The Ghost That Still Haunts Me In Dreams

Okay, so I was chatting with Thomas the other day; he's a close friend of mine. And he was telling me that the way I write dialogue is one of my strengths. Yay me! But I had to let him in on a long-held secret. And before I confessed this to him, I told him that only my husband knew of this secret before I told Thomas. And now I will finally come out of the writing closet and share it with everyone, because really, what are writers if not people with secrets and stories to tell. Can you imagine that one? A writer without a story to tell? That would be like a star that didn't twinkle, or a frog that didn't ribbit...and no, I'm not comparing myself to a ribitless frog...I have plenty of ribit in me, which brings me out of my distraction and back to my confession to Thomas when he complimented my ablility to write "natural sounding conversation". He pointed out that a lot of writers miss the mark on this. I'm afraid I have to agree. You can't imagine how many books I've read where the characters convos are so...oh what's the word I'm looking for...oh...unnatural (thanks Thomas):)

I mean, really, when was the last time you went up to a friend and said something that would make an English teacher proud, without feeling like a complete idiot who turns heads but not in the good way? Anyone????

I thought as much...

Can you imagine me walking up to someone I've known for years and saying something like, "Hello Linda. We must not be late for class today. The teacher surely has something fascinating to say, which we will no doubt need to know in the future."

Come on!

I'm more like, "What's up, woman?! Why don't we skip the trauma and go get some lattes?"

I know...I know...I did it again...I lost myself...But can you blame me..what with my mind racing and all that. I swear if I could bottle the engery my mind exudes most of the time, I'll be standing on the corner of the nearest Weight Watchers, pushing it to all the people coming out with glazed looks on their faces.

Anywho, so yeah, my confession. I don't want to build it up or anything. I mean, it's not like I'm confessing to a years-long crime that you will suddenly think back to and say, "Oh my god, that was her?!"

So when Thomas told me that dialog was one of my strongest abilities, I told him that it actually used to be one of my weakest points.

she bows her head in shame....

You see...

and the story begins...

About eight years ago, give or take (I'm not a calendar with arms)...oh wait...I just got ahead of myself for a second..

Let me take you back really quick...no, I mean really quick...I wouldn't want to get distracted again, cuz that would surely draw some eye rolling, finger drumming, and quite a few demands that I get to it. But where's the fun in that, huh?

I mean I could just simply, and in the most boring of ways, tell you like this: I tried to write a novel, hit a brick wall, and thought I was never going to fulfill my dream of being a writer.

Or I could tell you like this.....

I have wanted to be a writer since I could hold a pencil and locate the nearest blank wall to scribble on. I grew up writing...sometimes scenes, a lot of times it was poetry. My high school even wanted me to read one of my poems (about graduation and impending adulthood) to the audience at...you guessed it...graduation.

Oh god...graduation day! That was a nightmare I will never forget...a show of utter humiliation...a story that still knocks people to the floor laughing...a blight on my last day in the the presence of every gosh darn senior there, and numerous staff, and a few gardeners...oh and the janitor, can't forget him. I didn't see him anywhere, but I know he was lurking around waiting for some student to make a complete ass of him/herself.

isn't it sweet that I could oblige him so undeniably?

NO! I was there. You weren't. There was nothing sweet about me fa.....crap, I almost gave it away. My shame is still rather fresh, even though it was years ago.

she shakes her in grim rememberance....

I know, I did it again...sue me...but I'll just sue you right back and for more than you're suing me for.

So where was I...oh yes...the "confession about my writing past."

Well, the years pounced along, and while I had developed quite a history with writing, I had always wanted to delve into the world of novels. But, and I'm sure every writer can relate here, I couldn't come up with a story worth spending years of my life on, writing and editing and all that went with it.

I mean, I always knew what I liked to read, and there was a rumbling in my belly for a long time to write horror (such a horror fan). Every time I read a horror novel, or saw a horror flick, I'd just hear parts of a story writing itself in my head...clearly at these points, I'd have to rewind the movie cuz my mind had wandered.

Are we seeing a pattern here....

Anywho, one day, about eight years ago...yes we're back....relax already, will ya...Geez! I was at home, just laying in bed, cuz, you know, I wanted to, and it's my bed, so it's my choice. My husband was at school that day, and I was looking at an entire day of nothing but me and my thoughts to get me through. I love the alone time with my thoughts sometimes:)

And we're back....

So there I was, and suddenly, I heard a few words in my head...and this is always a good sign. That's really all it takes to get my proverbial writing fingers a crackin'. This is actually how I've written every poem I've ever penned. I hear a few words and BOOM, out of that, I get so many more...as you can see....

Stop laughing...I know...I know....

So I jumped off the bed, pretty much in a zombie-like state, hearing the words, and seeing the images I just had to write down. I went to my computer, and the next thing I know, it's eight hours later, my husband is walking through the door, and I had forty-five pages of a novel I had aparently just written cold and in one draft. No the novel wasn't 45 pages long...it's all I had written that day.

Now, don't get me wrong...it's not like I shut down and was taken over by a secret persona I never knew existed inside me. That's called Schizophrenia.

No, this was more like I was possessed. I was there, but I wasn't. I had sat there for 8 hours, no food, no water, no bathroom break, cuz I'd had no food and no water, and all I'd done all that time was typetypetypetypetype.

Of course my possession was broken when my husband got home. It was like I had suddenly woken up. I looked at the screen and saw that I had written something. I was so excited, I had to read it. So I did, and quite animatedly to my husband, who always loves listening to me read to him.

I was so proud of my accomplishment, cuz honestly, it was damn good...especially for a first timer who had no plan, no plot, no clue as to where it would go from there. My husband showed me the support he is famous for (love him::):)

And then said, "So what happens next?"

I must have taken on a look not unlike that of a deer caught in the headlights, cuz he suddenly threw in, "You should really think about it."

I rolled my eyes and assured him I knew I had to think about it. In fact, I started thinking about it right then, out loud, to him. I started yapping....

"What about if I make Sarah go here and....And then Chris can....And the Ghost can....can what? This is where I started scratching my head.

My husband smiled and said the following, which he never lets me forget, even today, "You should plan out the story. Develop your characters. Decide where you want to take it. And then get back to the book."

But I wanted to write. Phisaw to planning, I said. Who needs a plan when you're got 45 whole pages of a story that was going to be great?

"Don't worry about it," I said.

"I'll always worry about you. I don't want you to hit a brick wall and walk away from what you love," he said.

"You'll see. I don't need to plan. It's writing itself. Brick walls be damned!" I said back.

"Go for it," he offered with a concerned look on his face.

Yes, it's that clear in my head even today...hence the title of this confession...the ghost that still haunts me in dreams...

Yeah, he knows me. He knows I would never just walk away from something I cared about. So he backed off and gave me the time I needed...to sit in front of the computer, and stare longingly at the 45 pages, which were quickly become less appealing upon my realization that, once again, he had been right. I had no clue where to take the story. I thought and thought and thought and imagined and thought some more.

Nothing!

I was drawing blanks faster than...well, what difference does it make how fast I was drawing a blank...I was drawing a blank...point "blank" and simple!

And as for the grand confession to Thomas regarding my "great strength in writing"...the dialog was about as interesting as hearing someone share with me their fascination with the little little holes often found in ceiling tiles. And it was about as "natural" as a sit-down with a dull, grammatically correct 90yr old woman running off at the mouth about how things were better back when she and her family broke bread with the dinosaurs.

Sometimes, I'd wake up at night, thinking about the story, crying "Why? Why can't I do this? I can talk! So why can't I write people talking in a way that's not a sure cure for insomnia?!" And when my husband's back was turned, I'd throw my arms up and curse silently about this stupid ghost story that was deader than the main dead man himself. And I'd dream about cars driving to dead end roads, met only by great amounts of rambuncious laughter and pointing by faceless people, who no doubt were agents and publishers.

I couldn't understand why the dialog was so blahblahblahblah dull and as flat as the paper I had printed it on. I mean, I'm a talker, folks. It's what I do. I can start a conversation with anyone, anywhere, in any situation, about anything. So why couldn't I bring that to my greatest passion? I scratched my head for so long, I started uncovering my natural hair color.

And then, I gave up; something I rarely ever do in life. I'm a perfectionist, you see. When I get interested in something, I hit it full throttle and never walk away until I've mastered it. So why this story? Why had it stumped me so?

And then I figured it out. And I admitted this enlightenment to my husband, but not before I insisted he go into another room so I wouldn't have to see him take on that "I told you so" look that he had had ample time and opportunity to perfect in the years we've been together.

When I finished telling him...via intercom...that he had been right...again...he came into the room, hands on hips, smirk on face, and said, "Now are you going to plan it out?"

I stuck my tongue out at him, and crossed my arms. He laughed and hugged me and assured me I was a great writer, but that I needed to figure out where I wanted to take any story before heading down that road.

He was right okay! He was right! I know! He knows! We all know!

And I love him for it:)

So years passed, and when I started hearing the rumblings of another little story in my head, I decided it was really a great idea, and I didn't want to cover it in fudge this time...so I took a year, and planned every conceivable detail needed to bring this book to life...to give life to the world...to breathe life into my characters.

I mean, we're talking serious detail here....people, the clothes they wear, the food they eat, where they shop, where they play, how they play, how they love, laws, rules, crimes, cops, maps, architecture, not to mention a detailed bio on every single character that would appear in the book...even the ones that had only one line.

We're talking SERIOUS detail and planning (thanks Honey). And I always said since day one of project X, that I would know when I was ready to start writing the story.

Eventually, I started hearing the characters talking to me...and not in the "I can hear the voices--can you hear the voices?" way. More like, my main character would flat out oppose his saying something I was thinking about, claiming it was not in his character to say such a thing.

The dialog was tapped into, and Thomas said it was natural.

And now, here we are, and that little project X became a series of books. And that first book has a boy named David. His story is one involving the search for someone very important, the discovery of something very dark, and the development of one of Elder City's greatest heroes.

So I say to you all, never give up, never stop trying, and always take the advice of the one who loves you the most...because that person will never lead you down the wrong path:)

One day I'll get back to that ghost story and I will finish it, and I'll be damned if even one character spews anything that can put an insomniac to sleep! Because even today, that stupid ghost still haunts me in dreams with his bruhaha about getting beaten down by a fictional character!

I won't be beaten down!

The Newcomers

The newcomers Looking into my teacher's sunken, dull, brown eyes, all I could think that day, was, who the hell did she thinks she was, that woman? She was short and unimposing, spilling over with the air of someone who had fallen into the job of teaching dreamers how to write. Part of her job, she must have thought, was to squash their aspirations. She had given me a 'D' on an assignment wherein we had to write a paragraph that would be part of a story we were not required to complete. I wrote what was essentially a random paragraph from a story that had been floating around in my head; a story involving a girl who wanted to be a writer more than anything in the world, who went to great lengths to get her work published; having loved writing since I was thirteen-years old, I could relate to her desires. But, no! That woman stood there telling me I had been given the grade my work deserved, mostly in part because she hadn't understood what I had written. I explained to her that I had chosen to write a first-person narrative to draw the reader into the mind of the character. She hadn't gotten it. I told her she was the only one who hadn't—and then I left. My confidence secretly shaken, I went on with my life, working a dead-end job, living paycheck-to-paycheck in my little town, where nothing ever happens; all the while, I was bombarded with images, scenes, and characters, that, in my head, had all taken on lives of their own. Time raced along, and still, at age twenty-seven, not a minute went by that I didn't think about writing, or long to sit at my computer and let my fingers take me away from the boredom of my life. This happened often; I'd hear in my head, a few words, which sounded like an interesting element of some story, but then it would go nowhere. My most recent idea involved a young couple and the vengeful ghost living in their new home. Common—yes. Intriguing—it could be, but not enough. I was desperately searching for 'THE' idea that would take me away from this place where dreams come to die, and since it was the freshest concept in my mind, I sat down at my computer one day and began letting my fingers race across the keyboard at record speed. I felt possessed. I sat there for eight hours that day without so much as a bathroom break, and when I finally took a breath and sat back to read what I had written, all I could think was, Wow, this is really good; but then what? I was stuck. I had written forty-five pages of what could be a great book. But since I was running on inspiration alone, the well eventually ran dry. I didn't know where to take it next. I remember pondering this for months, finally giving up on it, thinking that although the writing was great, the story itself was juvenile, not worth completing. My next solid idea came from a most unlikely source; a children's book. I loved it, and realized that writing for kids was something I might enjoy doing. So I set out to build the ultimate magical world. I created the characters and every single element I could to bring this world to life. I planned each book and everything involved in an eight-year story arc. The end result was a truly great first book. After it was completed, I set about finding an Agent, thinking someone has got to pick this up; but no. Almost thirty rejection letters later, and nothing. Maybe it was me, I thought to myself. Was my isolation and inexperience showing in my writing? When I received the rejection letter from the last Agent I had queried, I was crushed, but enlightened by her advice; she wasn't drawn into the book enough. I realized then that I was never going to write about anything others would want to read about until I had experienced something other than an isolated, uneventful life. I had to get away from that bubble. But how do you do this when you are so 'protected' that despite your age, your mom doesn't want you moving to another city, where you would most likely find what you were looking for? In my family, it's unheard of for a child to move away to another city, and if they dared, they would be made to feel guilty beyond belief; I imagine guilt is something mothers learn to master when their kids are growing up. Desperate to get my work published, I went in search of other alternatives, when one day, not too long ago, I came across a short story writing contest that promised publishing of the winner's work; and the bonus—a five thousand dollar prize. I knew having something published would be a great asset in acquiring an Agent. I had only two months to plan, write, and perfect something before submission. I was excited, but then I thought, who am I kidding? Me, win something? I pushed those doubts aside and set out to find an idea. I thought about it day-in, day-out for weeks, coming up with nothing. Time was ticking away and life was going on around me, while I lived only in my head, going through the motions of daily work and family. My mind was never where others needed it to be—but it was where I needed it to be. I had to get out of that town and experience life before I could write about it; not just for the contest, but for myself and my career as an author. I told my mom I was going to New York for a few weeks. Shocked and afraid for me, she told me it was a dangerous city. "How could I even consider going there alone?" she asked me. She had started to play her guilt card; I didn't want to play her games, so I told her not to worry, and under her continued protests, I left. I flew out this evening, feeling excited, freedom rumbling around in my stomach like an army of butterflies. So now, here I am—on the flight. I look around at all the people. The plane is almost full to capacity. The sounds of whispers race along this expensive sardine can like a sheer mist. Shortly after we take our seats and get comfortable, the old woman next to me asks me what I do for a living. It takes me a moment to answer as I work up the courage to tell her I'm a writer going to New York City in search of a story. I wait for her to laugh or make that all-too-familiar sound people make when they doubt someone's ideas. She doesn't laugh, but she probes no further. She smiles, says [How nice for you], and then she turns her attention to her copy of Modern Maturity. I feel a twinge of embarrassment creep onto my face when I look away from her. In front of me, a brown-haired girl, probably no older than twenty-years old, is reading a book, which looks older than her. Wow, I think to myself, people actually do read in the real world. I know it sounds stupid, but people just don't read where I come from. They either have the attention span of a three-year-old, or they just don't care what happens between the pages of a book written by someone they don't know. So imagine my surprise when I see that there are actually people out there who take interest in things that don't involve everyday life. And just when I think spying on the girl can't get any more interesting, a tall, dark-haired guy approaches her and says it's a great book. I see the girl's profile when she smiles up at him, and I don't see the blank look on her face that I'm used to seeing in all the faces of the people who live in my town. "I know," she says to him. "I can never put it down once I start." She asks him to join her; next to her is the only empty seat on the plane. They talk and laugh and share stories about their lives for the duration of the flight, during which time I discover that he's a med student and she's a secretary. They look like they would make interesting friends. I've never felt a connection with anyone back home. No one I've ever met has ever shared my interests, my hopes, or my dreams. There, I have no one I consider a close friend. I have only acquaintances, none of whom I've ever cared to spend more than twenty minutes with at a time. Twenty-seven years there and everyone has bored me every minute of every day I was around them. But these people on the plane, they look interesting. I feel like an anxious prisoner about to be freed from the cell I was born in. I'm listening to a conversation about the lives of total strangers, and none of it involves meaningless day-to-day activities that a programmed robot can't carry out. The hours roll by, and sure, I have no doubt that the things these two talk about are nothing out of the ordinary for this guy and gal. But for me, it's like peeking into the windows of people's lives—getting a glimpse of what goes on in the world, while I'm sitting around continually making plans to join it. I spend the flight taking down notes. Every few seconds my eyes are drawn to the window, and I find myself looking out into the dark night, wondering what the people down below are doing at the moment, and what will happen once I get to New York. My mind wanders to the seedy streets and to the dangers I've come to believe lurk around the city's corners; I have only books and movies to go on. I have no idea what to expect there, but I have no doubt I will know what I'm looking for when I find it. My stomach churns when I see the lights of Manhattan come into view; it's a nervous energy, like a hunger I can't wait to feed. There it is…THE city. The center of the publishing world, rising up like a sea of beacons, all reaching into the sky like it was a contest. A contest. I laugh to myself nervously, remembering that a contest is what has brought me here. I smile to myself just as the pilot turns on the seatbelt sign. I look around at all the people, some of whom begin to gather up their belongings, and I wonder why these people are going to New York. The girl in front of me starts to collect her things when the plane begins its descent. "Why don't we grab a drink when we land?" the guy asks her. She agrees. I have lived my whole life in a bubble, and now, here I am on my way to the world, and before I even get there, life begins. I could very well be witnessing the beginnings of a relationship that will one day find these two people telling their grand kids of how they met on a flight to New York. I smile to myself, and I feel the butterflies raging around inside once again. I can't wait until we get there. The minute I step into the terminal, I find myself overwhelmed by the amount of people in the airport. It's crowded, and it's loud, and it's exciting! People are walking fast, talking on their phones, and exchanging angry grunts with the people in their way, as they race to catch their flights. This, for me, is a rare treat; back home people only walk outside when they have no car, or when it's in the shop. Public viewing of other people is restricted to stores and traffic because of the intense heat you feel when you step outside at noon, the sun blazing hot and unbearably bright. It's a place where the seasons never change and neither do the people. They all listen to the same type of music, eat the same type of food, and talk about the same boring stuff; it's like an insomniac's dream world. I hate it! I stop a moment, and I look around, and I take a deep breath, trying to take in as much of this energy as I can. I try to memorize the image of the world moving around me as if I was the one standing still. The truth is, being here and seeing this rush of activity makes me realize just how still I've been standing for twenty-seven years. I feel a tear form in the corner of my eye, partly from joy, but mostly from knowing that I've missed so much. But not anymore. I already love it, and I've only been here for about a minute. Distracted by the euphoric feeling flooding my veins, I find myself being bumped into by the girl from the plane, her new friend smiling at her side. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry," she mutters as she bends down to help me retrieve the contents of my purse. Her new guy waits patiently for her to finish helping me; how rude is it that he doesn't offer to help me as well? All my things gathered back into my five-dollar purse, I dust off my jean-clad thighs. The girl smiles, and I thank her, and she walks away with her new guy. My eyes follow them for a moment, and I remember they're going to get a drink. I head their way, thinking a drink sounds good right now. I follow them for a short while as everyone from the plane makes their way over to the baggage claim. For a few minutes I silently reflect on how nice and unscathed every piece of luggage riding along on the conveyer belt is. Then I see my dad's boxy, beaten-up suitcase, which I'm told has seen more of the world than I have; it isn't saying much, come to think of it. My travel experience is about as extensive as a hermit's. Red-faced and anxious to catch the interesting couple from the plane, I quickly grab my suitcase, and I look around for them. I see them about fifteen feet away, their luggage rolling along behind them on wheels, while mine is almost unbearably heavy, clunking beside me, bumping against my leg. In the airport restaurant, the new couple sits together at a small round table in the far corner. The eatery is filled with travelers, all of them chatting and checking their boarding passes and laughing and talking about things going on in their lives. There are so many people everywhere; I just can't get over it. There's a buzz in the air—an energy that I take to, like it is the most natural thing in the world. Nothing like the airport back home, which was absolutely dead when I left, with only a few stragglers waiting to hear their flight called. But here… God...this place is so alive, and I haven't even gotten to the good part yet. The city that never sleeps. Some people might take that saying for granted—but if they lived where I live, they would say they come from a town that never wakes up. I try to contain myself as I make my way over to an empty table, where I can keep an all-too-interested eye on the couple from the plane; I notice the girl's awareness of me when she glances over at me in passing. She smiles, and I quickly turn away, and the girl turns her attention back to her new guy. A waiter comes over and asks what he can get me. A Martini, I tell him, and he smiles and saunters off. A few minutes later, he brings me my drink, and he asks if I'm new to the city. I tell him I am, and ask him what the first thing I should do is. We talk for a minute before a large man with a bald head and several tattoos peeking out from underneath his sleeveless black shirt comes bounding up to the waiter with a menacing look on his face; the edges of his shirt's cuffs are frayed where the sleeves should have been, jagged threads sticking out all over the place. The waiter is clearly startled by the big guy's sudden appearance. "What are you doing here?" the waiter asks the big guy. "This is where I work, man! I told you never to come here!" Fascinated by the intrigue of real life, I listen with hunger. "I want my money!" the big guy says in a deep, insistent, and very intimidating voice. "You'll get it! But not if I get fired!" The waiter looks at the now-staring eyes all around him and smiles awkwardly. The big guy takes a step closer to the waiter, a threatening look on his face. "Yeah, well, you better hope you don't because I've been more than generous with you and it feels like you're taking advantage of that. You have until tonight to get me my money—all eight thousand—and keep in mind that for every dime you're short, it will cost you a broken bone." A look of horror on his face, the waiter says, "I can get you half the money tonight—but the other half…well, I need a little more time." "Now, see, that's gonna be a problem…for you!" The big guy advances on the waiter, who winds up knocking me over just as I decide it's time to go before things get out of hand here. I stumble and fall to the floor. As I sit here in pain, my leg twisted, I try to get up. Suddenly I feel a pair of strong hands wrap gently around my arms. I get to my feet with the help of the chivalrous stranger, who then approaches the quarreling men without hesitation; his black-leather-jacketed back to me, all I can gather about him is that he is about average height and sports short, dark hair. "Hey, what the hell's wrong with you, you ape?" he says to the big guy. "She's a woman!" The stranger turns to me, and his eyes are practically cobalt blue, and my heart begins to race. "You owe her an apology," he says when he turns back to the big guy again, who immediately eyes at me over the shoulder of the waiter's black vest. "She's fine," he says with a disregarding tone. "Move along, man—before you get yourself into trouble." The stranger takes a step closer. What is he doing, I ask myself, wondering how far this is going to go. People are staring more intently now, and I feel my face turning red, and I want to run away from here before things go any further…but I can't move. I'm intoxicated by the events unfolding before my inexperienced green eyes. "Just because she isn't hurt doesn't mean you don't owe her an apology!" "Well I say it does!" the big guy says through gritted teeth. "Now beat it!" He pushes the stranger roughly, and without pause the stranger pushes back, and within seconds, a fight breaks out between the big guy and the one who came to my rescue. If looks are deceiving then this stranger must hold the corner on the market of deception. He looks more like a slice of mid-western pie than a street-smart New Yorker. Lost in my thoughts, I barely absorb what's happening, when all of a sudden, the stranger plants one on the big guy's jaw, sending his head spinning with a sickening crack. The stranger then turns to me, and grabs my hand, and grabs my suitcase, and says it's time to leave, which we do just as the big guy begins to take on the look of someone getting his head together. We're speeding through the airport, and my heart is racing even faster now. The stranger is holding my hand like a parent would in protecting their child, and I can feel the supple leather cuff of his sleeve rubbing against my wrist. I look back. No one seems to be following us, or even noticing us running, for that matter. Don't they think it odd that two people are running through the airport like guilty criminals? Then I hear someone say something that intrigues me. An older man smiles at me as I pass by him. "Only in New York," he says to his elderly female companion. His tone speaks volumes about the level of shock people must have to experience here before they blink an eye. I wonder if the old man would have said the same thing, had I chosen, for some insane reason, to walk around with a banana sticking out of my ear. Is this what they say here? Is this why no one has even blinked an eye about us running like we are? I realize now, that despite the frightening encounter with the big guy and the waiter, I feel oddly at home, comfortable, like this is where I am supposed to be; a natural fit. I'm smiling to myself when I see that the stranger begins to slow down; my arm feels like rubber. He lets go of my hand and we walk. "I think it's safe now," he says with a smile, and then he stops walking and looks at me. "Welcome to New York," he says with a sarcastic shrug of his shoulders. He has a kind face, very attractive with his intense blue eyes and full red mouth. "How'd you know it's my first time?" I ask him, and I can hear in my own voice, the innocence I must convey to anyone with ears. "Is it that obvious?" I feel my face grow hot. "I'm Jack." He extends his hand. I do the same. "Gaby. Gaby Green." "Well, Gaby Green how's that for a introduction to our city?" We start walking again. "So, where you headed?" "My hotel, I suppose." "Sounds like fun," he says, the sarcasm dripping from his voice once again, and I laugh. "No, no, really, I mean, locking yourself up in your hotel room on your first night in New York. You should open your own travel agency and use that as your logo. 'New York, Where Everyone Comes to Stay in Their Hotel Rooms'. Yeah. Nothing going on out here," he says as the exit doors we're approaching open, and I hear the traffic and the horns and the people and the announcements over the loud speaker, and my heart races. I'm in New York. I have got to be out of my mind in thinking that this city would ever allow me to just hole up in my room, while outside, the city cries out, "No! I will not be ignored!" "What did you have in mind?" I ask Jack boldly, and although this is not something I would ever consider doing back home, somehow it feels right, and wrong, and I love it. So I wait for him to tell me he wants to take me on a romantic carriage ride through Central Park, or to a dinner for two atop the Empire State Building. "Want to get a cup of coffee?" he asks instead; I've been watching too many movies; thanks, Meg Ryan. I accept, and we walk out to the curb, where the taxis are lined up and the people are yelling at each other over the commotion and the traffic and the need to get where they're going. My heart is beating so loud I can hear it in my ears. Jack leads me to a taxi, and after my ugly suitcase is stored in the trunk, we get in, and he tells the driver to take us to the Upper West Side. "How'd you know I'm staying in the Upper West Side?" I ask him as the driver pulls away from the bustling curb. "I'm stalking you," He says, and then he laughs, and after a split second I laugh too. "Actually, I live a couple of blocks from this great little place called, Big Nick's." We stop at my hotel, which is about fifteen feet from THE Broadway. The noise is unbelievable, and I love it. I love the energy in the air, the sounds of people, and the commotion of life going on around me despite the hour; where I come from, by this time people would be heading home for the night. And for the first time, I feel like I belong somewhere, and it's not somewhere I can only dream of visiting. I'm here, and I know at this moment I intend to stay. After I leave my suitcase in my room, we walk around the corner to Big Nick's, where Jack is greeted by a waiter he seems to know. We sit at a booth in the back, and the waiter comes over, and he and Jack laugh about something I know nothing about. The waiter's name is Ralph, he tells me as he takes my order, a bowl of navy bean soup. After Ralph leaves, Jack leans back in his wooden chair. "So tell me about yourself." I lean forward and smile. "I hate when people ask me that question. It's like telling someone to talk to you. I mean, what do I say? I was born in blah, blah, blah. Which is pretty much how I feel about my hometown." "And where's that?" Jack asks as he leans closer to the center of the table. I look him straight in the eye. "It's down south, near the Earth's anus." Jack breaks out laughing. "So what do you do?" Can I say it again? "I'm a writer." Even as the words seep out, I feel like a kid playing grown up. "That's great. You'll fit right in here." We talk, and we laugh, and we share stories of our own for about two hours, and I think about the couple from the plane, and I wonder if their night is going as well. We leave Big Nick's and walk, heading nowhere in particular. I like Jack. He's in the entertainment business, and is apparently so over-worked that he tends to avoid talking about it; that's what he tells me. He likes to read, and has a huge collection of old books at home. He has a circle of friends he spends most of his free time with, and he loves New York. We pass countless brick and stone buildings and honking taxies and people coming and going at a pace that I suppose only a New Yorker can understand. I see up ahead, a bar called, The Small Apple, its faded sign hovering over the entrance like a memory. The streets seem darker here despite the constant flow of cars and all the lights and all the people. I look around, and no longer recognize the area we're in as being close to the one we left behind a long while back. The growing chill in the night air races up my arms, leaving in its wake, a blanket of goose bumps. I turn to Jack, who's walking beside me casually, talking about a project he's currently working on. I'm barely paying attention to him. I can't help it. There are women standing on the sidewalks wearing practically nothing, and there are drunken men stumbling out of The Small Apple, while others are loitering out front. A few doors down from the bar, the red neon sign of a scummy-looking hotel is blinking on and off, and the 'H' isn't following suit. "What are we doing here?" I ask Jack and I hear the nervousness in my own voice. "We're just walking. Why? Do you want to go back to the hotel?" "No. No, it's okay. It's just that I—" I never get to finish. I'm interrupted by the sounds of an argument coming from somewhere ahead of us. Jack makes a beeline towards the shouting voices, and I follow him, and I secretly hope that whatever's going on in the alley Jack is now peeking into, it's nothing dangerous. I want to kick myself for the lingering feelings of cowardice that are rumbling around inside my head right now; a feeling, I suppose, that develops in people who grow up in a place where nothing ever happens. I whisper Jack's name, but he shushes me to stealth mode, and waves me over with a rapid hand gesture. I don't know why but something is not right here. I feel it. I'm scared. But this quickly passes when I look down into the dark, shadow-filled alley. And when the voices reach my ears, and I know I can't let them hear me, I realize how great mischief feels. "You've had plenty of time! Now where's the rest of it?" Their voices sound oddly familiar. I look at Jack, who shushes me again. "Maybe we should go?' I say quietly in his ear. He shakes his head and leans closer to the edge of the alley's mouth. "I told you," the second voice says, "I don't have it right now. But I can get it to you…tomorrow. Jus…Just give me until tomorrow." I realize now that the voices belong to the guys from the restaurant, and I feel a shudder run through me. I whisper in Jack's ear once again, insisting we go before they see us here. Jack smiles and makes a gesture that should have comforted me into believing that everything is okay; it doesn't work. Then, suddenly, a gunshot rings out into the night, and my heart is jolted. My hand flies up to my mouth, and I take a nervous step back, and I wind up hitting an empty soda can lying on the ground. The sound echoes out as if a bomb has just exploded, and the voices grow silent, and I hear heavy footfalls approaching from the alley. Jack steps back, joining me a second before the larger of the two men emerges from the shadows, pointing a gun at us. I feel my heart leap into my throat when the guy's face turns red, and he quietly demands we step into the alley. I can't move. I tell my feet to run away, but they don't listen. I look at Jack, and he's looking at me, clearly afraid as I am. "I said MOVE!" The red neon sign across the street glints on the barrel of the gun, and my heart starts to pound harder. Is this a dream? Can this really be happening? Just this morning I was back home, safe and unaffected by the realities people in the outside world face everyday. Now, here I am, staring down the barrel of a gun, terrified I might never walk away from this. "I'm not going to say it again." The big guy motions us into the alley with an angry wave of his gun-toting hand. The night is darker in the alley, or maybe it seems darker due to the growing sensation that we might not survive this, I don't know. I do know that lying on the dingy pavement not thirty feet from me, is a body, and I immediately recognize him as the waiter from the airport. I clap my hand over my mouth, and the big guy looks at me and tells me not to make a sound. "So…you like listening in on private conversations, do you?" He raises the gun to our faces. "Well let this be a lesson to you," he says as he looks at me. He then looks at Jack. "I owe you one for today, hero." He punches Jack in the face with the gun's handle, and Jack's head goes spinning as a large shiny spurt of blood rushes from his mouth. I let out a short scream, and quickly fall silent when the big guy approaches holding the gun on me. "What was that?" he asks and when I don't answer, he adds, "I thought so!" Bleeding from the mouth, Jack charges the big guy without hesitation, and the gun goes flying out of the murderer's hand. I see it slide over to a dented trashcan lid at my feet. I pick it up, and I turn to the struggling men, the gun held out. I see that brave as Jack is, he's no match for this guy, who quickly grabs him, spins him around, and rams his thick, tattooed arm under Jack's chin. Holding Jack, the big guy leans down, and draws, out of a strap around his ankle, a gleaming knife that looks to be around eight inches long, and he jabs it against Jack's neck, and he threatens to slit his throat if I don't drop the gun. I look into Jack's pleading eyes. I know he's scared. "Let him go!" I tell the big guy. He doesn't listen. "Let him go or I'll shoot." As soon as the words escape my lips, I feel a lump form in my throat, and I know by the look on the big guy's face he finds my threat empty. "You're not going to shoot anyone, lady! Now put the gun down before you do something you'll regret." I take a step back when he approaches me; me and the gun shaking in my hand. I feel tears form in my eyes, and I feel my cheeks grow hotter by the second. My heart is racing so fast it hurts. I'm so nervous, the sound the wind rushing into my ears startles me, and my eyes pop wide open. "Stay away from me! Look, just let Jack go and we can all walk away from this." "GABY, SHOOT HIM! SHOOT HIM!" "Don't listen to him." My eyes flick from the angry-looking thug threatening to slit Jack's throat, to Jack's face, all pale and afraid. His neck is already turning red where the man behind him is holding the knife; a knife that's now reflecting the red of the neon sign behind me. Jack's captor is about three inches taller than him, and this guy is much thicker, more muscular—clearly more powerful than Jack. My mind wanders for a second. Focus, Gaby! Jack is in trouble here! You're in trouble here! I just can't seem to help myself. I'm scared. What should I do? Can I really kill someone? Do I really have it in me? I know that if it was me being held by this guy, hearing his raspy voice ring in my ears, smelling the cheap alcohol carried in his hot breath, I don't know that I could be as calm as Jack is right now, and Jack is nothing close to calm. The look in his eyes when he pleads for me to shoot this thug…well, it's a look that I know will haunt me forever. "Put the gun down, little girl. You don't want to kill anyone, do you? Just put the gun down, and I promise to let you both go." He's looking at me like a hungry animal. Is he toying with me? What should I do? I look at the guy, then at Jack, over and over. Their voices are coming at me, entwined together, making hardly any sense. "Gaby, listen to me!" The thug presses the knife harder against poor Jack's neck. "Shut your mouth!" Then, he looks at me, his eyes ablaze with anger. "Have you ever killed anyone before?" He takes a few steps closer to me, pushing Jack along like a rag-doll. "Have you ever seen the look in their eyes when they realize their life's over?" "Gaby, no! Don't listen to him! Don't be afraid! He's seen our faces! He's not going to let us go. Shoot him! What are you waiting for?" Can I really do this? The thug moves closer, his movements nothing close to stealthy. My hand jerks outward; shaking, as my fingers make sure they're properly secured on the trigger. "Stay away from me!" I hear myself, but I'm so scared, it sounds like it's coming from someone else. Somewhere behind me, from within the dense maze of brick and stone, sirens sing out. Is this really happening? Are those cops coming to rescue us? Had someone heard the commotion and called them? I have to stall. "Do you promise to let us go?" I ask him, knowing that whatever he says, it will be a lie. The thug's face softens a bit. "I do. I promise to let you both go. Now, just put the gun down, and you can both leave." Hearing the sirens growing closer by the second, I look at Jack. Then I see a look of realization creep onto the thug's face. He hears the sirens too. He knows they're coming. And what will they find if they get here right now; a dead body, and a big guy holding another man by the throat, and a short, slender, red-haired woman pointing a gun at the big guy; all of us in the darkening shadows of a graffiti-filled alley that smells of urine and trash. "Hey, lady! I'm only going to tell you one more time. Put the gun down or he's a dead man!" I don't listen. It pisses him off that I don't. He smiles an evil smile, and slits Jack's throat effortlessly, and then tosses him aside with a dark look aimed at me. I hear myself scream, and then I see him coming at me, his dirty, bloodstained mitts outstretched. "Stay back!" I shout over the screams in my head. I look at Jack for a second, and I see his dead eyes looking at me, an accusing stare. I feel like throwing up. How did this happen? An hour ago Jack was alive, and we were walking, having a great time getting to know each other, and now…now he's dead, and I'm staring at his murderer, with nothing between us but the dark night and a smoking gun in my hand. I glance back over my shoulder and quickly blink away the blinding red light from the neon sign across the street. The alley is so long. I'll never get to the end of it before this guy catches me. I turn back to him to find that he's almost on top of me, only three feet away. And then, I hear an explosion, and I feel my heart leap into my throat. I look into the guy's face just as he looks up from the shiny, red hole in his chest, smoke spilling out. He looks into my eyes, and stumbles backward, holding his chest as if he can't believe he's been shot. I watch in shock and disbelief as he steps back and trips over an empty milk crate and falls to his knees and looks up at me again. And there it is—the look in his eyes; it's the look of someone who realizes their time is up. He had killed someone before. How could he have known something like that? Now, I know it too. I just witnessed a murder, and then I killed someone. How can this be real? I tell myself it's a dream; that maybe I'm still on the plane. I'm confused by the sprawl of dead bodies around me. I feel numb. Maybe it's shock, I tell myself. Later, it will kick in—the reality of what I've done here tonight. I killed a man. Will I feel it later? Will I want to turn myself in—confess so that I don't have to live with what I've done? Who knows? As I stand here, unable to move just yet, I feel something rumbling around inside me, inside my stomach. And then I feel something rising when my eyes fall to Jack and the other bodies all lying on the sticky, dirty ground like it's a video game. And I collapse to that ground, and I throw up the cheap airline scraps I was offered as a gesture snack on my flight here. The flight here… Thinking about it…it feels like it was a lifetime ago. I hear the sirens again, and as I make my way towards the end of the alley, I feel a thunderous clunk on the back of my head, and I feel myself go down. Everything goes black and cold. I feel a shiver run over me when my eyes flutter open, and I taste the dry leathery sensation that always finds its way into my mouth after I've been asleep for a long stretch of time. How much time has passed? I smack my lips together in the hopes that they will magically produce some much-needed moisture. Where am I? What time is it? I turn my head, and I feel the rough texture of cheap fabric scrape against my cheek, and I smell sweat and some sort of liquor as well as another odor; something strong and coppery. I look around, and immediately feel a sharp pain in my neck. I glance up. The tarnished mirror overhead shows the fabric of a yellow, dirty-looking bedspread twisted and wrinkled all around me, on a bed made up solely of lumps and god knows what else. I close me eyes and take a deep breath. I raise myself to a sitting position, and I feel like someone has been playing roulette with my head. I throw my legs over the edge, and let them rest on the crusty brown carpet. I take a deep breath, and the smell in the air hits me again. I cough and gag and cover my mouth when another wave of the rancid stench creeps up my nose. I feel around for my shoes, slip my feet into them, and stand up, looking around the very sleazy apartment I've just woken up in. The walls are all a pale, haunting green, which usually only shows up in movies where something bad has happened, or will very soon. The large colorful Christmas bulbs strung around the room bathes everything in a glow that only a cheap prostitute can appreciate. There's not an inch of this place that resembles anything I could ever be comfortable with. I walk over to the window and see scattered people coming and going as casually as if it were noon. Sirens are abound, as well as the sounds of people shouting, and music blaring, and dogs barking, all as if the night itself was crying out. I feel disconnected from the outside world; a feeling I'm all-too-familiar with; only now, it's for a very different reason. I am a murderer. I feel sick to my stomach. I leave the window and look for a bathroom. The minute I open the door, the smell of death hits me like a sledgehammer. I cover my face with the back of my hand, and glance over at the clear shower curtain that hangs half-open, revealing a sneaker-clad foot covered in red stains. I know I should just leave—run away from this place and never look back, but I can't. I have to know who's lying dead in the tub. I reach out a shaky hand, and I pull the curtain back. I almost scream, but I stop myself. The last thing I want, is to attract unwelcome attention to this little apartment with its tacky, bright pink bathroom and the dead guy, covered in blood, lying here with his murderer standing over him. That's right. The guy in the tub is the guy I killed tonight. But how did we get here? Who would drag a dead body up to this apartment and then bring me here to find him? I step away with every intention to leave and never look back, and that's when I see a note pinned to the dead guy's bloody chest, and my hearts skips a beat. The words, [I saw what you did!] are scribbled in jagged black print. I back away from the bathroom again, frozen, and then I hear a persistent pounding on the apartment door. "OPEN UP! POLICE!" Terrified, I stay as quiet as I can. I tiptoe over to the door and look through the peephole, and I see two cops, and I turn back to the window, and I see a gun lying on the floor next to the bed. After another savage pounding on the door, I grab the gun, and I climb out the window, and I race down the fire escape as quickly as I can. I don't stop even for the searing pain I feel when my hand is cut by a jagged piece of metal jutting out from the ladder. I make my way down to the street, and run, and I don't stop for I don't know how many blocks. I dip into an alley when I hear an approaching police siren. They're out looking for me—I know it. As I hide in the shadows, the spotlight from the police car breaks through the darkness of the alley, scanning it for a murderer. I stay as still as I can until the police car leaves, obviously satisfied with its sweep of this passage. I let out a slow breath, and let all the memories of this night come flooding back to me, and, hidden behind a trashcan, I cry as silently as I can. How can this be happening, I ask myself again when I feel the gun in my pocket. I take it out and examine it closely. I wonder how many bullets are left, and then I remember seeing in movies how people check to see if a gun like this is loaded, so I do it as best I can, and after much fumbling, I find no bullets staring up at me from the back of the gun. For now, all I can think is, how did I get here? Yesterday, I was someone who had never been out of her town; someone who had never left her little corner of the world, where nothing ever happens. Why did I come here? Then I remember. My story. The Contest. I came here to find out what's going on in the world outside my safe and boring existence. Is this life, though? Had I found the experience I'd been looking for? Or had I just been romanticizing what it would be like to live an interesting life? I stay hidden for about an hour or so before I crawl out of the alley, my mind made up. I'm going home. Maybe I'm not cut out for New York. I feel like a coward creeping to the surface in the face of this new fear. Do I not fit in…even here? I start walking, and I think of poor Jack. If he hadn't helped me, he would still be alive. I feel tears forming again. I hail a taxi, and I tell him to take me to my hotel. As the cab rolls along the streets, I see New York passing me by outside. I still can't get over how beautiful it all is, and how I would desperately love to stay here. But how can I? I'm not strong enough for this place…am I? I mean I killed someone tonight. Is that proof that I can take care of myself, or proof that I can't? My mind wandering, I sit back and keep looking out the window, when suddenly, I see something I can't believe. The intersection we're approaching is home to a small diner with large windows that face the street I'm now on, and in the window, is none other than Jack. My heart jumps, and I throw myself forward. "STOP THE CAR!" I shout to the driver, as I pound my fists on the plexi-glass that separates us. He stomps on the brake, and I tumble forward. I leap out, and I throw some money at him, and he speeds away without pause. I'm alone now, standing on a dimly lit street corner, staring into the window of a diner, where the guy who was supposedly killed is eating and laughing with a group of friends. I can't believe Jack is alive, but how? I saw his throat slit by the guy I killed, who I just now recognize as one of Jack's diner friends. But…I thought he…I just saw him in the apartment, dead. Anger rises in my throat like bile. I examine the other faces sitting around the table all laughing and talking animatedly with their hands, and I immediately spot the waiter who brought me my drink in the airport, and the couple from the plane, and the two cops from the apartment, and I have no doubt they're all enjoying the story Jack is telling them about the naïve girl he rescued from the guy sitting next to him. I feel rage and humiliation boiling up inside. The guy in the apartment was definitely dead…but who was he? Was he a victim too? I take a deep breath, and I feel for the gun in my pocket, and I decide then that I want answers, and more so, revenge. I want them all to know that Gaby Green is not the innocent she appears to be, not anymore. I stroll up to the diner, words floating through my mind, things I want to say to them, but I wonder if I actually have the courage to say them aloud. The very concept of anything like this happening to me is something I don't think I could have imagined before tonight. But here I am. I don't know who these people are. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into here. But I have a plan. I walk up to the entrance, and not one of them even blinks an eye when I open the door. I can hear them all, and their laughter makes me angrier. I train my focus on Jack's face; good looking Jack, with a kindness I had not expected to find upon stepping off the plane. How can he do this, I ask myself, and then I take a deep breath and several steps closer to them. I make eye contact with the girl from the plane, and I see her face when she sees me, and she stands up with wide eyes. "Oh my god!" Still wearing a smile, Jack follows her gaze, and he sees me too, and his smile fades away, and he rises from his seat just as the others glance up at me. "Gaby! We can explain! We—" "Sit down, Jack" I say quietly, and then I take another step closer. "You look pretty good for a dead guy." Even I can hear the bitter sarcasm in my voice. "So, what's going on, Jack?" He starts to rise again, but I wave him down. "Gaby…I…we… Listen, it was just a joke. You didn't kill anyone." My eyes fall to the big guy I had supposedly shot. He smiles, and he stretches his arms out as if showing me he is indeed okay. I look into Jack's piercing eyes, and I hate him right now for being so good looking. "Why? Why me? Do you have any idea what I've been going through?" I look exclusively at Jack; even in anger, I can't take my eyes off him. "We're writers, Gaby…just like you." "So?" "So, we go out looking for stories and—" My anger rages. "Stories? So…what," I say, cutting Jack's words off at the bone, "you take innocent people, and make them think they've committed murder? Then you leave them in a strange apartment with the dead body they supposedly killed, and then you bring the cops there with that dead body in the tub pointing his finger at your pawns? That's how you get your stories? You're all in on this?" I reach into my pocket as each one of them nods, and I pull out the gun, and Jack rises from his seat with a terrified look on his boyish face. "How can you do this to people, Jack? If that's even your name!" I can see the fear in all their faces. Jack looks at the gun in my hand, and his eyes fill with terror "Where did you get that?" I look down at the gun. "This? I believe this is the gun I used to shoot your friend here." Jack holds up his hands, palms out. "Gaby, please listen to me. You didn't shoot anyone. The gun only had blanks." "Blanks, huh? Well, that was then. This is now," I say, toying with him darkly. "Gaby, please just listen to me." "No! You don't have the right to ask me to do anything!" "But, you're okay. No one's dead! It was all a joke, so please, just put the gun down and we can talk about this." I bite my lower lip, and tighten my grip on the gun, and my heart is racing. "So who's the dead guy in that apartment you left me in?" The guy from the plane rises, and speaks up for the first time. "He's just some stiff I borrowed from school." I scan each of their faces. "And you," I say to the girl, "you guys meeting on the plane…that was all part of this 'joke'?" Jack tries to approach me while I'm distracted by the girl's shaky confession about her part in this. "Sit down!" I say to him, and I use my gun to point the way back to his seat. What the hell am I doing? I've got to end this before…before what…things get out of hand? Isn't this the very same thought I'd had earlier tonight when Jack came to my rescue? What if this is just another helping of their little writer's games; the next point on their 'to do' list. "How did you do it? How did you know to choose me?" Jack tells me that they switched his friend's body with a cadaver they had borrowed just to trick me. His explanation isn't good enough, as I still don't know why they had chosen me. "On the plane," the girl says softly, the shock and fear apparent in her large brown eyes. "Um…that's when I knew you'd be perfect. I heard you telling some old lady that you…" I stand there while this girl tells me how they had duped me because I was a perfect target; someone looking for something they felt they could only find in New York. Was she right? I was so sure I would know what I was looking for when I'd found it, and now, here it is, in my lap…an experience I will never forget as long as I live…and I, Gaby Green, the writer from nowhere, am discovering the truth by holding a gun on a group of people in a diner located on some dark, seedy New York street, like some sort of madwoman. It's in listening to the girl that I realize, not only have I been taken for a ride, but I have also been taken by the hand and shown a side of writers, that I know first hand, exists in all of us…the desperate need to be heard. The group is nervous and scared and trying to calm me down enough to get me to either walk away, or at the very least, drop the gun. But I don't. I look at Jack and at the girl and her phony boyfriend and at the waiter and the guy I had supposedly killed, and I smile the darkest smile I can muster. How can I really be angry with any of them? I should be thanking them for the greatest experience I've ever had. I should be thanking them individually for their mischievous part in all this, because while I came to the city a naïve and ignorant person, I know I will emerge a stronger one for it. I will emerge as the Gaby Green I should have been for a long time now. I will emerge as a writer who has found her story in a group of misfits. They babble on for a few more minutes before I let them off. The look of relief on all their faces is an image I will cherish forever. I stare exclusively at Jack for a full minute. I study his face, his eyes and the charming way he looks at me as if I'm his last salvation, and I lower my gun, and I walk away, but not without one last glance over my shoulder. "Thank you, Jack!" I say in a way that sounds haunting even to my own ears, and then I smile. "That's it? You're leaving?" he asks me, and then he seems to rethink his question when the girl slaps his arm as if to say, 'what are you…stupid? Let the nice girl with the gun leave if she wants to!' I indulge him nevertheless. "I'm done here. I found what I was looking for." I knew it was true. In meeting them all, I'd found what I've been searching for all my life. But through with New York…that will never happen. Because now I know that it is only in being here that one can truly appreciate the horror of what it would be like to have to leave a place like this, a place I loved a minute after getting here. No. I'm here to stay, I tell them. I walk outside and turn to the window for a brief moment, their faces are pressed up against the glass, each set of eyes waiting to see what I do next. I throw them one last bone when I pick up the payphone just outside, and I dial 911. I tell the dispatcher about the dead body in an apartment on a dark street in a lousy part of a great town, and that the people responsible for the body are all sitting in this diner. Several minutes later, I hear sirens wailing their way down the street, and I try to contain myself as I walk away. Do I feel guilty? Not even a little, little bit. Six months ago, I got off a plane in New York, a naïve traveler in search of herself, and somewhere along the lines, I found her. Now, as I sit here in my own New York apartment, and I think about Jack, I wonder what happened to him when the real cops showed up that night. I think about this as I open my mail, and find that the little short story entitled, The Newcomers, about an underground society of writers who go to great lengths for the one story that will make all their dreams come true, has won the contest that brought me here, and an unknown writer named Gaby Green will soon be published. I take a deep, grounding breath, and I plop down into my favorite oversized chair, and I kick off my shoes, and I read the letter again and again, tears pouring down my cheeks. Thank you, Jack. " © 2007 C. L. Freire

Lilly

LILLY

The October wind whipped against Lilly's skin without mercy as she made her way down Cove Street. Feeling as though something was looming overhead she tightened her tan coat and picked up her step. And then she heard something behind her; something like heavy footfalls. She glanced over her shoulder and peered into the darkness that hung over the street like a shroud.

There was nothing there; not a soul in sight; not a whisper of movement, save the rustle of the leaves that still clung to the oak trees; those determined little leaves blowing in the wind fighting to stay attached if only for one more night.

All Lilly could ask herself silently was why she had turned down the ride home Daniel had offered her. The party had long since died away, leaving in its wake an ocean of empty liquor bottles, a few drunken stragglers desperate to keep the party going, and the stink of whiskey upon Daniel's breath. No way she would have gotten into a car with him in his state, so she walked out into the night, alone.

But now…

She moved faster, looking back for the briefest of seconds, just long enough to make sure no one was following her; there was nothing there—nothing but the feeling that there was something there; a feeling that lingered like a song she couldn't get out of her head. Only shadows hung back, engulfing the lampposts that lined the old road; shadows that crept up the brick shops like phantoms.

Faster and faster she moved, her heart racing as though trying to urge her feet to keep up the pace.

"Lilly," a deep voice suddenly called out.

Lilly stopped cold. She turned back. Still nothing. Awash with a sense of impending danger, she ran, pushing herself harder than she had in all her years of hitting the treadmill.

And then the footsteps made themselves known, as though taunting her; and that voice—that voice that called out to her over and over.

"Lilly. L-i-l-l-l-y." And then it laughed; a sound that stirred every hair on the back of her neck.

Her house was just up ahead, salvation closing in.

The footsteps quickened, no longer taunting, but hungry.

Lilly didn't want to look back over her shoulder as she ran, but something inside her wouldn't let her refuse. And then she saw it; a figure leaning against a lamppost, staring at her from just up the street, its body twisted unnaturally. Lilly stopped running, unable to take her eyes of it. Frozen, her gaze lingered as though she was no longer in control of her own body. She felt hot tears pool in her eyes; felt the blood in her veins run cold; felt her heart thundering at a dangerous pace.

And then the figure reached out, and aimed a long blackened finger at her, and laughed again.

Lilly could feel herself shivering; she wanted to move; so badly did she want to get away. But she couldn't even lift her feet. Eyes wide and tearing more profusely, she saw the figure leave its lamppost. It floated over to her ever so slowly, bringing with it that laugh.

Its laughter was drowned out by the scream that ripped from Lilly's throat; a scream that was cut short with one swift flick of the figure's claw-like finger.

And all went black.

© 2007 C. L. Freire

Readers, Great Friends, and Buckets of Cheese

Okay, so I just wanted to let everyone know that my readership has grown a lot, so I wanted to thank everyone so much. As an author, my goal is to touch people with the words and ramblings that spill out of my mind like a never-ending river that winds around the world and doesn't even stop for the bumps in the way, but overcomes them with a ripple (did that make sense--hope so, it's the rambling affliction you see). I know, it sounds cheesy, but hey, who doesn't like cheese...well, I suppose those who are lactose intolerant, but then they too can appreciate the art of cheese, even if partaking in it could seriously damage the ozone layer with an abundance of fumes that often make others either laugh, or gag and laugh.

she rambles again....

So there it is. I love all my friends, and I hope to continue entertaining you all with the madness that is me, as clearly there is no end to the spillage....

Keep on reading. There is so much more to come......


On another front: my friends list is swelling at an exponential rate, and I love it because I am honored to meet so many GREAT people here, as I have and hope to continue doing. I have made sure to personally write to all my friends, to keep in touch with them, and in doing so, have become friends with numerous myspacers that truly deserve loads of KUDOS all around. Hugs to you all, my friends.May our road be a long one filled with countless meetings and smiles.

oops, the cheese rolls again:):)

Mrs. Freire and the Weird Stuff

Okay, so here's the skinny on the hubby's birthday. We had a great time. We went to this restaurant called, Barrio Latino. It was over in Aventura, which is a major drive from where we live. But hey, it was so worth it. It's an Argentinian eatery, where patrons are surrounded by bottles of wine and the tantalizing aromas of sizzling meat. So we orderer this dish called La Parillada. It was essentially a sampler dish, made up of an abundance of meat. It had like five different kinds, and it was all so eye-rollingly incredible from bite one to the last.

But here's the thing, I am a terrible patron, my friends. Terrible in the sense that no matter how wide a smile I am presented with at the onset of the ordering process, eventually, the server is either laughing or kindly nodding along while thinking to themselves in the darkest corners of the mind, "Why oh why didn't I call in sick today?"

Let me explain.

For instance, at this restaurant we went to on my husband's birthday, the server came over and took our orders for drinks. Now--I have always wanted to try a Mojito, as I've heard nothing but good things about this particular drink. And not to betray the Cosmopolitan (my favorite drink), I ordered the newer alcoholic enticement. All I can say is, when I tried it, I was like, "YAY! This is great. And then...the aftertaste kicked in and I was like, "Excuse me, but I don't like it. It taste strangely like wet grass that's been mowed recently and thrown into my drink." The server laughed so hard and kindly agreed to being me a Long Island Ice Tea (another fav of mine). Sorry Cosmo:(

So then, she started telling us about the dish we were going to order, and she pretty much lost me "Sweetbreads", which I hear comes from a strange place on the cow. I told her I wanted nothing weird on my plate, and if I could sub anything weird for the more commonly known forms of steak. She laughed again, and again, and again, and then agreed (after confirming with the chef). Ah the beauty of charming negotiation. So, by the time the dish came, everything looked so sharp and pretty because I'd already downed my drink.

AS I said, every bite was so great. I highly recommend this place to anyone seeking international fare in Miami with a Latin twist.

Then we came home and.....none of your business.

As for Bioshock. I installed it at midnight, while my husband was busy entertaining the TV remote with a bout of channel surfing. He had no idea what I was doing, but every few minutes asked, and since I didn't want to lie to him, because I never do, I told him I was downloading and installing an update, which I was cuz Bioshock told me it refused to take refuge on my computer unless it could offer the game the ridiculous update. So see, no lying there, only a half truth and that is never a lie.

So, the game is installed, and low and behold, the update betrayed me. The game doesn't work. I even had to exchange the darn thing for another, which I have yet to install for fear of wanting to hit the airport, book the next flight to where the develop lives and sleeps, grab a cab to his home, knock on the door very hard until he wakes up and answers the door in his stupid pajamas to find out who is ringing his bell at such a bizarre and disturbing hour, only to find me there, waving the game around, and grabbing his by the collar, demanding to know why he did this to us--produce a game we couldn't play whilst this pajama draped man flaunts it before us all over the net with promises of a great game that we can't play because it needs an update that doesn't work!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

she catches her breath and wrings her fingers in frustration in thought of Bioshock.....

So, there it is.

Expanding

Okay, so for those of you readers who've journeyed over from my Myspace blog--thanks for following me. I will be posting in both places, so you can access my ramblings at the destinaiton of your choice. More later--and more will definitely come as I tend to have a lot to say about many things, and have never once felt the need to contain my thoughts, and why should I when so many people have so little to say and others have an abundance of experiences to share with the world. So grab some coffee, kick back a spell, and enjoy. And as always, feel free to comment on your thoughts as they come. I look forward to it.

Cindy