NO TITLE BECAUSE I CAN'T THINK.

Feel free to suggest one, though.

-------

Tiffany Pierce. Tiff.

That was her name. Wasn't it? She couldn't remember anymore. Where was she, anyway? She couldn't tell. Wherever it was, it was moving. She slowly opened her eyes to take in her surroundings. She was in the back of a car. Glass separated her from the driver.

A taxi, Tiff thought, trying to sit up. She found her body was unresponsive, though, so she sat. She thought maybe she should be worried, but she was so tired and strangely happy that it didn't bother her. Why was she so happy again...?

Oh, she'd been on a date last night! Tiff smiled, slowly closing her eyes again. Yes, she'd been on a date with David. She remembered going out in her little blue dress, excited to be out. It'd been so long since she'd been out because of the accident.

Tiff shook her head violently. No! She didn't want to think about that. It'd ruin the happy.

Happy...

David's face, his white smile gleaming, swam into her foggy thoughts again. He as so nice. He always opened door for her and asked how she was. Always paid for the meal like a gentleman. He hadn't had a lot of money lately, so they hadn't been out in awhile. And the accident. But she wasn't thinking about that. She was thinking about David!

She slipped in and out of consciousness, unsure of how much time was passing. She didn't care about it, hough, she only cared about David.

Where was David, anyhow? he had his own car...a nice black one with leather seats. He'd never let her eat or drink in the car because of those seat. But he had one...so why wasn't she with him?

She opened her eyes and tried to sit up again. Her body hurt so much, though, that she couldn't. A soft groan slipped from her lips as she relaxed her body again. Tiff noticed there was a fur coat laid out on her. It was warm and pretty, but she didn't recognise it. David must have gotten it for her! How could she forget such a beautiful gift? She struggled to move her hand and feel the soft inside of the coat. It was wet; it must have started to rain.

Suddenly the taxi took a hard left and Tiff had to grip the seat to keep herself form falling out of the seat. The driver muttered a panicked apology and accelerated. Tiff muttered curses under her breath in annoyance, but soon she was back to her foggy state of glee.

Where was David, though? She was scared now. She wanted her David. Again, she slipped unto unconsciousness, but she couldn't help but worry about David.

She dreamed a little; there was so much darkness behind her eyes. Tiff could see nothing but felt the blows hit her body. They came in every direction, but no matter how she swung her fists out, she couldn't reach her attacker. She started to cry, wondering where David was. She wanted David back! Where was David?

The taxi driver slammed on the brakes and Tiff tumbled out of her seat. She cried out and tried to raise herself up but couldn't.

"Oh, shit!" the driver cursed, pulling off to the side of the road. The car stopped and he jumped out to help her back into the seat. His eyes were really wide. "I'm real sorry, lady." She didn't know why he was so freaked out. She was too tired to yell at him and too sore to hit him. "Are you okay?"

She grunted in response and he seemed to take that as a yes. Once she was back in the seat and wrapped tightly in the coat, the driver rushed back to the wheel and took off again. He was more careful about his stops and turns now, though, so Tiff didn't fly out of her seat again.

Now that she was pleasantly settled, she tried to remember her dream. It had been dark; that was all her tired mind could come up with. She deemed the dream unimportant and went back to thinking about David.

Their date was at a nice Italian restaurant. Though David hated Italian, he'd taken her there because it was Tiff's favorite place. He was so thoughtful that way.

A jolt of pain shot through her skull as the cabbie turned right. It brought the dream back, the pounding blows from a hidden untouchable assailant...and the accident, oh, the accident...

he'd said he didn't mean it. That's what made it an accident. She had been hurt so bad, but it was just an accident. Her face had swollen black and blue all over, she hadn't been able to go out for weeks without feeling eyes on her, but it'd all been an accident...

"David..." she whimpered. Then, louder: "David! Where's David?" Panic laced her voice until it completely took over and she was screaming hysterically for her David. The cabbie tried to calm her down from up front, but she wouldn't have it. So he pulled over again and when to the back seat.

"Shh, lady, just calm down," he told her, "screamin' ain't gonna help nothin'. Who's David?"

Tiff sucked in a quick breath of air before choking out: "My boyfriend!"

The cabbie looked surprised for a moment, then almost guilty. He looked like a bearer of bad news to Tiff.

"What happened?" she pleaded, tears running down her face. "Where's my David?"

"Uh, look lady--"

"Tiff! Stop calling me lady, my name is Tiff!" she screeched, her throat aching.

"Okay, okay, Tiff," the cabbie said. He paused, hesitating. Would he want to know? Yes, probably. "Look, Tiff, I dunno how to tell you think, but... I think your boyfriend did this."

He carefully pulled the coat off of her, revealing a bloodied dress underneath. Her pretty blue dress. Another gush of tears ran down her cheeks.

"I found you way far out from the city," the cabbie explained, "and I thought the coat might help the bleeding. Some lady left it behind last night. Thank God for drunks, eh?" He paused again. "Are you gonna be okay? I need to drive...we're almost to the hospital."

Tiff thought for a moment--or at least as close as she could get to thinking in her foggy, distraught state. Was she going to be okay? David had hurt her. He'd hurt her so bad she'd bled. Could she be okay?

Then again, he'd done it before.

"Yeah, she told the cabbie, "I'll be okay."

Plain Jane

Sarah Jane didn’t ever like boys. That is, she never admitted it. She didn’t really know any boys, so how could she like them? It was an impossibility in her mind. Completely impossible.

And then she met Victor.

He was something new. He liked reading and spoke intelligently. Sarah Jane had been around so few boys that could do that that she’d begun to think they weren’t capable of it. But Victor could. And he wrote. Oh, he wrote. His stories flew off the page and into her mind, showing her worlds that she could have never imagined herself. Sarah Jane was a plain girl, a plain Jane, and she never thought about what might be out there. She was happy with her life in her little town and her little life. It was normal and quiet and she liked it. Any change? That would be terrifying. No, Sarah Jane was pleased with how things were going for her, if you ignored the small detail of Victor.

She wanted to talk to him--she really did!--but she knew not what she would say. How could she talk to a boy? She'd had so little practice in normal conversations, let alone trying to love them (and was this even love?). How could she figure that out? It must have been different because of the love. Normalcy and adoration couldn't be the same.

She sat in class, feeling him sitting in the desk behind her. He did every day, so it shouldn't have been as thrilling as she felt it was. But it was, it was! And she just couldn't stop that. It was something that would not let itself be stopped. There was a tiny part of her, even that would be sad if the thrill left. It had become such a huge part of her life in the passing months. How could she just wish it away? It'd grown on her.

The teacher was talking at the front of the room. She wasn't listening to him, though. Sarah Jane listened to the scribbling, scratching, erasing that was being done behind her. Victor was writing. He was putting his ideas onto paper, analyzing them, rewriting them. She wondered what he was writing. A new story? A poem? Character ideas? All were possible. Victor was always spouting new ideas.

She started doodling on her paper a little, wondering what he was doing. She'd become a little Victor-centric, honestly, but it was understandable. She'd never admitted to herself that she liked a boy. It was all new to her, so it was the normal thing to totally immerse herself in it. Wasn't it?

The doodles on the paper started in one corner and started to spread. She liked to draw a little bit, but she wasn't any good. Most of these were just little blob people that would cry out things she was thinking, whether it was "WHAT ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?" or "WHY WON'T THIS CLASS ENDDD?!" The class was beginning to drag on. It usually wasn't like that. But Sarah Jane could feel her heart beat harder against her chest for no apparent reason. Was it because she was thinking about Victor behind her? Was it because she wanted to kiss him? Because she very much felt like it might be that. Her eyes flew to the clock. How long until class was over? Fifteen minutes? No, it had to end sooner than that. She needed to not be near Victor, she needed to just be away from him and think these thoughts while she wasn't close enough to maybe, possibly, act on them. Blood rushed into her face and she felt herself burn, turning a pleasant shade of tomato red. She chewed on her lip fiercely, drawing a little blood.

Good, she thought, maybe some of this blush will leak out through my lip.

She tried to focus on the teacher, on the lesson, but suddenly she couldn't even remember what class it was. Were they learning geometry or world history? Was that French on the board or was her brain misinterpreting in its anxious state?

Her lip really hurt. She couldn't chew on it anymore. So she began chewing on the inside of her cheek, wondering how much time had passed. She glanced at the clock. A whole two minutes. There was still so much time before she got to leave, disappear, hope to never see Victor again...or at least not until she could get her hormones to shut up. Breathing in slowly, she let out a deep sigh. She wondered if Victor noticed her distress. Could he hear her heart beating? Did he notice her deep breathes as she tried to calm herself? Listening, she still heard the scratching of pen against paper. Her shoulders drooped. He hadn't. He wasn't even now. Whatever fantasy he world he had created had stolen him away, keeping his mind too occupied to notice the plain Jane in front of him. She supposed that was better, in a way; he could write more stories for her to enjoy if he didn't know she existed. Still...a part of her wanted him to notice her like she noticed him. But who could notice a girl like her?

Sarah Jane slumped onto her desk, exhausted from her worry. There was so much on her mind that she thought she might explode. Victor wouldn't notice, of course. He didn't notice anything about her.

She started to resent him in that moment. Why wouldn't he notice her? Was she not good enough? She got good grades. She was a nice person. And though she was plain, she wasn't completely hideous. Why not notice a girl like her? She stared ahead, burning a hole into the whiteboard. In her mind, though, the board was Victor's face. And oh, how she despised him in that moment. Why wouldn't he notice her? WHY WOULDN'T HE NOTICE HER? It was absurd, wasn't it? She was just like everybody else, just as smart and nice and...and...

...and she didn't stand out. So of course he didn't see her. Sarah Jane's anger fizzled out and she let her head drop onto the desk top with a low thunk. It wasn't Victor's fault at all. It was just her fault over and over. He couldn't notice her because she hid from him. She only got to read his stories because he posted them online. She never commented, anonymously or not. She always worried what he would say, how she would be rejected...how his face would change. Would he look sad, like he didn't want to hurt her? Would he laugh? What about a contortion of his features, something of horror? No, that was ridiculous. But was it, really? She didn't know how he would react. But she had to see. What if he felt like she did? What if it worked out? She had to know.

How she would go about this would be difficult. Sarah Jane couldn't see her doing any of the things she thought of when she thought of him. Declaring affection, hugging, those sorts of things. What would she do?

A glance at the clock. Terror struck through her. If she wanted to do anything today, she'd have to act fast; there were but three minutes left in class and Victor always took off right away after school. But what would she do? What would she do?!

She thought about writing a note. Maybe folding it up adorably and then handing it to him right as the bell rang before timidly scooting away. That could work. She hunched over her desk, scribbling down a note. At first she wanted to make it look nice, like she really took care of it, but she kept changing her mind and scribbling things out, starting again, trying and trying to think of what to say, how to say it...she wasn't sure it would work. What if he saw it as something stupid? What if he lost the note? Or, worse, he couldn't read her handwriting? It was kind of bad and run-together-y. Sarah Jane gripped her pen anxiously. How could she ensure he got what she wanted to tell him? How could he perfectly understand it?

The bell rang. She jumped, giving a small cry of distress. No! Class couldn't be over! She finally, finally was set on doing this. If she waited until tomorrow, she would give up and she'd never do it! She heard Victor stand and start to collect his things behind her. Her body went rigid. Then, without much thought, she leaped to her feet and threw her arms around him. Her face was in his and their lips met. Her eyes were shut tight, terrified of what she might see. Under her touch, Victor was stiff, unmoving. She wondered if she'd done wrong. But it was amazing, even like this. She...she was kissing a boy! Sarah Jane couldn't be prouder of herself. Of course, she was doing it in the middle of class, though a good chunk of people had run out once the bell rang. She could hear the silence around them. Then, slowly, his body relaxed, but she got no other response, so she pulled away. Obviously she'd done something wrong. He hadn't yanked him off of her, but he hadn't kissed back, either. She stared at the floor, waiting for him to yell at her. For anyone to yell at her. She had done a stupid, stupid thing. She was chewing on her lip again, cutting into it and not caring. Tears welled up in her eyes and she felt her face burn as everyone stared at her.

"S...sorry," she choked out, grabbing her paper and bag and running out of the room.

She couldn't believe she'd done that. What a stupid thing to do! Her lip was bleeding a lot now and she stopped to put a tissue on it. Looking around, she saw she'd run straight out of the building and down the street without realizing it. At least she'd been going in the direction of her bus; the sooner she got on it and home, the better. She gave a little cry of relief as she realized that tomorrow was Saturday. She wouldn't have to deal with any of it for two days. She could go home and forget it even happened until Monday. It was a beautiful thing. She had started walking again when she heard shoes slapping the pavement behind her. Figuring it was a member of the track team or something, she moved over to one side. But they slowed as they approached her until the owner of those slapping shoes was walking beside her. It was Victor.

"Uh, hey," he said, breathing a little heavily. He looked at her for a moment, then quickly looked at the ground. "You, um, okay?"

Sarah Jane sat in a stunned silence, just looking at him. He'd run after her. Why? She'd just embarassed the crap out of him more than likely. You'd think that he didn't want anything to do with her. But he was here. Why?

Because he's nice, she told herself. Victor is a great guy. Of course he'd make sure you were okay.

"Y-yeah," she said, still a little dazed. "Are you?"

He continued to stare at the ground for a little while then nodded. "Yeah."

She looked at him a moment longer, wondering what to say. Then she looked ahead and they walked to the bus stop together.

---------

I might never get any further with this, so I tells you what I picture happening, as the author: Sarah Jane and Victor start to hang out more, mostly because SJ freaked the frick out and Victor started to comfort her. They were friends and have to deal with the crap that comes with randomly kissing a classmate you never talked to in class. Then...Victor returns her feelings, saying she's his muse. She does the things that no one outside of a book would do and he writes them. C: (There is probably a more poetic way to say that, but I'm a story writer, not a poet, despite any delusion I may have. >>) Ta-dah!

Sweet Thing

A laugh, a smile
I love to see it there
I wonder how my life would be
If I'd changed my mind
Without you, what would I be?
Alone
So terribly alone
Or, worse, with him
Thank you, little angel
For saving me from myself

--------------

Total fiction btw. I can has no babeh. :p

Run Run Run

There's a girl. And she's running, running. She can't remember why, doesn't know what she's running from, only what stopping means.

Death.

Her body is weary but she knows she can't stop. An eerie murmuring of voices is behind her, their tone not menacing but coaxing. She wants to give in. Her limbs are ready to give out. But she knows she can't. Not now, when she's so close to salvation. She's almost there, right? Isn't she? Though her memory is scarce, she's sure she must be. Some magical paradise must lay just around the corner.

As she rounds a dark corner, though, she's met only by some strange and horrifying creature; half bovine, half man, all monster. Its voice comes out in haunting bellows.

"Come here, little girl," it says, reaching for her with hoofed hands. "I only want to eat you."

She cries out and pushes her straining muscles even harder. She can't let that monster catch her. No, she can't!

But why? her tired mind cries, racking itself for an answer. Why must I run?!

She cannot think of an answer and instead pushes herself harder. Everything melts away for awhile. The murmuring, now being underlined by a low sound that is close to a moo, is still there. But the girl ignores it. All that is important is putting one foot in front of the other...and not...ever....stopping.

Her mind wanders, though, and how can it not? She needs to know why she is running, even if it ends up killing her. Curiosity tugs at her too harshly.

She remembers a woman. The woman was... caring for her, perhaps? Yes, she as. The girl is sure of that. But then she'd set out to do something horrible... the girl can't remember what the woman wanted to do. The woman's husband chased the girl, too, she knows that. But why did they? the girl wonders.

She can't be sure. She is sure she'd do nothing now, but what was she like before her memory loss? She does not know.

More time passes, though the girl isn't sure how much. Her muscle continue to ache, though she manages to find a way to ignore it. The darkness that has surrounded her form the beginning refuses to let up, and she begins to feel scared. As if she predicted it, another terrible creature appears before her. This one bears the head of a boar and has sharp white tusks that protrude fiercely from its face. Its cloven hands reach for her as she dashes by, its voice a greedy squeal.

"Come back, little one!" it squeals. "I only want to eat you!"

Like the minotaur, this creature is also left in the gloom. It does not take long for piggy shrieks to join the murmuring behind her.

Tears dribble down her face. She isn't sure why, but she can't believe that they are. Isn't it normal for scared people to cry? Perhaps she was braver before. Perhaps that is why she feels that it is unspeakable that she cry now.

More time passes. It feels longer than before, but how can she be sure? She can't, and it bothers her. All she knows is she must keep running, that she must keep herself going at all costs. But the burning her legs is nearly unbearable. The girl knows she must find salvation soon.

There is a small burst of light and she thinks her prayers have been answered. A shrill whinny tells her she hasn't, though, and a scream escapes her own lips.

Before here now is a being more grotesque than the previous, if that is even possible. Half human and half horse, you might picture a centaur. But no. This creature is almost that, a human torso glued upon a horse body, but its legs are still human and its head still equine. Human hands reach for her as the whinny repeats the same line, "Come here, child, I only want to eat you."

Only want to eat me?! she wants to scream, but she has no spare energy. Somehow she outruns the four legs and its shrillness joins the haunting murmurs.

She's crying freely now and she feels no shame. There is no need for it, is there? She's all alone anyhow. Those things behind her care not for how she appears--they jsut want to eat her. That's all. It's not that unreasonable, is it? Of course not. She could just stop running now and she could be done. It would be nice, wouldn't it? No more running...

She snaps out of her imaginings when she hears running water. And a lot of it. Slowly, she can see the rushing, gushing water. No! If she can't go on, she's certain to be eaten! She has to find a way around it... but she sees no bridge, no boat, no means of crossing it.

She hears a motor, though, and her heart leaps for joy. The boat appears, and she sees a normal-looking boy on baord with a mop of red hair.

"Help!" she cries out to him. "I'm being chased!"

The boat nears shore and the boy looks genuinely concerned. For some reason, he seems trustworthy and not at the same time. The girl chokes her doubts up to the adrenaline rushing through her veins and does not hesitate to hump onto the boat when the boy offers it.

Just as they pull away from the shore, the mob reaches it. The woman, her husband, and all three animal-human hybrids reach for her, cooing that if she comes back, they'll make it quick. The husband yells at the boy for stealing their sweets. The girl is disturbed that the man and woman want to eat her, too.

"Thank you," she tells the boy, "I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Been eaten, probably," he replies, keeping his eyes on the controls. "What's up with them?"

"Not a clue," the girl says. They don't talk for a moment, the girl probably wouldn't have, but the boy doesn't approach the opposite shore like she thought he would. "You can drop me off on the otherside." She says this even though the boat has been a wonderful rest for her. "I'll be okay."

But the boy shakes his head. "Too dangerous."

The girl is perplexed, but says so no more.

The putter along the river awhile longer before the girl notices any change in him. Has he always had those pointed ears? Was that white-tipped tail there when she boarded his boat? Of course, they weren't, but it's too late when the girl realizes it.

She backs up to the side of the baot as the vulpine creature advances on her.

"Oh, please, don't," she pleads.

"Oh, but why, little girl?" its sly voice asks, black paws reaching for her. "I only want to eat you..."

She barely has time to scream before the fox has swallowed her whole.

The Wolf

Because I am just so darned creative that I have to name a story about a werewolf "The Wolf."

*sigh*

(no parts this time because I wouldn't know where to cut it off...)

-------------------

A deep, primal yell burst forth from his lips and into the cool night air. The sound echoed in the dark forest around him. Despite having experienced this since his early adolescence, Haydn had never grown accustomed to that yell. Each time it terrified him, this inhuman bellow that was a result of the agonizing change that tore through his body. His bones ached as they twisted and ground against each other; his skin itched and itched as coarse, dark hair sprouted all over his body. The bellow rose in pitch and slowly became less of a painful “aaaaaAAAAAAAAAgggggggggh!” and more of the familiar “aaaaaoooooOOOOOOOOO!” that haunted his dreams and his very being.
Above him, taunting him, hung the huge white moon, stark against the black, starless sky.


He awoke hours later. This, too, was not new. Every time that full, white moon hung in the sky, Haydn stole away to the deepest part of the woods and hoped he wouldn’t hurt anyone. If he were to hurt someone...he shook his head and that thought fluttered away. He didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think about keeping his dinner—whatever poor creature it had been—in his stomach. He didn’t want to see it again, no, then he might start thinking about what it might have been, and then...what if it had been a rabbit? Or a deer? Images of Bambi and his pet rabbit appeared in his head. He may have been a grown man, but he still didn’t like to think of Bambi or Oreo the bunny being his supper. The very thought almost made him vomit.
Slowly he stood, stark in his nakedness. It was a logical thought that a wolf would not be able to wear clothes, but Haydn still wished that he could. No matter how many times he might have walked nude through the trees, he wished and wished he could have something to wear on his trek home. There were rarely any people in these parts of the woods, but he was so timid that the thought made him terrified. Or perhaps it was because Haydn had so rarely seen people since he had began living on his own in the woods. Fourteen was a hard age to start being alone all the time, but...Haydn knew he had to. A shudder ran through him as he remembered. Yes, he had to.
He paused, seeing his shack of a home. It was well-hidden, but a trained eye could pick out the shape easily. A clump of trees stood close together and in the middle was his little house. The outside was the color of the trees and it almost look like it was part of all the trees, some unique trunk that held them all together. Haydn raised a hand and placed it on the nearest tree. All of this forest was his home now, though he might still, sometimes, just a little bit, miss his old home. Miss his father and his mother. Miss his little sister and her smile. That was how it was and he would deal with it.
Haydn continued on to his home, no longer wincing at the stick and rocks that hurt his feet. That was one thing he had gotten used to, luckily. Once inside his shabby but still comfortable home, Haydn began to dress. His clothes were old and torn, much like you’d expect a castaway’s to be. His clothes were not this way because of a disaster, though, but because he had to wear them so often. Though it shamed him, he was forced to steal clothes every now and then. He wore the clothes as much as he could, though, to ensure that he wouldn’t have to do it so often. Otherwise he might have gone insane in that little shack and no one wanted that.
Haydn chewed on his lip at the thought of being insane. What if it were to happen while he was a wolf? That would make things very hard to hide, now wouldn’t it? But, then again, maybe he already was insane as the wolf. That would make sense. If wolves were insane, then he could blame the things he did as one on that. But Haydn didn’t think it was that easy. Things were never that easy.
After he was dressed, he wandered outside again to walk. It was all he really did to pass the days because it was the only thing he felt was safe; safe for him, from him, for those other people. He always, always worried about them. What if some child wondered into his part of the forest one moonlit night? Stories of creatures in the forest had all but died out nowadays. No one was afraid of Nature or her fantastically monstrous children. No one thought that a man could ever possibly become a wolf. And yet it happened. It just showed how little man really knew until it happened to him.
A strange yet familiar sound caught Haydn’s attention. It took him a moment to understand what it was, but when he did a bolt of terror struck him like lightning. He froze and listened again for it. And there it was. A tinkling sound, something young and innocent and probably the last sound he’d ever want to here: A child’s laugh.
He wanted to run. He knew he had to run. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t move. His feet had become tree roots that glued him to the spot. For some reason this seemed the most logical explanation and he checked his feet to see if they were, indeed, roots that snaked into the ground, but they weren’t, because that was illogical. But so was a man becoming a wolf and a boy a having to leave his home at only fourteen and living the rest of his life in the woods alone, but this was more so, it couldn’t happen, but the others could, so why not? Why not become a tree and stay there, finally a beautiful part of nature that could hear a child’s laugh without being scared?
Haydn shook his head. He had to gain control. Looking around him, he tried to find the child. If he could find the little bundle of joy, he could get as far away as possible. And then the child would be safe. He might need to find a new home, maybe even a whole new forest, but it would be okay. Anything would be better than finding the little girl or boy, finding them and being unable to control himself…
Now, any sort of supernatural logic would make one think that he should have been fine then. If he was only a wolf during the full moon, then why shouldn’t he be human right that second, shouldn’t he be human every second that the full moon was gone? It made sense, or as much sense as anything that was a part of Nature’s darker and hidden side. But Haydn always felt that a little of him was always that creature. Part of him was always wild and barbaric, wishing to tear something apart. He was so scared of that part of him that he wouldn’t dare let himself near people. If it were to take over, just for a moment, then what would happen? Who could die? He knew television and books showed werewolves—for that was what he was, wasn’t it?—being a part of society. They were just like everyone else, weren’t they? They were just normal people that turned into wolves every once in awhile. But Haydn never felt like that. He always felt that little bit of wolf tearing at him, wanting to get out. In the middle of nowhere? That was alright. He could make sure no one was hurt here because there was no one here. In any populated area, any at all…he could find someone. And hurt them. Or maybe…even…
No, he wouldn’t think like that! He would make sure he was away from that child, make sure that they were safe, that he was safe, that the wolf was well tucked away in him, never to hurt anything more than a deer or a rabbit.
His stomach lurched. He shouldn’t have thought about what the wolf had eaten. But it was too late. He fell to his knees and retched, spewing hunks of some meat. He sat for what seemed hours, hunched over and breathing heavily. He had gotten used to the effects of the wolf’s diet on his stomach a long time ago. Or, rather, his body had. Haydn’s mind still saw the blood and the raw meat and…he his stomach protested once more, sending him into dry heaves. Soon these stopped and Haydn listened. No more laughter. But then, maybe the little girl was close enough to see him and was frozen as he had been. Why was he picturing a little girl? There had been no indicator…but then, his memory…oh, that terrible memory…
Haydn forced himself to stand and took off into the trees, despite feeling woozy and lightheaded. He ran like that memory was behind him, like if he got far enough away he would forget. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, could he? You couldn’t run away from your past, but Haydn had to try. His conscience wouldn’t let him not try. So he ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran until he felt his legs would give out from under him. When they did, he collapsed to the ground in a wheezing pile of human and tried to catch his breath. He had not succeeded in outrunning the memory. It was still the first and foremost thought in his brain, still throbbing painfully like an infected wound.
Just stop, he thought, gritting his teeth. Don’t think about it anymore. It’s your brain; think what you want to, not about this…
But he couldn’t stop his mind from focusing upon that which he wanted to avoid most. It wouldn’t let him. The little girl’s laugh—who said it was a little girl! he thought fiercely—had been the trigger, he knew it. And now he couldn’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking…
He laid there for what really were hours, hours and hours. He caught his breath but still did not move. The thought of the girl, the girl, that girl kept him there, glued to the spot. He could not move. He would not move. He had to sort out his brain before he could go on, he knew it. If he could not keep himself sane, keep that animal at bay, then he would be even worse off than he was now, lying on the forest floor with a throat torn by bile and an aching body. He would have to sort his mind out before he could move. Yes. That was the only way.
His mind wandered. A lot. He thought sometimes that he would be able to get up and move, but no. It would assert itself to the front again, That Memory. That Memory would not go away, would not stay quiet. He saw the torn clothes, heard the high-pitched scream that would echo through his head for days, weeks afterwards…he let loose his own scream, one of anguish and terror, frustration and anger. Anger that rose up in him like a hot flame, tearing at his conscience and his humanity. He ground his teeth, feeling the change come on. It astounded him. The full moon had been done, had it not? So why was he changing? He couldn’t be. It defied all logic. All logic! He should not have been feeling his skeleton twist and break, reforming the bones of something that walked on four legs instead of his two, should not have felt new hair growing like grass pumped with Miracle-Gro, should not have felt a howl building up in him, leaving his lips and echoing through the forest. That had been done. It shouldn’t have been happening again.
But it was. And Haydn knew why, though he still wished it impossible. It was happening and he could not stop it.
His bones ceased their movement and the fur was grown. The wolf stood and shook itself off, glancing around. It saw no problem with the little girl that wandered over to it. It did not like the taste of human and knew it could find better food nearby. The little girl and the wolf looked at each other, both interested and disinterested in each other. Then the wolf went on its way and so did the girl.

-------------

So. That was for English and is supposed to be a "romantic" story (as in Poe and other awesome writers' romance, not lovey-dovey stuff). Dunno if it worked or not, though... >> Any ideas on a moral? I've sort of got one, but hey. Maybe you found something else.

Hi. (finale!)

This probably doesn't need to be said because I'm sure no one will either read or want to steal this, but if you do want it...IT'S MINE. I SPENT FIVE DAYS WRITING THIS AND BY GOLLY, IF YOU TRY TO TAKE IT I WILL BEAT YOU.

Have a nice day. :)

(Also, if you're new, start here, please. It might make more sense then.)

--------------

I was able to avoid her for two days before she caught up with me. Sandra was sneaky that way, oh yes she was. We walked side by side down the hall, which was actually the one I’d first led her down what seemed like ages ago. I ignored her for about a minute before stopping and facing her. I still wouldn’t look at her, though.
Neither of us would talk. It was not like our first silence at all—no, it was so much tenser than that. I stared at the floor, refusing to look at her, yet I could still feel her eyes boring into me. I towered over her, yet I felt only a few inches tall.
Sandra took a great, shaky breath in and said one word.
“Hi.”
My eyes jerked up to her, surprised. Why would she say something so simple? She deserved to ask me questions, lots and lots of demanding questions. Maybe she’d even apologize for freaking me out or making me angry (I wasn’t even sure which I was anymore), but a hi? Why just a hi?
Then I realized she needed no other words. Her voice, her questioning, sad eyes that wanted her friend back said it all. She just needed to get my attention to get me to see it.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry.
“Hi,” I croaked back.
We were silent once more, though much less tense than we had been. But still, it wasn’t our nice, we-don’t-need-to-talk silence. I wanted that silence back.
“Why’d you say that?” I finally asked, clenching my hands into fists. I wasn’t angry—not at all—but being the one to talk was hard. I was never that person. Never.
She knit her eyebrows together. “Say what?”
I bit my lip hard. I needed to say to. I needed to, or I’d probably never talk to Sandra again. Never be around her, never hear her laugh. Never, ever again.
“Love,” I finally replied, “love. ‘By someone that loves you.’ Why?”
Her eyes widened and her jaw slackened with a bewildered shock. She stayed like that much longer than I would have liked. Absentmindedly, almost for comfort, I ran my finger over my left thumbnail, over the heart I’d left there.
“That’s it?” she asked. “That’s it?”
I nodded slowly, uncertain of what sort of response this was.
Sandra stared at me a moment longer, then threw her head back and laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. And I just stared at her. The people walking by us stared at her as they passed. Slowly the laughter subsided and she sobered up. Later she’d tell me the laughter was relief—I just thought she’d gone crazy.
“It was true,” she told me, wiping away a tear that had leaked out during her giggle fit. “It was true and still is.”
I shook my head, unable to articulate in that moment. She understood, and despite obviously wanting an explanation for my denial, she waited for me.
I stared at the floor next to my sneaker. No, that couldn’t be right. We were best friends. This wasn’t some movie…we were not some overdone cliché! If my parents knew about her…oh, well, then I’d get some attention, yes, I would. To say she was my girlfriend, my lover…no, they’d have a hard enough time accepting her as my friend! It could do no good.
…and yet, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of joy rise up from my stomach.
“No, Sandra,” I finally said, relocating my speech and my words, “it’s not. It can’t be. We haven’t known each other long enough. It’s…it’s…no. It can’t be.”
Sandra frowned.
“Well, I feel something,” she said stubbornly, “so what is it?”
I paused, thinking.
“Like,” I replied simply.
The corners of her mouth quirked a little. “Like?”
“Yeah,” I told her, “like. Like…I like you, Sandra.”
Again, the word itself meant nothing. My eyes, my voice, my reaching out to her spoke more than I could. Or, at least, I hoped it did. Still, it felt terribly juvenile. But Sandra just smiled. Ignoring my reach and wrapping her arms around my waist, she stood on the very tips of her toes and kissed my nose.
“Why, then, I like you, miss Charlotte.”

-----------

And there you go. It's done. Man, this stuff all seemed a lot longer when I was actually writing it down...but whatever.
I feel like some people might be like "WTF, YOU ENDED IT WITH HER AS A LESBIAN? DIDN'T YOU JUST MAKE A COMMENT ABOUT THEM, LIKE, YESTERDAY? ARE YOU A LESBIAN??!"
Hahhahahahaha no. Well, I don't think so. I don't feel like I am, anyway. But maybe? If so, I'm not aware of it. But as for the the story, I don't know. I just started writing it and thought of how to end it, which was with that line. And once you come up with a way to end a story, especially when it's that exact, isn't it a little hard to change it? I don't think I could be satisfied with the story if I had changed it.
And the comment I made about lesbians on my Facebook the other day? Yeah, you'll notice it was someone else that brought it up, not me. I was just saying how stupid the comment was.
So there.

Hi. (part three)

This probably doesn't need to be said because I'm sure no one will either read or want to steal this, but if you do want it...IT'S MINE. I SPENT FIVE DAYS WRITING THIS AND BY GOLLY, IF YOU TRY TO TAKE IT I WILL BEAT YOU.

Have a nice day. :)

--------------


The next month we were inseparable.
Not in a we’re-together way. No, we were best friends, Sandra and I. We wandered the mall together and scavenged used book stores together…and I learned more and more about her every day.
Her mother had taken off when she was three and left Sandra’s dad almost penniless. He stuck by her, though, and raised her like a loving father should. He had to work a lot, but he also spent all of his free time playing with her. They did logic puzzles and brain teasers and read together. I envied her childhood—I’d had both my parents, but they ignored me in favor of the baby or the oldest. I had to struggle to find the brain pleasers that were so few in my household of TV and garbage music growing up. At first, I didn’t tell her about it because I thought it made me sound ungrateful for my full family unit. But she eventually pulled it out of me and, by golly, she understood. That was by far the best thing about Sandra; she always understood.

Things progressed more as we slowly approached the second semester. One day we were sitting in her room, just lounging about. She was doing something to my left hand but wouldn’t let me see. Every time I tried to sneak a peek, she’d throw a fit like a toddler. So I gave up and stared at the ceiling as she worked. Ten minutes later, she proudly proclaimed: “Okay, you can look now!” Again, she reminded me of a little kid.
I lifted my hand to my face and looked at the back of it. At first I didn’t see anything, but then my attention was drawn to a red something on my thumb. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was a red heart painted in nail polish. My face flushed.
“Sandra!” I whined. “Why’d you do that? People’ll think I’m weird. What am I supposed to tell them?”
She looked at me, bottle of red nail polish still in her hand. She looked hurt. I started to apologize, but she stopped me with her hand. I was tired of that hand, but it still stopped me. Slowly, she drew my hand close to her and kissed the heart.
“Tell them it was put there by someone who loves you,” she murmured, looking down at the heart fondly.
I sat up rigidly, stunned. Then I left quite promptly.