” Before James could answer there was a big bang on the door.

“Duck down, I’ll handle this, make sure you can’t be seen.” He began to open the door. “How may I help you Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

“What are you doing in the janitor’s closet James?” The teacher said.

“I was just fixing things in here, I was just leaving.”

“Okay, well make sure you hurry to class.”

“All right I will.” James said. The teacher left and James pulled me out of my hiding place. “That was a close call. Anyway, back to business, make sure you go to every one of your classes so they don’t suspect that you know anything. Then after school I’ll meet you at your house and I’ll get you and your family out of Newcomerstown before the bonfire.”

            “Thank you so much James, this means a lot to me and my family.” I said.

            “You’re welcome, just don’t forget the plan, okay?” and with that he was out of the janitor’s closet as swiftly as he had come in. I began to walk to my next class, still in awe about what I just heard.

            Before I knew it, the day was over and I had to run home as quickly as possible to tell my parents the plan. I arrived home right on time. I walked into the kitchen and there was my mom lying on the kitchen floor, wounded.                                                                                    

“Delilah, I know about the curse, they’ve already gotten to me and your father, you need to get out of here now before they come and get you to.” Those were my mother’s last words. I had no time to cry, my mother and father were dead, and I had to get out of here fast. I had no time to wait on James; I had to take matters into my own hands.

I grabbed all the belongings that I could and my mom’s car keys. I was headed to the car when I saw a shadow behind me. Palms sweating, hands shaking, knees knocking, I had no idea what to do, so I ran. By now the person who was following wasn’t hiding anymore and was out to get me at full speed. My idea was to run around the house and try and make it back to the car, so I ran my fastest. Until I got to the car, I stopped dead in my tracks. The car was surrounded by my “classmates.” I had no where to go, this was the end, they all started coming at me with there hands just waiting to grab me and then…

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!!! My alarm clock went off; I couldn’t believe that I had dreamed that whole thing! That was the most vivid dream I had ever had. I knew it was a dream, because I was back in my comfy, cozy, house in Berkeley. I walked downstairs into the kitchen and there was mom drinking her coffee and dad reading the paper. Things were back to normal, no Newcomerstown, no James, nothing!

“Good morning mother!” I said.

“Good morning Delilah Rose. Me and your father have something to tell you.”

“Okay, what’s up?”

“We’re moving to Newcomerstown, Ohio…”

THE END

Sleep evades me
as I replay the conversation
we had that night.

It replays over and over
like an old broken record,
killing my sanity,
and opening the floodgates
of long-lost emotions.

Thus creating a tsunami
of loss, and dread,
nearly drowning my overwhelmed mind.

My hands begin to shake
as the words hit me
like a punch in the gut,
for the thousandth time.
I hear the words rewinding,
and playing over and over
in my mind.

You said,
“I want to die.”

“You can’t leave me.”
The words dripped
from my mouth,
like a leaky faucet
just waiting to pour out
the emotions contained within.

I knew the words
made no difference.
Saving you, was like
fighting off hundreds of soldiers
with a single feather.

Regardless, I tried,
and for a while
I thought I’d won.

“Things are better.”
You’d say, with a smile
that never touched your eyes.
Even so, I believed you.

Eyes…

I miss your eyes,
the way I always got lost
in their endless ebony.
The way the moonlight danced across them
in the darkness.
But now your eyes
are eternally closed,
and mine are always
threatening to spill over.

Why couldn’t things get better?
I know you tried to help yourself,
whether it was the wrong way
or not.

First with cigarettes,
then with alcohol,
and finally you chose drugs.

But is that really a good reason
to live for?

To suck in more toxins,
to drown in one more drink,
to eventually die of
‘natural’ causes?

At least you didn’t suffer,
I hated watching that.

Watching you slowly
blow out the candle
of you existence.

You knew the things you did
could get you killed,
and now I know
you welcomed death
with open arms.

They didn’t kill you though,
you lived through it all.
The drunk driving,
extreme liver damage,
the threat of cancer.

I stayed with you,
to protect you,
but I quit
when you almost got me killed.

I worried so much about you,
you were the sun,
and I was the moon.
My life revolved around you,
but now my sun has blacked out,
leaving me alone in this empty void
of darkness.

I miss your warmth,
the simple embraces,
the smoothness of your lips
brushing mine.

If only I didn’t have to suffer
with the memories.
If only they could cast an enchantment
to erase the bond between us.

I wish you would have
taken me with you,
aimed the gun at me first.

I remember finding you,
seeing all the blood.
Trying to save
your lifeless body.

I remember how your blood,
stained my hands and lips,
as I tried to revive you.

How could you do that to me?

I remember putting on that black dress,
and walking down the aisle.
Wasn’t the dress
supposed to be white?

And the song,
it was so similar to here comes the bride.

The last words I said,
ring in my ears
to this day.
The only words when they took your body away
in a cold casket.

I love you.

The Highlands, Scotland 1190






Harlana Galbraith stood solemnly in the castle’s solar. She leaned on the stone wall, slightly gazing out the opened window. The sky was gray and it matched, equally, the deep, burdening sorrow of the village people, unfortunate enough to be born into Clan Galbraith, which had such a tyrant of a laird. Although, the people seemed like none could be hurt worse than them, Harlana was, and most of the time, hurt for them, to protect them.

What fool she was; being drawn into the traps of her laird before she was wed to him. Originally, Harlana was from the MacEwen Clan, born to the greedy brother of the MacEwen laird, Edward and his equally greedy wife, Kara. They had forced her to wed the Galbraith laird.

Harlana thought she loved her laird and he loved her as well, but when they wed, shortly Harlana knew what kind of man he truly was, not a kind and gentile man, but a savage, ruthless, cruel man. Fool she was indeed; a little lovesick fool.

She was fool to give her heart to any man. Harlana had vowed, soon after she discovered what kind of man he truly was, to not love another man, no matter what they seemed to be on the outside, for on the inside, they were all the same. They were all the same cruel, monstrous, merciless to the heart. And especially, were these Scottish men.

Now, this time was before the Scottish William Wallace who started a rebellion against the English king so Scotland could be free, all because of one Englishman who murdered his wife. If this was during or after the time of William Wallace, Harlana would believe in such a thing, for how could one not believe that man does not love woman and that they are all self-serving people, when this man led his people against the English because of his wife’s death?

Harlana’s uncle knew of her plight, and did all in his power to save her, for he loved her a great deal, and she him. They had the father and daughter relationship Harlana vied from her own father when she was a child. Her uncle’s will to aid her in this terrible matter brought him to his death, to be murdered in cold blood by his own brother.

After Harlana’s uncle’s death, by rite of inheritance, Edward then became laird of Clan Galbraith, for her uncle had no wife, nor any legitimate heirs, although he had plenty illegitimate ones. Also, with his death, brought Harlana no aid, and all hope for her was lost, and so she must endure it.

She did, however, have knights in her service, who sworn to her fealty long ago, when she was of the age of twelve, a year before she had wed the Galbraith laird. Now, Harlana was on the verge of turning sixteen. Harlana had more than just ordinary knights, she had the Knights Templar.

Harlana had five Templars in her service: Gregory, Charles, Robert, Richard, and John. Even they cannot help her, for they were busy rotting in the laird’s dungeons. They, the most powerful group of people alive, were outwitted by a very cunning Scot.

Harlana had endured in the laird’s evil clutches for three years, along with her three year old son, Gawaine, who was conceived soon after Clan Galbraith’s laird and Harlana had wed. She cared for Gawaine a great deal, and she feared for him more than cared for him.

Not only is it the natural fear of motherly love in the times that they lived, but it was fear from Gawaine being his father’s son. She feared for him for his father was a possessive man who was always jealous of Harlana’s affections for others who was not him. Harlana never showed any form of affection for him, she openly showed her hatred for him. This brought on even more the always present anger from her father.

Harlana did not care. Openly, in front of Edward, Harlana denounced him, Kara, her husband, and all Scottish men. Then she spat in his face. This, earned her a beating from Edward and the Galbraith laird. That happened a year past and Harlana still denounced all. She did not care. She ceased to care for anything, save for Gawaine.

Harlana’s gaze turned to Gawaine playing near the blacksmith with other unfortunate children. The blacksmith, Thomas, was trying to show the children his trade. Gawaine had been fond of the art of weaponry since he could utter a single sound. She smiled, at least she could get some form of happiness and peace from her little son.

Harlana heard familiar footsteps in the hall. They ceased and turned back. Harlana’s heart lurched toward her throat. Familiar pangs of panic, fear, anger, and sadness ran throughout her. Clan Galbraith’s laird entered the solar.

Harlana tilted her head sideways to have a look at him. He wore all black, as he always did. He had cold black eyes that pierced her soul and sent shivers down her spine. She fell even deeper in the all to familiar panic.

Only once had she seen those eyes with warmth. She had seen warmth and affection in them the days before they were wed. The warmth and affection was nothing more than a ploy. A cunningly perfectly thought out ploy to get what he wanted most, Harlana.

He was the most falsest man that had ever lived. Harlana wished with all her heart that he would pay dearly with all the wrongs he had committed by a horrible death. What Harlana didn’t know was that the Galbraith laird would pay by death soon.

She watched him slide into a chair near the hearth. She returned her gaze to Gawaine at his merry jest. Minutes passed in silence and Harlana felt his cold eyes on her.

Her panic rose to its peak. Not knowing his intent was gnawing at her. She was unable to bear it any longer and started for the door to the solar. The laird immediately stood and blocked her path. He grabbed her wrist and used his free hand to stroke her cheek. It took everything in her power to not spit in his face.

He tried to kiss her but she pushed herself away while prying at his grip. Again, she started for the door, but this time he slammed it shut. The Galbraith laird then grabbed her waist hard enough that she thought she would be rendered unconscious.

He pulled her to him and whispered in her ear, “Why do ye try to leave me, Harlana? I wish to be with ye, my beautiful wife, and that, I intend to do.” He kissed her then and sat back down where he previously sat next to the hearth, placing Harlana in his lap. His grip tightened and he kissed her again. He whispered in her ear, “Ye are mine and mine only. Dare ye not ever to forget it, wife.”









Nottinghamshire, England 1190




Robin of Loxley stood with Little John just outside the gates of Nottingham Castle. It was night and they were awaiting what news Marian, Robin’s wife in secret had. She was late that evening, and Robin and Little John could not help but wonder why.

“Where is the Lady Marian?” Little John asked anxiously.

Robin looked over at his friend. Despite his name, Little John was not so little, in fact, he was a good six feet tall. His actual name was John Little. The only reason Robin could think of for the reason he became known as Little John that the tales of Robin Hood that spread throughout England mixed his name up. The tales of him and his men greatly marveled Robin.

The former Earl of Loxley and the now outlaw replied, “I do not know John. Marian should be here soon, as she always is.” Someone then bumped into Robin. He turned and saw it was Much. “Much…”

Much’s face turned pale and his eyes grew wide. He pointed to a window. “Uh, Robin.”

Robin turned then. What he saw shocked the three of them; Guy of Gisborne ran Marian through with his sword.















The Highlands, Scotland 1190




Harlana started to panic. Gawaine had angered the Galbraith laird. He was now his most dangerous, his murderous self.

In the laird of Clan Galbraith’s mind, he was to remove the cause of his anger so everything would be fine for him and his vengeance would be had. In this moment, it was Gawaine who had angered him and so Gawaine must die.

Galbraith’s laird had gone to far this time, to set his sights on murdering his own son, Harlana’s son. Gawaine was Harlana’s only happiness in her life and her laird was plotting to take him away from her. She would not let that happen.

Harlana stormed to the Great Hall where the laird sat with one of his kin. Harlana knew full well what she was going to do. She was to in a fury to care what would happen and what would become of it. She also knew full to well what her husband was going to do, and so she must stop it.

She would not let him harm her son.

She paused near the door. She heard the laird say to his kin, “That lad will pay, Gavin, aye, he will pay and pay dearly for it.”

Harlana’s raged flamed within her anew. She must do what she is to do, and do it quick. She spied a dagger on a small table in a corner. She was so in a fury that her steps resounded throughout the room. Harlana was able to get the dagger in her hands before her laird turned to look at her.

The Galbraith laird turned to Gavin. “Will ye leave me and my wife alone?”

“Aye.” Gavin said as he rose.

“Close it , will ye?”

As soon as the door was closed, Harlana had the dagger at the laird of Clan Galbraith’s throat. “And what do ye plan to do with that?” He asked, mockingly.

“Is it not clear enough?”

“I know full well ye will not do it. Will ye, Harlana?” He tried to rise but sat back down when Harlana pressed the dagger closer to his throat. “Even if ye did, it would bring ye and Gawaine much grievances.”

“They all would be worth it. Every single last grievance,” Harlana sputtered, trying to not fall to the traps of his cunningly wrought voice. “I and Gawaine both have lived by yer cruelness long enough. I have planned this long time past. Only now I decided to act upon it since I know ye plan to murder my Gawaine.”

“Who has ever said I would do such a thing?”

“I know ye full to well for the cruel, evil man that ye are.”

He laughed. “And that lad deserves what I shall do to him, and to ye it seems.”

“Gawaine is but a child, a harmless boy of three years. I will not have ye harm him in any way, nor will I have ye take him from me as ye have taken all I had ever held dear.”

Before he could speak one word, Harlana slit his throat. “O Jesu, Jesu! What had I done?” She cried out.

What had she done?

sit with me and embrace the sun 

let us finish what we’ve begun 

blinding us with all the rays 

we’ll soak them up and talk for days 

the things i want to say to you 

but once they’re said, they won’t come true 

wait with me while the sun goes down 

then let’s go and paint the town 

before we’re done and dawn returns 

squeeze me tight, let your touch burn 

kiss me once, come back for more 

i’ll return it to even the score 

lay with me and stay the night 

the sun will hide your lover’s flight. 

“I have to find it!” I tell myself as I sprint down the stairs, through the hall, and around

the corner into my brother’s room.  “Shoot.” I sigh aloud, “This is going to be harder

than I thought.”

    I know he borrowed my music notebook.  It’s somewhere in here.  Clothes are

scattered everywhere possible.  His chair is drowned in a sea of laundry, throw pillows,

loose-leaf homework papers, random music notes, and on top of  it all is a basketball. 

Really? A basketball.  Who plays basketball in their room?  His dresser is only visible

because of the tall mirror that is protruding from beneath hats, strings, and fabric of all

sorts dangling from the sides.  His dresser is littered with CDs, DVDs, chargers for

various electronic devices (none of which are anywhere in sight) and an empty paper

plate which threatens to topple over the edge to the floor at any moment.  As I pick my

way carefully across the floor, through the pairs of shoes and small bits of trash, I

nearly trip over the backpack slouching against his bed.  “Ah ha!” I sigh and crouch

next to the bag, tugging the zipper open.  Instantly, an explosion of books crumples to

the floor.  Scowling in annoyance, I heave each book on top of the next until they are

all in a neat pile.  Finally, at the bottom of the heap, I find my music notebook.  “It

lives!” I laugh and snatch it from the floor.  As quickly as possible I bound out of the

cluttered room and return to my room upstairs… where it is clean.

           Past events affect the present actions, attitudes, or values of a character in both literature and real life. In Hermann Hesse’s Demian, Emil Sinclair’s life is dramatically influenced by the events and the people he encounters during his youth. Initially, Sinclair was a naïve teenager trapped in his light surroundings; however, he gradually develops into a more mature man searching for nirvana. At the end of the book, Sinclair eventually reaches his nirvana, and no longer needs any guidance from his mentors. Although I have not yet completed my life search like Sinclair, I have taken the first few steps towards the ultimate goal, nirvana.

Sinclair was kept in “a realm of brilliance, clarity, and cleanliness” by his parents and believed that straight lines, such as “duty and guilt, bad conscience and confession, forgiveness and good resolutions, love, reverence, wisdom and the words of the Bible” (Hesse, 3) led into the future. However, his perfectly protected shell of the light side breaks when he lies to Franz Kromer, someone from the dark side. This is Sinclair’s first encounter with the dark side. His innocence is broken, and his emotional sufferings grow to the point of physical pains. However, this leads Sinclair to discover the dichotomy between evil and good, the guilt stage, and most importantly, Demian. He plays the most crucial part in helping Sinclair to reach his nirvana. As a spiritual and intellectual mentor, Demian puts various issues into a new perspective for Sinclair, leading him to question the norm and become more independent. For example, Demian tells the biblical story of Cain and Abel in a different perspective, doubting the typically goodness as the potential evil. Demian also introduces Abraxas and the flying bird image to Sinclair, urging him to move further along his search for nirvana. Sinclair promptly realizes that he will reach nirvana once he seeks out for “the voice within [himself]” and “follow [his] voice blindly wherever it might lead [him]” (Hesse, 82). Pistorius also comes into Sinclair’s life, helping him to further break free from the tight light society. Through the numerous discussions with Pistorius, Sinclair realizes that some people are merely stuck in the guilt stage, living not for the future, but for the past. Lastly, Sinclair meets Frau Eva, Demian’s mother, and plows through the final steps of nirvana. To Sinclair, Frau Eva was a symbol of beauty, love, and perfection. She guides Sinclair to become a man of his own and when they part, he finally reaches his life nirvana. He “beholds [his] own image” and “listens within [himself]” instead of relying his numerous mentors (Hesse, 144).

             Although I doubt my ability to reach nirvana within my lifetime like Sinclair has, I have broken free out of the light side to move towards nirvana. Just like how Sinclair tasted darkness after meeting Franz Kromer, I have unintentionally done “evil” things out of temper and anger. During that stage, I painfully suffered because of the fear of consequences and the penetrating guilt. After the incidents, I always found myself going back to my egg, promising myself that I would never set a foot in the dark side ever again. Now, I see a clear line between evil and good, and I refuse to accept the idea of Abraxas. I constantly fret about world things, trying to change what seems “wrong” and “insufficient”. Part of the reason is because the most influential figures in my life have been confined in their own light sides, rejecting and condemning the dark side. However, if I get a chance to meet a mentor like Demian, someone who embraces both the dark and the light, I believe that I could progress further towards reaching nirvana.

             Emil Sinclair, a previously trapped bird, deserts his egg and flies to the stage of nirvana after he meets Demian, Pistorius, Franz Kromer, and Frau Eva. All of them have ultimately positive effects upon Sinclair’s growth as a man trying to reach nirvana. My life will be just as dramatically affected as Sinclair’s once I get an opportunity to completely abandon the comfortable light side and experience the world outside of my shell.

I knock on the hollow cherry door, competing with the

mangled and duct tape-covered radio.

An orb of fluorescent light

spilling across the picnic-blanket tiled floor.

The sweet-and-sour scent of bleach,

hanging in the air long after it has glided across the floor under the

ratty mop.

My visor fits snug over my slicked-back ponytail

just as it did the last time

and the time before.

Machines hum like sleeping monsters; I am an intruder in their cave.

Icy steam radiates from the silver treasure chests,

containing buckets full of rainbow jewels

smoothed over as a giant hand would smooth mountain slopes.

I take a deep breath…

and slide open the window with a whooshhhhh,

letting in a blast of hot air like opening an oven door,

except instead of a tray of gooey cookies greeting me, its

a demanding customer.

Monsters come to life with a roar,

Jewels fall into greedy hands,

Raining sprinkles embellish a simple vanilla cone as a sparkly crystal necklace

decorates an otherwise

naked white dress.

Beep beepbeep beep.

Chingggggggg.

I spilled glitter

On my pearly shag rug

In the living room

And as the golden afternoon light

Streamed

Through my cracked blinds

I stood over my shag rug

Contemplating if I should try

To pluck out

The little mirrors

Nuzzled happily in the soft fibers

I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

And I thought of you.