“Hellooo, Earth to Georgia Lynn,” Louise waves her hand, palm out, in my face, in the present. “What’s going on in there? Did you hear a word I said?”

I smile, taking a moment to pull the most recent recording from the files of my brain. “He had the tree lit with fake candles so it wouldn’t catch on fire, got down on one knee, and said – “

“—please do me the unfathomable honor of showing the rest of the world how incredibly blessed I am to have found and captivated the other half of my wanderer’s heart. I want to marry you, and spend the rest of my life surrounded by your love and matchless splendor,” Wyatt appears at our door with a hand full of picked mums in warm hues, and a brilliant smile on his handsome face.

I blink, and throw a dramatic hand to my chest. “Oh, Wyatt, this is so sudden! But that was an overwhelmingly beautiful and romantic speech. I will definitely marry you.” I hold out my bare left hand and he kisses it, laughing.

“All seriousness, Wyatt, that was incredible,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he says, taking Louise into his arms. “I’d like to tell you ladies that it was completely spur of the moment, poetry from the heart, but I had practiced it in private for weeks until I got it right.”

Louise looks up at him with incomparable bliss lighting her model gorgeous features, but her eyes take on a teasing glint. “I caught him once, a few days ago. I came into his room to surprise him and heard him – mentally, and verbally – declaring passionate love for himself into his bathroom mirror, and when I walked in… boy, did he ever throw up the mental blocks to keep me away! I tried so hard to get through, but he held his ground so well.”

“When you have a mother who is a reader, you learn a few things about deception and self protection,” Wyatt teases, tapping her button nose with the tip of his index finger.

I smile at the pair, who is as close to perfection as is possible for inconsistent humanity, and excuse myself, for it suddenly feels as if all the air has been sucked from the room and I feel impossible pressure on my lungs.

Charlotte follows me out the door, into the hallway. I can feel that she wants to mutter something sarcastic in my general direction, but the slight pause in continual noise is swallowed up by “jock jams” type synthesizers and more ridiculous throbbing bass beats coming from the surround sound speaker system above our heads.

“Sweet mother of all things precious and sacred, Lydia really needs to get her head examined,” Charlotte scowls. “This is pretty much a dormitory, not a freakin’ skeeze club.”

“I still can’t believe I actually fell for that stupid lie about your age,” I roll my eyes. “You are definitely still a teenager.”

“Seriously, Georgia, get over yourself with that whole thing! I just had to try that epic speech out on someone, and Eleanor told me you were totally gullible,” Charlotte shrugs, unapologetic as usual. “It really wasn’t personal. I would’ve tried it on Nadia, but she’s an elite-class reader. There was no effing way in this whole wide world that I was getting anything past that girl.”

I sigh and huff simultaneously, frustrated that I’m being reminded of all of my insecurities and jealousies in the span of a single hour.

“What?” Charlotte is moving her graceful dancer’s body absentmindedly, like some kind of a music-controlled automaton, to the beat.

“Eleanor is a straight bitch,” I display my true colors once more as they pour out of my angry mouth. “And yeah, Nadia’s awesome, whatever. I’m not in the mood for hearing about all of my flaws and all of the amazing things I lack today.”

Charlotte’s face is befuddled. “Georgia, I didn’t mean anything…”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “I know you didn’t. Just let me be miserable and don’t hate me, okay? I’ll be fine. I think I just need to…”

“—DANCE IT OUT?” Lydia appears out of nowhere and bounces up and down as she ruffles my absurdly thick ponytail. Her enthusiasm is unshakeable.

“Yes, Lydia Grace Noble, I do believe this marshmallow needs to dance this shit out,” I decide on a dime, something that is usually very difficult for me to do. Lydia’s crazy energy fills my limbs with the desire to let myself be carried away by the song.

“Let’s do it then, ho!” Lydia grabs my hand and forces me to move.

Pretty soon Charlotte, Lydia and I are all doing our own interpretation of proper choreography down the hall and toward the dining room, and as I am galloping like a cowgirl on meth – including embarrassing butt slapping, hair swinging, and less than suitable gyrating for mixed company -  I feel a pair of eyes on me. I stop dancing, and I am laughing and panting as I lift my head up to inconspicuously search the room for my stalker, but Lydia breaks my concentration as she shakes her body wildly past me. Charlotte is doing cartwheels, and I join the dance once more, throwing my arm up and pointing to the ceiling as I belt out the chorus. Ample hips attack me during a violent version of the Bump, and I keep singing even as I crack up and recognize the curvature assaulting my personal space.

“Baby girl, you should be arrested for those sexy swingin’ hips,” my new dance partner scolds me playfully.

“I’d say don’t be jealous, but I think we’d be thrown in jail together, sweet cheeks,” I tell her. “Good morning to you, too, Z.”

Zahari smiles at me sincerely. “Every morning where I see your face is a good one, G. What’s with dancin’ it out all skank style? You need to tell me something?”

“No,” I assure her. “They are just the same old complaints – nothing you haven’t heard before.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t hear them again,” Z links our arms and leads me toward the glorious smell of breakfast that’s wafting from the room beyond the epic archway before us.

“I’d rather just drown my sorrows in a bacon, egg and cheese bagel,” I tell her.

She bursts out laughing. “Carbohydrate therapy. You’re speaking my language, baby.” Z lowers her voice as she leans closer to my ear. “By the way, Lucas Browning is staring at you, as usual.”

I try to argue with her, but I look behind her, across her shoulders, to a tall drink of water leaning against the staircase. Before I can turn my mortified head, Lucas Browning tosses a sexy wink my way.

 

It makes me wonder what sort of future he’s seen. 

 

I hear Nadia gasp beside me as we run, though the wind is rushing in and out of my ear canals and mercilessly rustling the leaves on the seemingly endless trees.

“Thank God you can hear him,” Louise sighs over her shoulder, “I was beginning to think I was a complete and total loon.”

“Not this time,” Nadia jokes, running a bit faster to keep in step with Louise.

I know we are getting closer because Lou is holding her head as she runs, as if she’s trying to keep her brain from falling out of her skull. She cries out without any warning, and I drop to the ground.

When I open my eyes again, three wide, concerned pairs of eyes search my face frantically. I wipe my palm across my forehead and let out a groan. My head is throbbing and my chest feels like someone has punched a hole right through the center of it. I am not prepared at all for that kind of unadulterated ache; it is as if I clutched a stripped wire with all my might in my bare, wet hand, letting the current overtake all of my nerve endings. It takes me a minute to remember to breathe.

“What the hay-ull jus’ happened?” Louise’s accent is thicker in her distress, and I smile despite the pain. “One second you were keeping up, and the next, yer on yer back.”

“Did any of you feel that?” I ask, though my tongue feels thick and my lips feel drier than discarded bone lying in desert sand.

“Feel what, Georgia Lynn? We need to keep going, this is serious,” Louise is pacing as Charlotte and Nadia help me to my feet.

“I know you know something, because you screamed right as I dropped,” I tell her, rubbing the back of my head, searching for any blood from my fall.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Louise searches my eyes, probably thinking I’m insane. In that moment, I would kill to be a reader.

“You didn’t yell anything just now?” I ask, massaging my temples.

“Why would I be out here in the middle of the forest screamin’?” Louise’s face is scrunched up in confusion.

My eyes widen. “It was him, then.”

“You heard him screaming?” Nadia asks, searching my face.

“I don’t know,” I frown, “I think I may have felt him… I guess it may have seemed audible – this has never happened to me before. If this is our guy, he’s in some serious pain, though I don’t know if it’s physical. We need to find him. I’m just going to have to grit my teeth.”

The readers pick up their sprint once more, but Charlotte lags farther behind with me, where I am avoiding experiencing that invading sensation again too quickly.

“He’s powerful, Georgia,” she whispers. “If he is tapping into gifts you’ve never used before, or even knew about until tonight, he is formidable. If he’s unfriendly, we need to remember that.”

“Oh, my, gosh; listen to yourself, Lottie – you sound like a comic book character. We’re not superheroes. We don’t have archenemies,” I roll my eyes, though her words sink in and twist my stomach into a hard knot.

“Or do we?” I ask, suddenly uncertain.

“I have no idea,” Charlotte shrugs. “I assume it’s like any other advantage. Money, power, beauty, strength, charisma – all of these things can be abused. Whatever we have – be it supernatural, superhuman, or otherwise, do you think people would hesitate for one second to use these abilities for selfish, personal gain?”

“Maybe for a second,” I say, sarcasm dripping down my chin like juice from a peach – it’s only natural.

“My point exactly,” Charlotte swings her hand about to emphasize her words. “While my gift is rather selfless, don’t think I haven’t done stupid things with it in my time.”

“In your time…? Girl, you make it sound like you’ve been around forever,” I laugh, swatting and scoffing at her solemnity.

But Charlotte remains serious.

“You have been around forever?” I ask her, my voice just above a whisper.

“Not quite,” she smirks.

“How long are we talkin’?” I pry. “Was your mama named Eve?”

Charlotte snickers. “I’ve been around for less than a century, sweetheart; not exactly the several millennia you would require to make your theory plausible. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Well, how freakin’ old are you, then?” I demand, but feel a blush creep on my cheeks. Thank God for the dark. “I mean, no disrespect, or anything. You are my elder and all.”

“Indeed I am, since I will be seventy-three in June,” Charlotte grins.

“Good grief,” I gasp. “So the comment about us girls being plenty old enough to call our own shots…”

“Well, it certainly applies to me,” she jokes. “But on a serious note, Georgia, it is not something I talk about with others. That is to say, it is not common knowledge. People believe that I am only nineteen, and I would really like to keep it that way. It makes it easier to blend in, if I should ever have the need to do so.”

“Okay,” I offer, and we pick up our pace once again to catch up with the readers.

Nadia turns to me, her eyes wide. I can see the question etched on her pupils, simply because I know her so well.

We’ll talk about it later, I think in her general direction. Right now, let’s find this guy before he removes all rational thought from my capabilities.

She nods once, and squeezes my hand. “We’re getting close,” she says softly.

“How are you holding up, Lou?” I ask gently.

Louise looks at me over her shoulder and suddenly I feel this dire need to get to the voice, to reach this man I do not know, to fix whatever is causing him pain. I swallow hard against this new feeling, as its invasion of my privacy is unwarranted and unexpected.

Is this crazy intense empathy my new gift? Why is it happening all of a sudden? Am I finally going all the way insane, instead of just part of the way? I think to myself, rhetorical and bewildered.

Nadia shrugs, automatically. She always answers my innermost thoughts with some sort of external gesture without even meaning to – it’s just a strange habit we have formed over the years.

“There,” Louise breathes out, pointing with her left hand, gripping the upper left side of her chest. Anyone else would assume that this is merely a sign of over-exerting the human heart, but Louise’s loyal hunting party understands what this clutching motion means.

Louise is gesturing toward an ancient oak with a hollowed trunk that looks eerily like the cave in which Yoda lives in Star Wars, Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. I smirk as I picture a tiny, long-eared, green-skinned creature waddling out to greet us and thank us for our concern. Nadia swats my arm, and I blink in surprise, receiving her motherly scowl with as much grace and maturity as I could muster.

I am about to make a joke despite my carefully crafted adult façade, when a disturbing, guttural groan pours from the hollow tree and reaches our ears as it reverberates through the forest walls.

Each muscle in my body is tense, and I grip Charlotte and Nadia’s hands, hoping to find some comfort from the fear that is gripping me.

Without thought, Louise takes off like a meteorite toward the sound, and Nadia gasps as I follow suit. The tree trunk’s inhabitant is drawing Lou and is drawing me, too, and I cannot resist the urge to help whoever – whatever – waits inside. Whether it’s by proxy from Louise, or originating from the darkness before us, my feet move forward as if they have their own free will to do so, and I have no strength left to fight them. Nadia tries to keep hold of my hand but I pull away, disappearing into the gutted heart of the ancient oak.

Once inside, I smell the damp, earthy scent of the tree’s flesh, and see a faint glow casting our shadows to the dirty ground. The pain flash-burns my insides once more and I close my eyes to try and keep my focus. Another miserable groan hits my ears, much closer and louder this time, and Louise struggles momentarily for breath as her foot hits something large directly in front of us. I force my eyes open, so I can take in whatever happens and commit it to my elephant’s memory.

Louise drops to her knees, her hands instantly pressing gently down on the chest of the man lying on his back before us. His eyes open very slowly, and a large, light hand rests heavily on Louise’s long, slender fingers. He squeezes them tenderly, and the horrifying pain that has my lungs burning suddenly subsides, and is replaced by the pleasant warmth of a fireplace on Christmas morning, with the hint of a whisper of cool, fresh air. My jaw slackens at the contrast, and Louise inhales a sharp breath.

“You came for me,” the man speaks. His voice is quite deep, and unfathomably warm. The tone of it is pure relief, bathed with the heady fragrance of purpose and plan.

Louise nods, stunned into silence by the untainted, innocent pleasure and sweet surprise in his voice.

“I wasn’t sure you would ever hear me,” he says gently. “I have been calling for you since I was born, I think. I can’t remember when I began. I just know I’ve always known you existed.”

“What…” Louise swallows, trying to compose herself. “What do you mean? What’s so special about me?”

“If I am not mistaken,” the man says patiently, “I do believe that you, my dear, are my other half.”

My heart searches his intentions without any forethought on my part, and I find them to be completely wholesome. This empathy, this deep knowing in my gut, feels second nature, as if it’s something I’ve done my entire life. I am flooded with joy at the realization that I probably always have.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man sits up and keeps her hands within the warmth of his own. “My name is Wyatt Landon Livingston.”

“Sarah Louisiana Nelson,” Louise whispers.

Wyatt kisses her hands. “Beautiful.”

 

[For the beginning of the story from day one, click here.]

I burst out laughing, although unpredictable antics are Lottie’s strong suit and I should have been expecting her response to such a glorious electronic beat. Lydia hollers, “get it, girl!” and tries to imitate Charlotte’s wild gestures, to no avail. As graceful as Lydia could be in life, she is no dancer in a rap video. She may have no rhythm, but sit her in front of a piano and you will be left awestruck by her natural gift. And although she denies it as a superpower, Lydia Grace Noble has perfect pitch. I am very much looking forward to the Christmas party, at which she has promised us she will play and sing carols – as long as those of us who are so inclined will sing along. It’s a mere eight weeks away, and the anticipation is definitely palpable. My favorite time of year, the time that contains Thanksgiving and Christmas, is when my heart yawns and stretches, coming awake fully for the first time all year. Everything about these two months each year makes me feel joyful, like I am still just a little girl. The cold, the clothes, the traditions – all of it! Football games no one really pays attention to in their carbohydrate-induced stupor, eating all day long and not feeling the least bit guilty about it, and the closeness and warmth of family around the fireplace make Thanksgiving utterly perfect; while the decorations, the classic songs, the hustle and bustle, the giving, the getting, the colors and the lights, the movies, the shopping, the gift-wrapping… Christmas is overwhelmingly my favorite holiday.

But here I go, getting lost in daydreams and warm, sparkling memories, when I’m supposed to be telling a story. This happens to me far more often than it should…

I am brought back to the present reality when Lydia appears in my direct line of staring vision.

“Forest green,” Lydia appraises with her own imploring, light green eyes. “It’s either Christmas, your family, or the new kid.”

“The first,” I confirm casually, making absolutely no attempt at hiding anything.

The problem with brutal honesty is that it leaves you fully exposed. I feel like I am constantly walking around naked.

“Ew, Georgia Lynn, would you mind picturing yourself fully clothed from now on? My poor little heart can’t talk all that,” Louise informs me teasingly, and as she towel dries her wavy brown hair I see a glinting stone, looking suspiciously like an engagement ring, on her left hand waving with her motions.

“When did that happen?” I squeal, grateful – for once – that my mental capabilities did not ruin a good story for me.

“Well, since you’re pryin’…” Louise teases me, drying her right ear and grinning from that one over to her left.

“Yes, I realize I am prying, but, I really want to know – you know it’s because I care about your life,” I tell her, reaching out to inspect the rock perched proudly on that oh-so-important finger. The yellow gold band houses a large, round-cut diamond surrounded by little circles of blue topaz.

“Wyatt took me to the exact place where I first found him…” Louise begins to explain, but as my ears take in her words; my mind fades back to seven months prior – the night that Wyatt Livingston joined our band of strange and lonely pariahs.

“There it is again,” Louise was saying, holding her head in her hands.

“What is it?” I ask, my hands fluttering uselessly near my newest friend’s aching head. She’s a reader, like Nadia, so headaches are a common occurrence, but this one is so bad I am really starting to get concerned.

“This man’s voice. He just keeps crying out – ‘help me, please, anyone, help me!’ and  I can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from, or I would help him! He is so miserable, Georgia, I am kept awake at night, sometimes all night, and  there ain’t a single thing I can do for ‘em,” Louise’s ocean blue eyes are wrinkled at the corners with deep concern.

“And you are absolutely sure it isn’t someone in the building reach out to you?” I shift from foot to foot, restless.

“Positive,” Louise confirms; she is pacing nervously now.

“We should go look for this guy,” Charlotte proposes. Her tiny, indestructible frame is visibly twitching with anticipation. “The four of us could do it, easily. Lou, you and Nadia could work together listening for him to find his location, and I could definitely fix up any minor wounds he may have until we can bring him here.” Charlotte is a healer – internal and external. She is virtually unbreakable, impervious to illness, and can heal others by touch – to an extent, depending on the time they would take and the seriousness of the trauma.

“Lydia won’t like it,” I blurt, disgusted once more by my lack of mental or verbal filter. I wish I could just bite my lip and keep all the nagging truth and reason inside, and just be easygoing.

“She doesn’t have to know,” Charlotte’s gentle voice is unusually low, and she shrugs, small and fearless.

“Easy for you to say,” I snort. “She can’t put you into a coma.”

“She can’t put you in a coma either, genius,” Charlotte rolls her honey brown eyes. “At least, I don’t think so…”

Her face fades into a more contemplative look and I make a haughty sound in my throat.

“I think we should do it,” Nadia’s musical voice finally enters into the discussion. “I mean, why else do we have these abilities, if not to use them to help others? Lydia would agree with that much, anyway.”

“And the entering into danger part…? That’s our decision to make; we are more than capable, and absolutely old enough, to call our own shots. I say we do this,” Charlotte pounds her fist against her palm.

All eyes swing to search the pained face of the reason for this conversation.

“If you gals are gonna back me up, I don’t see any problem with this,” Louise decides on the spot, her brow furrowing into a stubborn line, her slender jaw set firmly.

“Well, let’s get started, then. Everyone put their cell phone in their pocket and grab a flashlight. The quicker we start moving, the sooner this man will get the help that he needs,” Charlotte reasons, pulling two flashlights from under our bunk beds.

As quietly as humanly possible, the four of us creep down the hall and down the staircase – taking each step as quickly as we can relying on Charlotte’s keen senses and silent, graceful leading, as well as Nadia’s ability to listen for any leadership who would stop us, to keep us from getting caught. Louise is too distracted by the constant gnashing of teeth in her gray matter to be much of a help – I lead her by the hand and keep her feet from hitting the inevitable squeaks in the old wooden stairs. She shoots me a grateful glance in the dimly lit lobby, and I see the raw panic and ache that does not belong to her inside of her nightfall pupils and morning sky irises. I squeeze her slender hand and try to give her the smallest of comforts – she squeezes it tightly in return, and I know she gets my mental message.

“Is there an alarm?” Nadia asks in a whisper.

“Not on nights when Jerry is in charge of security,” Charlotte rolls her eyes. “He thinks he can take on anything or anyone that decides to walk through that door, so he doesn’t bother with it. I personally think it’s just because he is technologically inept, and doesn’t want to learn how to set the stupid thing.”

Nadia grins. “Then let’s hope it is indeed Jerry’s night to watch the place – I have it on good authority that he also loves to raid the fridge more often than necessary.”

We all inhale softly and hold our breath inside of our lungs, our hearts pounding in anticipation as Charlotte reaches out a tiny, tan hand to turn the huge brushed nickel knob. Hearts pounding in our ears, we hear the tiny click of the latch releasing us out into our mission field.

When no obvious alarm sounds, we pile out onto the giant old staircase, knowing getting down those brick steps would be the noisiest part of the deal. Tennis shoes clattering against the mortar and blocks, clamoring for the muting of the lush lawn below, the four of us reach the grass with no sound but a mutual sigh of relief. Charlotte pushes Louise forward, and Lou takes the leader role with no fanfare or ceremony.

“He’s getting louder,” Louise tells us confidently, letting her feet blindly follow the siren song of the screaming inside of her skull. “We’re coming!” she says urgently aloud, though I know she’s probably yelling it with all her might back to him mentally.

And we blindly follow her farther into the woods, through the paths in the ancient firs and sweet-smelling pines, four flawed Samaritans with no knowledge of the man in need – other than his need.

 

[FAIR WARNING: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK - this is art for art's sake. No promises that it's any good. I'm just letting whatever wants to come out onto the page, come out, and whatever happens, does. ♥]

 

So, here’s the skinny.

I’m not really sure what God was thinking when He put me here, of all places. I mean, why not somewhere with less people? Less complications? Less messes that I think are my responsibility to clean?

This doesn’t make any sense right now, but it will.

When it does, will you let me know?

I haven’t gotten there yet.

 

I am twenty-one years old, I am a mess, and I have never been kissed.

My name is Georgia Lynn Freebird, and this is my story.

 

I wake up this morning to the chill of a new autumn day, and wonder just how cold it’s going to be when I put my shoes on and enter the outside world. It’s a typical day in the Southeast region of the United States, a place I wish I did not live, but am doomed to stay within for the time being. I tell everyone I’m having a great time in college, nearing the finish line, getting excited for graduation.

If only they knew the truth.

I yawn and stretch and do very typical things. I check the clock, and it’s 6:37 in the morning. Of all my friends here, I am the least remarkable. That’s not me self-deprecating or anything; it’s just a statement of fact. I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom in a zombie-like trance. Only, instead of brains, it’s definitely caffeine – probably coffee – my system is craving. I have to be in the mood for coffee, I’m not one of those people who are addicted and can’t survive without it, I just enjoy it in the mornings and on occasion, the afternoon. See? None of this is important or out of the norm. I’m wondering what I’m doing here for the thirty-thousandth time since I stepped through the huge front doors and tiptoed onto the gorgeous oak floors of the lobby in my crayon-yellow Converses.

I hear the distinct sound of Nadia’s light snoring as it cuts the silence in half, and I take comfort in her presence. She, of all the people here, should understand me best – we did come from the same womb, around the same time – I was first, seven minutes and three seconds before Nadia appeared, I came into this strange world full of bizarre happenings. I remember this much clearer than most people would; my memory is flawless – an eerie video of all that has gone on before plays in my cluttered mind on a whim. I’m learning here – at “college” – how to pick out specific memoires whenever I need them. Like anyone else, I have things I would love to forget, but I do not possess the luxury of a weak mind. Things do not slip through the cracks for me – great for taking tests, keeping track of birthdays, and cooking without looking at a recipe, but really sucky for awkward childhood moments that are best left in the grubby hands of… well, my childhood.

Things would certainly be easier if I were the textbook definition of “normal” – though I doubt they’ve actually decided on a solid one, yet.

Maybe they’d be harder, who knows. But hey, the grass is always greener, right?

I shuffle my stocking feet all the way to the cold tile floor of the bathroom attached to the room I share with Nadia and two other roommates. When my eyes hit the mirror, they are bluish-gray, the serene color of the morning sky, and I absentmindedly scratch my ivory cheek. Another yawn makes its way from my throat to the air surrounding me. Maybe if my stupid dreams weren’t so vivid, I’d sleep a smidge more peacefully.

“You complain too much,” I scold my grungy reflection, who promptly shrugs – apathetic, as always.

I hear Nadia’s motherly words as clearly as when they were spoken to me the day before: “Each day is a gift to be spent well, not suffered through. Remember, your words are significant.”

I snort aloud as I mull over the last part – how could I possibly forget?

I know she wasn’t mocking my steel trap of a psyche – Nadia Eve Freebird is the kindest, most compassionate and most empathetic human being on the planet. No sense in trying to blame her for my melancholy, because it would be false. Maybe it is the seclusion that’s getting to me. At  first, I had fallen in love with the huge, old hotel-turned-boarding-school that’s tucked quietly amongst the huge, old North Carolina trees – but after nine months, I am beginning to feel much like a baby in the womb: cramped, and ready to breath oxygen into my lungs for myself.

I brush my offwhite teeth without fanfare, spitting into the sink without poise. I am not the classiest woman on this earth, but hopefully I possess enough social graces to get by out in the so-called “real world”. A tiny spark of glee pricks in my chest, and I imagine myself at the bottom of the front staircase. The sad part is, that’s about as far as I usually get before I realize I have no idea what is supposed to happen next. Am I walking toward a big, important career? A life of quiet, blessed servitude? A family of my own?

A smile curves my thin lips upward as I linger on the fantasy of a husband and children. I am unsure if I am equipped to bring about such beautiful dreams… but they definitely are worth dreaming, all the same. An ache swells in my chest at the very real possibility that they may never come true. I cannot linger on them, it is way too easy to get depressed. As I bring a hot washcloth to my face, my eyes are as gray as the looming cumulonimbus before a great and terrible storm.

I brush the blend of brown, blonde and red my over-dyed hair has become out of my face and up into a high, messy ponytail. Instantly, my head feels lighter and I feel like I can see more of the world around me. It’s strange what a simple hairdo can do to a person, even one as complicated as I am. I open the little bathroom window, breathing in the chilly air of the North Carolina morning, grateful for my senses. I can’t decide if I’m going to get a shower or not, when another warm body makes their presence known in the large, black-framed mirror.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” I say, still half-awake, not yet experiencing the clarity of full consciousness. “You’re looking lovely as ever.”

Louise turns to me and flashes a smile that is all full lips and perfect white teeth. “Darlin’, I know you ain’t usin’ pretty words to try ‘n get me outta this bathroom,” the dark-haired Southern belle answers me in her thick, pleasant accent.

“You certainly would know that, wouldn’t you?” I smirk.

Louise gives me a knowing look, and the pageant smile fades to a sarcastic, answering smirk. She reaches beyond a black-and-white patterned curtain to turn the hot water on for her shower, the one that I am contemplating, and the one that effectively makes my contemplating completely obsolete.

I heave a sigh and hang up my washcloth before leaving Louise to her morning ritual, and silently wish I was a quicker thinker. When I reenter the bedroom, Nadia is pulling on her favorite socks, wearing a hoodie. She and I share an excited glance – it’s the first truly cold day of the year, and our hearts are beating in thrilled unison at the obvious heralding of winter and all its beauty, including Christmas.

I close my eyes and breathe in deep; our window is open and I swear I can hear sleigh bells as my lungs draw in the smell of cold air and gray skies. When my lids retract, my sister shakes her head.

“What?” I grin, already knowing the answer.

“They’re currently this crazy shade of forest green,” she informs me, pulling down one of her own eyelids. “Why couldn’t I have gotten that talent?”

I roll my freak-show eyes. “Because, instead, you can freaking read minds.”

“So can Louise. What’s so special about that?” Nadia gives me a killer look, and I shrug.

“I’m pretty jealous,” I tell her, and she laughs.

“Whatever.” She waves a dismissive hand at me. “Even if I didn’t know that was true, it wouldn’t change the fact that you’re way cooler than you think you are.”

“You’re not the only one who has noticed, either,” a hoarse voice greets us from the bottom bunk across the room.

Nadia holds her hand out toward the voice, like, see? I frown.

I can’t read minds, remember? I think toward her.

She just grins. Infuriating!

A bedraggled blonde head pops out from the constellation-covered comforter, glaring up at me with dark-circle-rimmed, honey-brown eyes.

“The newest one of us, that Luke Browning kid – you know, the one sees the future? – he sure couldn’t take those sexy green eyes off you the second he walked in this place,” Charlotte – the zombie blonde – informs me with an evil glint in her wide, darkroom pupils. “Did you notice him noticin’ ya, gorgeous?”

“Yeah, I definitely noticed,” I blurt, and then slap my shiny, pale forehead.

That’s the other thing I forget to mention when introducing myself.

I cannot lie.

I’m serious.

Not even when I try really, really hard.

And definitely not when asked a direct question.

“I knew it. Thank God, some dish. It’s ridiculous how boring this place has gotten these past few months. Not even the mind-invading tricks the Baxter boys pulled on Halloween did enough for me. Though, I still feel creeped out whenever I strip for a shower…” Charlotte shudders, obviously remembering something horrible.

Nadia snickers, though I know it was probably a lot worse for her and Louise – considering they would’ve had to hear everyone’s thoughts being invaded all at once.

All of a sudden raucous rap music is being blared down our hallway, and I know that our counselor is awake and getting “pumped” for the day.

I swear, if I didn’t adore that woman with every fiber of my being, I would murder her in her sleep.

“LYDIA, SERIOUSLY?” I swing the door open and scream against the incredible force of surround-sound bass pounding its way down to all of our rooms.

“You slow down and you die, my love,” her shiny soprano voice shrills into my morning ears. In the afternoon, this sound would be welcome, pleasant.

Right now it just makes me want to push her violently down the stairs.

My imagination is very vivid, and I hear Louise and Nadia laugh out loud at the clean-glass-clear image of me taking my world-weary violence out on our beloved Lydia.

Charlotte, who is five feet tall exactly, and about ninety pounds soaking wet, jumps up out of her bunk and gracefully twirls out into the hallway, breaking out a ridiculous combination of hip-hop moves that would make Fergie’s blood turn to acid with jealousy.

 

If it's sucks and it's completely stupid, I can't apologize. I'm all up in this.

If you wanna let me know what you think, that's cool. Just know I'm not supposed to edit. The purpose of NaNoWriMo is to just MAKE yourself write. It's about 50,000 words - not if they're even any good. I've been needing this challenge for a long time. So, here goes nothin'. <3 

...as National Novel Writing Month is affectionately known.

I'm terrified but exhilarated in the same breath, because I officially signed up just this evening for the first time ever. I don't know what's going to happen with it, but I'm really excited to find out. I can't decide if I'm going to use my xanga for it, but if I do, what readers I do have may be bombarded with my ridiculous fictional ramblings...

50,000 words in 30 days. Ha!

I'd apologize in advance, but I'm not sorry.

 

HERE GOES NOTHING! <3

I cannot stop listening to Kings of Leon. They are incredible. And Caleb Followill has some of the prettiest eyes I've ever witnessed.

Observe:

In other news, I don't like change. I don't like that my best friend of over four years and I are slowly drifting apart, going separate ways. I miss the days where we were young, dumb puzzle pieces with nothing better to do but shoot Nazi Zombies and eat lime Tostitos. Now we're states apart, I have a fulltime job, she's a fulltime student (and she has a serious boyfriend, something I know very little about other than it's a very time-consuming, important, hard-work kind of relationship)... The last time we got to actually hang out and talk was June of this year. It's almost November. I miss her, dammit. She's like the only person in the world who understands all of my stupidity (and my depth, too). It's hard not having that anymore. We hardly get to talk. I don't want to be a complainer, things are pretty good otherwise, and I understand that this is how life goes. You don't stay seventeen. You grow up, things move forward, friendships change. It just sucks. I also have no idea what to do about it. It's like, I either accept it, or get depressed about it. I think I should take the first option. Ha.

But when I say that otherwise, life is good, I'm serious. I love my new job; being a mama to ten to seventeen kids at once (not alone!) is tiring but really fun. It's never dull, that's for sure, and I'm learning that I have skills that I didn't realize I possessed. That's always a nice thing to figure out, I think.

I'm getting really excited for Christmas. On principle, I won't let myself listen to Christmas music until at least November... Halloween has to be over before I'm singing Jingle Bells, because I don't want to get sick of it so soon. I'm still dying to decorate my room, but I can't let myself do that until next month either. I have candy-corn-hued lights strung around my bulletin board, and just seeing that little string of golden globes has me giddy like a little child.

My heart is definitely yawning and stretching. From October to December, I am the happiest I'll be all year.

i want to write but nothing will come to me.
so i'm going to collage instead.

 

i'm sorry my xanga is basically obsolete.
you aren't missing much. ;] 

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."

 

 

I want that so much.

When did I become this person?

This silent, apathetic, small person who cares more

about what internet strangers think of her than what she thinks of herself?

When did I do this?

This swampy gray film I've pasted on myself,

to cover up any shred of light that might try to sneak through?

Where is my heart?

In a cold, dark box deep under the earth?

When did I let my insecurities steal my breath,

and numb me to You?

 

 

I am the walking dead,

but I will shed this unfeeling skin. 

I can't get over how much better this song sounds this way.