The Ring

(I was going through some of my poems from seventh grade. Found one and edited it, and though I'd post it up here to amuse you all; I was so melodramatic in seveth grade. Haha, what a silly little emo seventh grader I was.)

The Ring

Burning in the hollow of my throat

is a small golden lie strung through

a silver chain of misplaced hopes.

My lips mouth the words of a song

heard by many, but listened to

by few, the haunting melody brandishing

Truth like the sharpest sword in its defense.

With each syllable, each flick of my tongue

against my bloodied lips, the golden lie

burns brighter, burns harsher, and

the melody’s sword hacks deeper and

deeper into my torn heart.

I wait, in the darkness of the unknown, until

someday the silver chain will break, spilling

my hopes and the linking dreams over the

cold tile floor, until the small golden lie falls

from my throat and sinks through the floor,

disappearing in a dim red light.

The golden lie will never be truly gone.

It has burned so bright for so long, it has left

an imprint of itself on my skin,

an ugly red welt against pale, sickly flesh,

made worse only by the bitter cuts of the

Truth, its slashes powered by the sound

of my voice whispering,

Never.

Never.

Never.

The Morning After, Give or Take a Few Years

Precisely when it had no business to do so, rain decided to pour from the heavens. Sophie should have expected just as much from Seattle, but the days of the preceding week had been surprisingly mild and sunny, and no warning of rain had come from the weatherman on Channel 17, Accurate News Now. Rob Wren’s exact words that morning were, “Break out the sun block, people, we’re going to need it today!”

Trying to huddle further under the overhang of the roof, Sophie looked up and down the street. The suburb was dismal in the grey early-spring rain; located just outside Seattle, each house seemed to be based off the same model, down to the shingles on the roof and the color of the siding. In each driveway was roughly the same type of car: small, environmentally friendly, and professional; there were no minivans.

Sophie glared up at the dark rain clouds above her, tugging her wet coat tighter around her body. In a remarkable show of self-restraint, she managed to bite her tongue just hard enough to keep from cursing the weather and Rob Wren to herself; keeping her dirty mouth firmly shut was a skill she had learned early on in her five years of parenthood. A couple steps away from the front door, a small boy with an oversized yellow slicker was splashing in a puddle on the sidewalk, his thick brown hair plastered to his forehead. Sophie sighed and pushed the wet hair out of her own eyes, reaching down to press the doorbell once more.

She had been standing at the door for a good fifteen minutes, ringing the bell once every few moments. It had taken her half a month of phoning old friends and looking through dozens of online directories and phonebooks to find this house, and after sitting through a five hour bus ride up to Seattle with an overactive five-year old, Sophie was not willing to give up without a fight.

A slight tug at the corner of her damp coat attracted her attention, and she looked down into the large blue eyes of her son. “Mommy? When can we go inside? I’m cold,” he whined, snuggling up closer to her denim-covered legs for warmth. She smiled apologetically at him, and crouched down so that she was eyelevel with the five-year old.

“I’m sorry, honey. No one is answering. I’ll try one more time, and then we can go home. Is that alright?” Still pouting, the boy nodded his head vigorously. “Good boy,” she said, ruffling his wet hair until he childishly batted her hand away. Resuming her standing position, she reached out to press the doorbell but, at the last minute, decided to knock instead.

After a few seconds of waiting after the knock, she heard dull thuds resounding in the entranceway beyond the door. Her heart sped up in her chest, and she grasped the boy’s hand in her own, thousands of worst-case scenarios flying through her mind. Turning to her son, she whispered, “You’re going meet your father today, honey!” The little boy grinned up at her, clutching his mother’s hand tightly, though he understood very little of what was going on. Looking up as she heard the door open, Sophie felt her jaw drop and the breath caught in her throat.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

-

Her back was straight, shoulders rigid, as she sat on the edge of the couch across from the strange man who opened the door. The man had led her into the living room, which was decorated tastefully with modern patterns and had various pictures scattered over the walls, and had invited her to have a seat on the cream-colored sofa. On the other side of the living room, playing happily with some thing or another, her little boy was oblivious to the silent tension that was building between his mother and the stranger.

Taking advantage of the continuing silence, Sophie studied the man who opened the door. Seemingly unaware of the mounting tension, he was sprawl out across the loveseat that was positioned in front of the couch Sophie was sitting on. While she was no good at estimating age, she guessed him to be at least ten years her senior; his shaggy dark hair was streaked with grey, though he had few age lines around his eyes and mouth. Though Sophie noticed he was staring back at her with a bemused look on his face, she refused to initiate a conversation.

“You must’ve been standing out there a while,” the man said after one awkward moment too many. He surged forward to lean his elbows on his knees, interweaving his fingers as he smiled at her. “We’ve been meaning to get that bell fixed since we moved in here.”

Somewhere farther back in the house, a door slammed. Sophie tilted her head slightly in the direction the slamming had come from while the man didn’t move at all, intent on staring at her in the hopes of hearing her response. Minutes later, after the sounds of closing doors and muted mutters, a tall, lean man with a towel on his head came into the room, vigorously rubbing the towel and clothed in nothing more than a pair of ratty jeans. After one last rub-down, the man yanked the towel off, revealing a head full of blond hair and bright blue eyes. She, if possible, sat up straighter and felt her heart beat quicken.

“Hey, Bobby, what’cha doing out here?” the blonde asked the man on the loveseat, a grin on his face, showing no evidence that he realized that there were guests in the house. When the man didn’t answer, just kept staring at her, his shirtless companion turned to look at the couch, and froze.

“Sophie?” he asked, clearly shocked. She gave him a small smile.

“Hey, Troy.”

The stranger looked between them, and then relaxed, slumping against the back of the loveseat once more, grinning up at Troy. “This one of your exes?” he asked, not at all jealously. Sophie let a smile crack at that.

“Well, no—I mean yes—uh …” Troy stopped himself, ruffling his damp hair as he searched for the right words.

“We’re old friends,” Sophie said; Troy grinned at her in gratitude before sitting down on the loveseat next to the older man.

“Wow, it sure has been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked, partially in awe. She gave him a grim smile, something that would have looked so out of place only four or five years ago, but seemed to fit her now; single parenting did that to some people. Troy paused before adding, “It’s been, like, four years since we last saw each other…”

“Five, nearly six,” she softly corrected, allowing herself to relax a bit more, sinking into the soft cushions of the couch. Troy looked genuinely surprised.

“That long, huh?” he murmured, more to himself than for anyone else’s benefit. The sudden clang of metal hitting glass brought everyone’s attention to the small brown-haired boy, who was looking both startled and immensely guilty as he pointedly looked away from the trophy that had fallen from one of the shelves on the living room. Sophie remembered that particular trophy; Troy had won it in the eleventh grade for basketball.

“Who’s the kid?” Troy asked, looking between Sophie and the five-year old, silently noting that they both had the same shade of brown hair. Sophie looked back at child and smiled softly.

“That’s Jacob,” she said, getting up and walking over to the young boy, whose arms were now held above his head in the international signal of ‘Pick me up.’ She grunted as she felt her muscles straining to heave the growing boy into her arms; she was far too young to be getting too old for this.

“Are you babysitting him, or…” His voice trailed off as Sophie sat back down on the couch with Jacob in her lap.

“No.”

“So, he’s….?”

“Yes, he’s mine.”

“Oh.” Troy looked positively dumbfounded. The man seated beside Troy on the loveseat stood up then, using Troy’s knee as leverage. At Troy’s glance, he said,

“Just getting something to drink. I’ll bring out some water.” Troy nodded, and the man walked out of the room; both Troy’s and Sophie’s eyes followed him.

“So,” Troy began as the sound of slamming cabinets filtered in through the kitchen, glancing at her left hand, “you’re married, then?” His eyes widened as Sophie shook her head. “You—you know who the father is, though, right?”

Sophie nodded and sighed. She placed her hands under Jacob’s arms and lifted him off her lap. Turning him to face Troy, who was looking at her in a mixture of horror and realization, she said,

“Jacob, meet your father.”

I am

I am the voice that sings in falling rain.
I wonder if anyone can hear my words...not just my melody...my voice.
I tried to catch the moon, but she is forever dancing across the cobalt sky....
I hope that my heart will return soon....
I am forever skating on the wind.

I pretend I can swim like a 'maid in her home, ocean blue...
I feel the sun drinking my skin, warm and inviting....Never cold, never unfriendly to me...
I touch the broken shards of glass, who threatens to slice my copper skin...
I worry I may fall out of the crystal blue seas, when my world is turned upside down, again.
I am the fading ember in her heart, hoping one day I will extinguish hers in mine completely....
I understand the melancholy instrument, the Mournful Lover...who cries for it's Maker...
I dream I soared across the sky, feeling the odd drop in my stomach when I let myself twist in the clouds...even when I am warm on the ground...
I say to myself or more the the crying rain, "You are my tears...for I refuse to cry any longer for a meaningless broken heart.
I try my best to speak through my very best aquaintance...as I press down of her black and white keys...producing a sound so rich--
I hope that my heart will able to swim again, for
I am the voice deeply hidden inside the falling rain...

Elegy for her sanity

Heavy metal doors
Creak, close shut.
Screams are heard from more
than the end of the hall.
Bouncing off the wall and floor.
No light enters, or escapes here as
They come closer toward the door,
Smiles on their face,
Discovering secrets stuffed in drawers
No eye has seen, no ear has heard
The silent tears shed for the mourn
Of his memory,
Only this and nothing more.

Heartshaped Box

All my memories of you,
Are kept in my heart-shaped box.
Full of emptiness and sorrow-
Under key and under lock.

What is next, my fair Prince of Dorix?
Of our all but simple lives bestowed-
For there must be more,
Than the fiery Hells below.

Tell me again,
My Beloved Prince of Dorix,
Or our long forgotten Paradise,
And what is laid in ruin before us.

Was I just blind?
And I could not see?
Was it all a sweet illusion,
Of simple simplicity?

Whisper to me, my Prince,
Of you undying love for me.
That it is all but simple,
And not just the Bird and the Bee.

Tell me, dear Prince,
That it is naught but a dream,
And their murderous words mean nothing,
And cannot harm you and me.

Where are you, Prince of Dorix?
Did the King and Queen take you beyond my reach?
And have they drained the love from your heart,
like the blood thirsty leech...?

The Middle of Nowhere

The Middle of Nowhere

It was the Middle of Nowhere; nothing but yellow grass, rolling hills, and endless blue skies broken only by the few straggling trees that managed to grow against the constant gales. Any car doors left open and unprotected from that wind would suddenly find themselves unattached and whipping through the air like old fall leaves. Prairie dog burrows were scattered across the ground like freckles.

I stared up at the house before me. It was small compared to the one back home; only two stories if you counted the basement, and a mile away on each side from the nearest neighbors. The siding was must've once been a pristine white, but was now a light shade of brown. I licked my cracked and bleeding lips.

That was another thing about the Middle of Nowhere: the air sucked any moisture in your body right out, leaving you feeling like dried out leaves.

My mother glanced at me. "How about this one?"

I sucked my bottom lip, running my tongue over the raw and sore skin. My sneakers kicked up dust in the dirt driveway as I shifted from foot to foot. "Too small," I said.

She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the surrounding land. The wind picked up and I shut my eyes to shield them from the dust blown up from the road. Opening my eyes to slits, I looked down at it swirling around my ankles and mismatched socks. Mom looked back at me, her short brown hair licking at her forehead. "I don't know," she remarked, raising her voice to be heard above the wind. "Seems like a lot of space for the dogs to run around in."

If they don't get blown away first.

I shook my head, my ponytail lashing at my cheeks.

The real estate agent suggested we take a look inside. My mother agreed whole-heartedly. I had to be dragged in by the wrist through the scratched and dented front door.

The house was smaller inside than it looked on the outside. We shuffled along the cramped hallway until we reached a room no bigger than the entryway back home. It was painted a dusty white, a common theme in the Middle of Nowhere.

"This will be your room, little girl," the real estate agent said to me, a fake smile plastered across her face. I did my best not to show my look of abject horror.

At the agent's insistance, I walked into the square room, my dusty sneakers squeaking against the wooden floors. The sound echoed in the room's emptiness, unhindered by furniture. I turned to my mother, but she had already gone, probably to discuss the age of the kitchen appliances with the agent.

I walked over to the one rectangular window in the room and pulled up the crooked blinds. From the dusty glass, I could see grassy hills, a blue sky stretching from one side of the frame to the other, and one dirt road leading to nowhere.

No, I thought, eying the trees bent by the relentless wind, it's not leading to nowhere.

It's leading out of it.

Elegy for Marilyn

Elegy for Marilyn

The blonde bombshell
The girl who could make men fall to their knees in awe
You worked the camera better than anyone
As Lorelei Lee
Cherie
Sugar Kane
And The Girl
You turned films into pieces of history
Ever replayed by TCM
Redone in high definition
And watched by people old and young
Ever admired as the inaugural centerfold
Yet you met a tragic end

Marilyn Monroe
Lorelei Lee
Cherie
Sugar Kane
The Girl

All were dead and buried on August 8th , 1962.

Elegy for 3rd Floor Carr

The stretching stairwell,

Big windows would pour in light.

The climb up a long and sweaty process.

The sour candy of every student and teacher:

Harsh at first, but deliciously worth it

A long hallway: one sided

Stretching across

Four rooms holding

The four Gods of our school.

The four teachers that

Everyone wants to hang out with.

This floor a Mecca for

High School Cool.

Each room, wide

Mile high ceilings with

Big windows that

Stretch up and across

Leaving a sense of nostalgia

Even on your first day.

The classes are history:

People, places, and sarcastic commentary.

Every mouth cracks jokes,

And teaches us all the things

That we really need to know.

I remember the first time I went up.

It was before school, a morning club,

And I was a baby, a freshman

Bringing vanilla chai to my senior sister.

The room was filled with celebrities

And they were in the penthouse

And I couldn't wait until I was that cool

And I would have my own club

Up in the only place for the coolest kids.

But heaven can't last

Because now the 3rd floor

Sit uninhabited.

A mere fossil of its once great glory

Aching to be visited again

By every true believer

In Durham School Of The Arts

Soon it will be torn down

Like the rest of our

Dangerous and homey

Julian S. Carr building.

Closing off the 3rd floor

Had already bruised our hearts.

The wrecking ball that will destroy this

Will smash all of us who are

Covered in lead paint

With asbestos lungs

Made out of the air conditioners

That shoot ice shards

When left on too long.

I took a trip up the elevator once

And looked around the hallway

That means so much to all of us.

Most of the doors were locked

But one room was not.

I took a deep breath in

Of the famous and old fashioned air

And my eyes examined every detail

And I prayed that tomorrow

We'd all be back there

Making jokes and complaining

About the hike up.

I don't get my senior year

On the 3rd floor.

I don't get any freshman

Bringing me vanilla chai,

Looking wide-eyed at me

And my friends like we're superstars.

And I certainly never get

To go on field trips to

The nearest café with my

AP European History class.

The times are different now

We are forced into

A shiny new box:

The New Building

Children don't learn respect

For the seniors in that building.

Non-curriculum lectures are hushed

By authority strolling in

Every class period.

Creativity can't plant itself here.

The dirt is tightly packed

And sealed over with pesticidal plastic,

When the 3rd floor was a

Loose and healthy dirt bed

For the uncommon minds

To explode in a garden

Of originality, bugs and all.

I fear for the children after me.

The ones who never knew

And will never know

What it meant to

Really be at DSA.

There is nothing more we can do

But try and rip the new building plastic

And churn the dirt ourselves

And pray that something

Authentic and untainted will still grow.

Confessions of an Attention Whore

I just love attention and drama is the equivalent.
So every time I put myself in the same predicament.
Even though it's foolish I just can't help but to do it.
Because I'm on his mind all the time, I stick with him.
Even though he's no good I can't quit him.
And every time we fight it just leaves me wanting more.
Confessions of an attention whore.

Flight

A young man about twenty-five years old sat in a diner with his head tilted back and his mouth hanging wide open. His eyes were closed and a snore was released from his lips. His unkempt black hair made his white skin seem oddly pale as it stuck up from several different places, as if he had just woken up and had forgotten to glance in the mirror before leaving.
On the table in front of him was a set of hotel keys, a pair of glasses, a black folder with a red letter “I” on it and a newspaper headlining:

“POLICE STILL INVESTIGATING UNEXPLAINED STRING OF MISSING VICTIMS, PAGE 12.”

All around him, people were either reading the article or chatting with their companions about meaningless things to distract their minds from all the happenings. Some younger ones were staring out the rainy windows thoughtfully.

Outside in the storm several police cars rolled by, the drivers’ eyes twitching left and right, scanning for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary.

Another man, slightly older, strolled into the restaurant and looked around. His choppy, sandy blonde hair was wet from the rain and some tufts were plastered to the sides of his face. His search came to an end when his emerald green eyes fell on a patch of unruly black hair. He smiled and chuckled lightly to himself as his walked over to the table in the far corner. He sat himself in the chair across from the slumbering man.

“Hey!” the pursuer called, loud enough to startle the other.

He jumped awake, his muscles rigid from shock and his eyes rolling when he saw his brother. “…Geez…what?” He asked with a clear tone of irritation, while rubbing his tired eyes.

“Where were you, Dylan? You told me to find you in the library.” The elder laughed, watching his brother wake up.

“Well, I finished my research early…came here to grab something to eat but…” Dylan started to explain.

“You fell asleep…again.”

“It’s not my fault you’ve been so uptight and strict about our shifts. Last night was the latest we’ve gone so far, Zack!” Dylan complained, slipping on his glasses which slightly magnified the dark circles sagging under his own green eyes. He yawned loudly and reached for the ceiling.

Zack reclaimed the hotel keys lying on top of the folder and leaned back in his chair as his younger brother wilted over the table and thumped his forehead on the cool marble. “Why are we here on the other side of the Atlantic ocean…? There are still others stationed in Italy, Greece and Spain from the Academy who can help. Even Paris has some Hunters. Why did the Institute suddenly decide to ship us here?” Dylan whined, trying desperately to prove his point.

“You already know the answer to that,” Zack started, leaning forward and propping his elbows up on the table “There are a couple of Hunters that are enlisted as police and it’s been three months with ten civilians missing. If they’re having trouble, we should give them a hand.
The Academy knows that they have some of the best Trackers and Hunters internationally. They’re bigger and more widespread than the Institute could ever be. Now they need our help. Aero wouldn’t have sent us, if he didn’t think we’d figure it out.” Zack turned his attention to the storm outside just as a small rumble of thunder gently shook the ground.

Dylan understood what his brother was explaining; he was used to this vocabulary since he learned all of this when he was just discovering the secret to tying his shoes. The Academy was where everyone went to study the Hollows, only if you knew that they existed. Hollows are immortal, vampiric creatures that were said to have existed much longer than the vampires.

Tracking was one of the two skills that one could learn while attending the Academy. Discovering evidence of a Hollow in the vicinity and using that as a way to track where they were headed, what their taste was, and more importantly their location.

Hunting is the second skill, the actual exterminating of a Hollow.

Hunters and Trackers are usually put together on a single case to work with each other to successfully locate and kill they’re target. The tougher the case, the bigger the group of Trackers and Hunters.
After you graduate from the Academy, you’re given a choice to either stay in the Academy, working cases under their administration or travel to America to work cases under the Institute, a smaller organization designed to just distribute cases and research Hollow characteristics and anatomy.

It’s not as easy as it seems, the Hollows were getting better and better at leaving fewer corpses and less evidence for the Trackers to find them and their overall nature was starting to become more ruthless and vicious toward all humans.

Aero was Zack’s personal mentor and one of the thirteen founders of the Institute. Ironically, all thirteen of them were Hollows themselves. The legend is that thirteen Hollows, captured by Hunters working for the Academy, loathed what they had become and begged for mercy. The Academy had plans to expand further and granted them the power to rule over the new organization they called the Institute. Aero was the only one of the founders to actually roam freely. No one has ever seen the other twelve but their names are well known.

“What did you find out about the last missing victim?” Zack asked, bringing Dylan’s wandering mind back to earth. He took the folder and opened it, forcing his exhausted eyes to read the words on the page.

“Young female, age 19, blond hair, blue eyes…” he read aloud, muttering the rest until he got to the new information he discovered. “ Last known destination was Kensington Gardens, west of here. Missing person report was filed this morning…no body, no evidence…she just vanished.”

Zack rose to his feet. “Alright, let’s get out of here…the more we keeping moving, the more we’ll get closer to it.” His eyes blazed with determination and worry for all the people in the city. The younger brother nodded, gathered his things and stuffed them in his brown leather saddle bag next to his feet. He heaved the bag over his shoulder and followed Zack out the door, pulling up his hood from his jacket to shield him from the rain.

Together, the brothers walked on the sidewalk toward their hotel. "We have to be more careful this time, Dylan..." Zack muttered over his shoulder. "The Institute can't always cover our tracks."

Dylan knew, the last couple cases they were close to being arrested by the police. Even though they were saving lives, civilians never believed that they were in danger of something dangerous and supernatural that they thought never existed. Hollows still had the appearance of a Human, except for their unusually pale skin and smallest sign of a fangs. They're teeth were never as dramatic as Dracula, or in the movies. Dylan snorted. "Yeah, I know."

After several minutes of walking in silence, Zack and Dylan reached their destination and opened the doors to the hotel. Inside the lobby were all kinds of people. Normal people, some traveling for business others just for touring. Zack's eyes sweeped the room, until they locked with another pair of warm honey gold orbs.

"You find anything?" a female voice echoed in his head. It belonged to those gold eyes.

Zack shook his head, and thought "Not really a couple details but nothing crucial, meet us in the room. We'll figure out where to go from there." He couldn't read her thoughts, but she could read his. This he knew, because she was a Hollow and that was one of their quirks. He turned to his brother, "Estella's already here...we'll meet her up in our room." he muttered. Dylan nodded, silent as they both climbed up the stairs that led to room 215, yellow eyes watching intently.

Zack took out the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door, checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had followed him just for precaution. Once he was convinced that it was safe, he swung the door open and stepped inside, Dylan behind him, flipping on the light. The room was small and had the basics of what anyone needed. Two beds, a lamp, a desk, a small TV with rabbit ears, and a separate room for the bathroom.

A woman about their age, stood with her back facing them as she stared out the window and down at the rainy city below. She turned around, with her arms crossed.

Her features were soft but fierce, wavy long brown hair past her shoulders and striking gold eyes. She was small in size but the aura around her said that that didn't matter at all. She was pale, and as she smiled...fangs. "So what's the news? Something good, I hope." she said, her voice was had a light British accent.

Dylan dropped his bag next to his bed and sat on the edge of it. "We didn't find much, Estella, just some descriptions about the victim and where she was last seen.

Zack took off his leather jacket and threw it on the unoccupied bed, that he claimed as his from day one. He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms as well. "What about you? Anything strange on your part?" he asked.

"I've got nothing. I got a faint scent...but it's too old to follow, they might've moved by now. Whoever they are, they're good...and obviously are trying very hard at not wanting to be found." Estella replied, turning back to look out the window.

Estella was one of the few Hollows that were born into the Academy and raised to fight their own kind. It was useful when human instincts couldn't go any further. She was hesitant at first, not sure if this was a really good idea to turn on your own race but she agreed when she found out how bloodthirsty and vile the Hollows were. She was put on Zack and Dylan's team after meeting both of them in a combat course and taking a liking to them.

Zackary heaved a long sigh, as he ran his fingers through his disheveled blond hair. “We've got to try harder, people are dropping like flies and getting more and more worried by the second.”

“You don't think we know that, Zackary? We're just as frustrated as you are, and we're doing our best and it's not just us, the Academy has got Hunters and Trackers posted all over London. We just have to be patient and do our part.” Estella explained, a steely edge in her tone.

“That's not good enough, Stell! Our code is to save lives, and we're not doing such a buck up job on that!” Zack yelled, glaring at the woman.

“Calm down, both of you!” Dylan interjected, feeling the uneasiness in his stomach from the tension in the air. “We'll figure this out, but arguing over it isn't going to buy us time!”

Thick silence came between the trio, until a screams broke it. Dylan jumped his feet, and Zack whipped out a silver gun both bolting for the door. Estella was already throwing it open and stepping into the hallway. Several doors down, was a hunched figure over a limp body. It's raised it's head, blood dripping from the corners of it's mouth. Estella held her breath, as her eyes stared directly into it's cold ice blue ones.

Zack was the first to take action, he raised his gun and fired. It screamed in pain, and took off running towards him, leaving the bloody body behind. He kept firing, but the Hollow didn't stop, it just kept it's deadly gaze at the Hunter. Zack took several steps back, but it's speed was incredible as is knocked him aside and into the wall. All the oxygen in Zack's lungs went out with a whoosh as he sank to the floor, immobile for a couple seconds.

“Zack!” called Dylan as he rushed to his brother's side.

Zack took in a sharp breath and managed to say, “Go!”
Estella had already begun the chase, vaulting over the stair railing and taking off out the door, the sound of shocked screams not even having time to reach their ears from moving so fast.

Dylan helped Zack up to his feet, still worried that he was injured. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I'm okay, thanks. C'mon, Stell's on his heels.” Zack said, still a little winded as he started off as a quick jog with his younger brother behind him. Soon the picked up the pace to hard sprint, knowing that they were going to have to work hard to try to keep up with a Hollow.

Estella's breathing hadn't even quickened as she tore down the streets after him. He turned a tight corner and started to climb his way up pipes and ledges to the rooftops. She was right behind him. His scent was strong, blood, alcohol and another she couldn't identify. It was different from the scent she found this morning. “Zack, hurry it up! He's too fast!” She thought. Then she felt his thoughts as she read them, buzzing in her own mind.

“Keep on him! We'll cut him off!”

She nodded, more to herself than anyone else. She pushed on harder, closing the gap between them. He slid to the edge and dropped between the two buildings, still running away from her. Estella jumped and landed gracefully on her feet in a puddle, causing rainwater to splash in different directions. She took off in a sprint to regain her speed. He turned another sharp corner, she followed.

The brothers ran as hard as their human legs could. Dylan was by Zack's side the whole time, he knew he could push faster but he didn't want to put any more stress on Zack's lungs, from being winded. Their breathing was uneven and heavy as the turned the first corner, then several miles later, the second.

Something hard and stiff suddenly struck the side of Dylan's head, sending his glasses flying and landing on the wet ground, cracked. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious as black boot crushed his glasses.

“Dylan!” cried Zackary, he tried to move toward his brother but a strong hand caught his throat and pinned him up against the wall, 3 feet off the ground. Zack cried out in pain, when his head impacted with the concrete, stars popping up in his vision. He fought to stay awake. He looked down a thick muscled arm and saw a huge Hollow, accompanied with 4 others. Estella was in the same state as Dylan, sprawled out on the floor.

“Zackary Frost...we've been waiting for you.” said one of the Hollow, a small female wearing a long white coat with the letter “A” on the breast pocket.

Zack struggled, but the massive arm retreated and slammed him against the wall. Darkness over took him.

Preface

Everything was dark and completely silent. One could assume the time to have been one or two in the morning, when the world was still warm in their beds fast asleep.

The fog from the earlier rain rolled in, adding the picturesque scene. Thunder rumbled dimly from far away the tiny houses of London England trembled in fear, not wanting another storm.

A slender figure was walking slowly, its steps full of caution when she turned around the corners of tall buildings. It looked around, head continuously swiveling left and right as if it was checking to make sure it wasn’t being followed. A street lamp above flickered to life and cast an odd shadow across the face of the figure.

It was a woman. Pale blonde hair, matted with dirt and grime spilled in curls past her shoulder blades. Her soft, frightened brown eyes darted in every direction and her breathing was slow, but deep as if she was trying force her lungs to take in slow incoming oxygen to calm herself down. Her heart pounded furiously against her restraining ribcage, pumping thick, red viscous fluid through her spidery veins.

A shadow emerged, like the night, silent and stealthy. This figure was cut out like a man. Small and lean, but his muscles were visibly coiled, ready to pounce at his victim.

Her back was to him as she kept looking left and right, failing to check behind her. He could hear her fluttering heart get faster and faster almost as if she sensed he was close but efforts to see him were futile. He could smell the fear radiate from her skin, as well as her denial and confusion of reality and he couldn’t help but smile.

His upper lips curled back revealing a pair of barely noticeable, but distinct fangs. His eyes were bright azure, empty and cold as he walked forward slowly. No sound was audible from his footsteps when he continued to advance forward. He had been to patient for too long.

A low hiss escaped from his throat and the woman suddenly became immobile. The fine hairs of the back of her neck rose and her heart distributed ice to her limbs, numbing her fingers and toes. She whirled around in pure horror.

“Go on,” he taunted, “Run...Scream, they won't hear you.”

Everything happened in a split second. He pounced at her and a bloodcurdling scream ripped from her throat only to be muffled by a crack thunder. The rain began to pour again, soon to wash away the red stains.

Welcome!

So, here it is, the Writing through Literature 2008/09 Blog. A few guidelines, folks:
This is a place to share your voices, your poetry, your prose.
I fully support your freedom of expression but also expect you to use your best judgement. Don't post anything that might be offensive to another reader. Don't use bad language unless it makes sense in the context of the piece, and even then, think before you post.
You absolutely may not post anything rude or unkind about someone's else's work. We critique in class. Here, we share and support. So, comment on each other's work in a positive manner...

With that said, post your work. Write. Read. Express!