Happy Halloween - Deleted Scene from Nevermore

“Hell no. Oh Hell no!” Moneesha, a junior theater student was voicing her objections to the board.

 
The party was at Liam’s house, a tidy little stand alone in Reisterstown. There were about twenty of us sprawled around his finished basement. A movie marathon had ended after a group attack of ADHD, and people were trying to think of new, holiday appropriate activities. Elizabeth, a junior photography major, read tarot cards and palms. We’d been entertained for nearly an hour but the masses had begun to hunger for more.

Liam’s girlfriend answered the challenge. She knew he had a Ouija board in his room, and while we were all entranced with the news of whether or not Mr. A would fail Tubby this year, snuck it past his parents in the living room and down to us.

Within seconds of revealing the box, most of the room wanted to play. A few of us weren’t comfortable with it, but Moneesha was freaking out.

“I ain’t hanging out here while y’all are playing with the dead.”

“Aw, come on. It’s just a game.” The same thing was said in a dozen different ways from a dozen different people. But Moneesha wouldn’t be budged.

“Nuh-uh. No way. You start playing with the dead, you better be ready for when they start playing with you. And I don’t want any part of that.” In what Val would call a Grand Diva Bitch Fit, she stormed upstairs, slamming the door behind her.

In hindsight I probably should’ve gone with her. But there’s that saying that hindsight is always 20/20. A group of us weren’t interested in playing. Elizabeth stacked her cards and curled up on an arm chair near the TV. Andy and Nika, girls from the Multimedia program, were huddled on the sofa, eyeing the board and the people around it with obvious distrust. Going on instinct, I joined them. We were all aware suddenly of something in the air. I felt cold and hot all at once, like I was sick, but without the headache and soreness of a real fever. Andy shivered beside me.

For a while, there was a confusion of noise over the board. Giggling and complaints over who was moving the table seemed to go on forever. Then, voice by voice, the room went quiet.

“Lizzie, get a pen and some paper. Come write this down for us.”

She got up without a word, grabbed a sketchbook and pencil, and sat behind Liam. Nate started calling out letters. They didn’t seem to make any sense, just a random string of letters without any rhyme or reason. Some of the tension eased from the group and people started giggling and chatting and complaining again.

“Figures we’d get the retarded ghost.”

“Daniel’s moving it!”

“Am not, bitch!”

“C’mon guys, get serious about this.”

“Yeah it’s not gonna work if y’all are fucking around.”

“Wait, don’t we have to ask a question?”

A pregnant pause and then:

“Is anyone there?”

“Is my grandmother there?”

“Can we talk to Elvis?”

“Shut up!” Nate yelled. “One at a time, ladies and gents. One. At. A. Time. Now,” he said, “is anyone there? Yes or no.”

Beside me, I felt Andy push her body deeper into the couch cushions, away from the Ouija board and the stale air surrounding it.

For a while, it seemed like they were getting answers. A yes, a no, a generic name, an accusation of murder with the body never found that got everyone excited. Then there was nothing. The planchet circled the board over and over, never pointing to anything for the rest of the night. The board was put away. Andy, Nika, and I relaxed, and the party went on almost as if the little experiment with the supernatural had never happened. There were jokes, accusations that the whole thing was a hoax, that the supernatural was just people with too much imagination and too little common sense, followed by claims that the paranormal was real, ghosts were real, and that the Ouija board had failed because of so many skeptics.

It was all too easy to ignore in favor of more scary movies, and different, more entertaining board games.

I don’t remember when we started making shadow puppets.

Sometime after midnight, I’d curled up between Tubby and Marco. We were backlight, and we’d laughed at the weird shadow our bodies had cast. It seemed a natural thing to start making the dog and duck shapes we’d been taught in elementary school, and I laughed as Marco’s butterfly danced around Tubby’s barking dog.

More hands shadows rose from the floor. They made no shapes, they just reached and writhed on the wall.

          
“Knock it off, fuckers,” I swore at the people behind me. “Either do something neat or go the fuck away.”

           
“Fin, who are you talking to?” Nate asked.

          
“I’m talking to whichever ass hats are making these weird shadows behind me and the boys.”

“There’s no one sitting behind you guys.”

I felt cold. My ears were trained on the sound of Nate getting to his feet. He’d been laying on the floor a few feet away watching TV. He stood behind me and his shadow joined our lump monster, but it didn’t interrupt the sea of arms and hands. His hands spasmed on my shoulders, his finger tips digging into my collarbones as he watched the wall with us. More hands had sprouted from our joined shadows. There were dozens now, more pairs than there were people in the room, and none of them were ours. Our hands had dropped to our laps as soon as we’d realized there really was no one behind us, and I could see Nate’s knuckles turning white on either side of me.

The room had gone perfectly silent. The others had seen the wall too.

One by one, we got up and walked upstairs. Tubby, Marco, me and Nate, all walked outside to the car without saying a word. No one in the basement spoke either. But as I opened the door to Marco’s car, I heard Elizabeth screaming.

Playing With Prose

Todays irritant: what does an author do when they've discovered their MC's voice but realize they HATE IT?
This is why I've always hated 1st-Person POV. Sure, the story might be amazing, the actions and motivations of the character compelling, the evolution of the character from start to finish captivating - but the way the character thinks/speaks is so PEDESTRIAN. This is where I am with Fin. Her story is amazing and I can only capture the nuances of it through her mind. But her mind is so boring when it comes to descriptive passages.
I always wanted to be an author who could make her narratives poetic. I wanted to write amazing stories beautifully. Maybe I'll get to be that kind of writer someday, but so far, it's not going to be achieved through Nevermore. Not without pulling some teeth and possibly arranging the space-time continuum.
In the meanwhile, I'm experimenting with narrative flow, playing around with some possible additions that will, ideally, add suspense and foreshadowing, AND let me out of Fin's head for a scene or two. Then again, I'm probably making even MORE work for myself. Oh well, at least I'm having fun.

Nevermore Anniversary - Therapy Session Part 2

Sachielle: Welcome, everyone. You all know why we're gathered, I assume. But if you've forgotten in the month and a half that separates this post and the last, you're here so that you can try rake Maria over hot coals, and I'm here to deem whether or not said raking is justified or useful. We're not getting any younger, so let's begin. Fin, you're the star of this little drama. Why don't you start the conversation for us?

Fin: (still dressed in a straight jacket and Hannibal Lecter mask) Look, all I want is to be young and hot and having kinky sex with my demonic not-boyfriend forever and ever, Amen. Aaaand maybe rain some fiery vengeance down on all who oppose me. Oh, and I'd like to not have it broadcasted to the whole world thanks! *aims a glare at Maria, who's currently hiding beneath her seat*

Sachielle: *looks meaningfully at Maria* Hmm.

Maria: Hey! Don't 'hmm' me! Lots of people want to rain fiery vengeance on the general populace. That isn't about me!

Sachielle: *pulls out angry, angst-filled poetry from middle and high school*

Maria: Those could be anybody's.

Sachielle: *shows Maria's old pen name at the top*

Maria: Thought I burned those years ago. And since when have I ever expressed any interest in eternal youth or kinky sex?

Sachielle: *pulls out Google searches from high school*

Maria: ... You don't know me....

Sachielle: Next!

Mike: Um, I just want my house back, sans mysterious blood stains and naked ghost boy. And maybe a psychiatrist with a good prescription med hookup.

Sachielle: Denied. So your problem with the author is that she leaves you with Fin's mess?

Mike: That and she makes me a total asshole from start to finish.

Matti: Working out those daddy issues, eh?

Maria: If I can't gut him in real life, at least I can make a fictionalized version of him suffer.

Mike: *shrivels in on himself*

Sachielle: It is rather concerning that, among your female characters, either their fathers are monumental jerks, or they're nice guys whom you kill off before they get any screen time.

Maria: Not true!

Sachielle: Ladies, raise your hand if your father is still alive and you have a good relationship with him.

Iris: *raises hand*

Maria: Ha! See?

Iris: You kill off my brother, though.

Maria: *appeals to Sachielle* Think of it this way. By the time I'm finished with this Project, I'll have completely worked though my daddy issues in time to work on your books!

Sachielle: A sound plan, except that I'm a genetically manipulated clone of my mother. I have no father, thus your argument is rendered invalid.

Maria: Awesome father figures!

Sachielle: Are you speaking of Matthias in this case? Or perhaps Josh?

Maria: ...

Arcana: Patricide aside, can we get a move on, yeah? Imma busy woman and this whole lot still hasn't get their thrashings in yet.

Sachielle: Good point, Miss Da Vinci. But I'm afraid we'll have to wait until the next time Maria's uninspired. Until then.


Happy 1 year anniversary, Nevermore! It's officially been one year since I was laid up with summer flu, bitching about what I would've done with certain popular novel if I'd written it first until mom yelled from the kitchen to shut up and write it already. Thanks mom! Oh, how far I've come since then. A year ago, Renfrew was a vampire, Arcana was accidentally named after a Neil Gaiman character, and I hadn't even thought about adding Renata to the mix! Who knows what wonders another year will bring? Maybe a completed manuscript? Haha, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Thanks to everyone who's put up with my vacant stares during conversations, the laptop shaped growth in my side, my random exclamations about how such and such character should or shouldn't die, etc. A SPECIAL thanks to my mom who refrains from hitting me upside the head when she sees I'm writing and to Emma who talks about my characters in smutty fanfiction.

THANK YOU

Therapy Session Part 1 - In Which We Set the Stage

The scene: an empty room, chairs are positioned in a semi circle, a considerably comfier looking chair is in the center facing the semi circle. An odd-looking and vaguely threatening group of characters enters the room, one by one.

The cast:

The Author - sick, twisted, and spineless, the creator is now at the mercy of her creations as they call a hearing in response to new changes to the Project. Her role is relegated to a lump of meat that tries to make itself as small as possible during the forthcoming conversation.

Seraphim (Fin) Constantine - the main character. Fin's displeasure in the chronicling of roughly two years in her life has been apparent from the beginning of the Project, but now her fury knows no bounds. For her own safety and the safety of those around her, she will spend the following conversation in full body restraints and a muzzle. A man with a tranquilizer stands in the back of the room in the event of an emergency.

Renata Dunn - professional exorcist and general freak. Renata has a lot to lose with the changes to the Project. However, by keeping her mouth shut and coping, she stands to gain her very own Project. Renata takes her seat in the circle very unsure of her loyalties and her proximity to Fin.

Renfrew Andras - demon, sex interest, and world class asshole. Renfrew is here for the buffet later. The changes have little to no direct effect on him, and even if they did, he still wouldn't care so long as he was entertained. As he takes his seat, he gazes around the room at his therapy group, confident that there will be a surfeit in entertainment.

Arcana Da Vinci - witch. Arcana strides in, an enigma wrapped in a mystery dressed in the most bad-ass coat ever. Eyes shining, she will smite those who interrupt her purpose and this meeting forced her to reschedule a flight to England. She is less than pleased to be here.

Artemis Constantine - sister and maverick. Artemis is resigned to being here. Naturally, she'd like to be elsewhere. But Artemis is nothing if not responsible and recognizes that the Project can't continue with tensions broiling as they are. Artemis is a drop of sensibility in an ocean of egos', madness, and sexual frustration. Artemis is very much alone.

Holly Constantine - another sister and ho. Some would say that Holly is an angry sea of rage, frothing with turmoil and hate over the new changes. But Holly is never as unattractive as to froth. Still, she's flanked by Artemis and Arcana, who will strive to keep her away from the sharp objects.

Iris and Ian Moore - mundanes. The Moore twins are a little more than upset that they're being dragged into the swirling vortex of chaos that surrounds Fin, and a little less than homicidal at the Author. But only a little.

Tristan - stalker and werewolf. Tristan's fate has been sealed since the Project was initiated. He slinks to his chair and slides it away from everyone else with the acute and depressing knowledge that nothing he says or does will change his part. But Goddammit he doesn't have to be happy about it or go down without a fight.

The Moms- mothers to Artemis and Holly and Fin respectively. They enter the room with purpose, determined to revoke the changes that have fueled the ire of all parties present. They take their seats with Holly and Artemis.

Mike Constantine - father, cop, and psycho.Wanting nothing more than his ordinary, useless, mundane life back, Mike is not so much ready for a fight, but ready to grovel to the Author to convince her to change her mind about the direction of the Project. He is the only character in the scene more pathetic than the Author herself.

Matti - demon. Matti has no desire to change events as they currently stand in the Project. He alone sees the artistic merit of the Project and is very excited about the possibility of a Project with Renata.

Donnie - ghost. Donnie is concerned about the new changes in terms of how much longer the events of the Project must now be drawn out. He has no interest in altering the fates of his fellow characters, only in having those fates resolved in a more timely manner.

Sachielle Dithantos - goddess. Sachielle, being one of the Author's earliest creations and having already rebelled years ago and made peace, acts as mediator. She knows the Author is fallible. She also knows that the Project must continue however it works best, regardless of the wishes of creator or creations. That she's more powerful than anyone else in the room won't hurt either. She takes the comfy chair in the center, opens book, and she prepares to get ready to rumble.

And so we begin...

YA WIP MEME

YA WIP MEME

(Young Adult "Work in Progress" Meme)

(Borrowed from AudryT's LJ)

Instruction: Use code names for all of the characters to help convey a little bit of their personality.

Number of shirtless scenes:
Male um, lots
Female 3 and counting
Number of no pants scenes:
5 and counting
Strangest quote out of context:
"Did you know radiator fluid looks and tastes a lot like Gatorade?"
Most embarrassing thing a character says:
"Fim?"
List of taboos broken and/or sins committed:
Murder, incest, grave robbing, theft, inappropriate student-teacher relationship, necromancy, necrophilia, BDSM, racism
Sneakiest homage:
“Fieldtrip!" The Magic School Bus
Weirdest creature, location or character:
Spider seamstress, Ancient tunnel systems under Johns Hopkins, Exorcist who's half demonic
States you think your book will be banned in:
All of them. In parts of Maryland, copies will feed smore's bonfires.
Amount of profanity, on a scale of 1 to Yikes!:
Yikes -- in Latin, Welsh, and Italian
Character most likely to throw themselves tragically off a cliff (or for attention):
SexyDemon. Just for lolz and to convince Psycho it's a good idea for her to jump too.
Character most likely to be Prom Queen at your old/current high school:
Slutty Sister
Character least likely to become President:Psycho's friend 
Character you sekritly have the hots for:
Pet Demon, Psycho, Witch
Character most likely to take over the world:
Sexy Demon or Moon Goddess
Character most likely to get arrested:
Psycho
Character most likely to buy a dead parrot:
Psycho
Number of tragically dead or conveniently missing parental figures:
1
Number of Evil Cheerleaders, Evil Blondes, and/or Evil Queen Bees:
0
Pairing you most want to see fanfic written about (even if you swear you don't read fanfic):
Psycho/Exorcist, Exorcist/Pet-demon, Psycho/Exorcist/Slutty Sister, Psycho/Sexy Demon/Slutty Sister
Describe your dream cover (in one paragraph):
A raven on an elaborate tombstone that says 'Nevermore,' with a wolf-tooth pendant hanging from the raven's beak.
Outfit or character you most want to see cosplayed (worn as a costume by a fan):
Anything Psycho wears. Lots of corsets and awesome hats. Or Psycho in dream dress #1. So. Many. Sequins.
Outfit or character you LEAST want to see cosplayed (and why):
Stalker Werewolf's naked dead body. That...can't end well.
Car model your main character would drive, if they could drive:
A hearse.
List all the races, nationalities, and species of your book's core characters:
Italian
Latina/Caucasian mix
Demons
Fey
Welsh
Cajun
African American
ghosts
If your antagonist or primary villain invited you over for dinner, what would they serve?
Lasagna made with human meat
Character you think will have the most obsessive fan girls or fan boys (and why):
Sexy Demon. Because he's an attractive asshole. Or Exorcist. She's too weird and cheerful not to love.
Quote one sentence only from a cliffhanger in your manuscript (a chapter ending, for example):
In the echoes and growing darkness, as exhaustion finally took me, it sounded like a woman screaming.

I'VE BEEN TAGGED

AudryT from Twitter tagged me. She got it from Jamie Reed, who in turn got it from Rebecca Knight. (Golly, it's like tracing the origin of an STD, isn't it?)

The rules are simple: finish each sentence, then tag three people to do the same on their blogs.

Favorite color: Sapphire blue
Favorite action scene in a movie: Kill Bill, Volumes 1 & 2. Two whole movies can't be action scenes? Obviously you have not watched these movies.
Favorite breakfast cereal: Cocoa Puffs and Lucky Charms
Favorite toy as a kid: Polly Pocket
Favorite 80’s group: I have to pick one?
Favorite 90’s group: I could be a bitch and say the Spice Girls, but 1) no one would believe me, and 2) I'm planning to auction off my soul on ebay and if the quality is ruined from killing myself a little by saying that, I can't ask as much.
Craziest dream you can remember: All of them. What's weird is when I have a dream that makes sense.
Biggest fear/phobia: Snakes and getting stuck working a 9-5 type job. I guess I should add cubicles to this list.
Left-handed or right-handed: Right but trying to train myself to be ambidextrous.
What’s odd about you: Everything. I'm a walking contradiction. In the same breath, I believe everything absolutely and question it absolutely.
What’s cool about you: Everything.
Red pill or blue pill: Which one makes me see Yoda?
Cats or dogs: Cats.
What do you envy about boys: They can go shirtless in the summer and no one cares. Also, freedom with humor. They can talk about farts and porno, but if I even say the word vibrator, the room hushes. Gasp, a girl making fun of sex, but not at the expense of a guy.
The world must be ending.
What do you envy about girls: Very little. We tend to view each other as rivals instead of competitors or sportsmen, which often makes even the simplest of interactions fraught with duplicity and cattiness. Girls annoy me frequently. But we DO have so many more outfit options than men.
What your favorite sound: Everything, nothing, it all depends on the place and my mood.
Least favorite sound: West Virginia accents. "Your mother's a musician/your brother's an artist, so you must know how to ___" or "You want to be a writer? You simply have to go tot his college." or "You want to be a writer? *stunned silence*"
Dream car: Something sleek and shiny and blue with a kick ass sound system, 60 miles to a gallon, and a mounted bazooka that fires pies. I'll also accept a tank, provided I could give it Cheshire cat stripes.
Dream vacation: I think H.P. Lovecraft wrote about it in The Rats in the Walls
What are you reading now: Going Bovine by Libba Bray and Elephants on Acid by Alex Boese
Favorite mythical creature/ monster: Dragons
What turns you on: A brain.
What turns you off: Everything that lacks the a fore mentioned
Favorite curse word: Mother-fucking fuck-monkeys! I also yell "starving children in Africa" at odd intervals. If anyone can explain this to me, I'd appreciate it. It comes from the part of brain that rambles inexplicably about dancing space potatoes.
Favorite word: Maybe. It can mean so many things, almost all of them painful.
Least favorite word: Dazzle.
Best invention in history: Fire.
Dream occupation: I like writing what I want to write. If I can get paid for that, that would make my life groovy indeed. But if I could be an omnipotent dictator for life, I wouldn't complain too hard about that either.
If you could go back in time and tell the 10 year-old you one thing, what would it be?: It's not your fault, so stop crying, get off your fat ass, and take over the world already! Dad's crazy and sick because he's secretly a drug addict and just because you were wishing Nonnie would kick the bucket right before she did does not mean you killed her with your mind. If you could do that, many, many people would be dead and middle school would've been a whole lot easier.


The Rules dictate I have to tag 3 people. They are:

Anna, Gabby, and Jo. Now I have to hunt them down on Facebook.

The Rocky Road of Research

When I started drafting Nevermore, I knew that there would be sex in the story. And that freaked me out just a little. If you've ever read any book with a sex scene in it, it usually stands jarringly apart from the tone/pace/language/you name it of the rest of the book. Even in erotica, sex is cheesy, which is why romance novels and their ilk are so frequently mocked. You can have cheesy sex, silly sex, boring sex, grotesque sex, or obscure, abstract, and uninteresting sex. Very rarely have I found stories where the love scenes don't make me giggle or wince.*

So I went into these scenes with a great deal of trepidation. I can barely write coherently at the best of times. How am I supposed to deal with something which trips up even the best authors? I still don't have a clue. But I've been spending a lot of time going over romance novels, erotica, and other fiction that has sex scenes in them. I've been trying to figure out some rules for what NOT to do. If I can't figure out how to make it work, I can try find out work makes it fail. The process of elimination is a good a method as any. I've already got a small list of things to avoid.

1. No dialogue during sex. It always sounds dumb and often interrupts an otherwise good moment.
2. Euphemisms for sex organs, like her 'lady petals' or his 'pride,' do not make it more romantic. It just makes you look like a bloody idiot. It's a vagina and a penis, commonly referred to as a pussy and a dick respectively. I mean, unless you're trying to be funny.
3. Describing what you're going to do to a person right before you 'do it' unvaryingly sounds ridiculous and makes you sound like a tool. (Refer to Rule 1. No talking)
4. Be consistent with the appearances of your partners. This applies to all parts of all books, but it's really distracting when a thin, kind of emo guy is suddenly buff once he takes his shirt off, and a pudgy woman is suddenly Venus. I know authors are thinking of how we appear in the heat of the moment, but you're missing a step somewhere and the inconsistency is annoying.
5. On another note of consistency, don't have a couple fucking on a bed and in the next sentence they're up against a wall, or bent over a table. CONSISTENCY! You can do it!
6. Believability is always key. If your characters aren't the type to normally throw caution to the wind and sleep with someone they barely knew, don't make them do it in your story JUST because you want them to get there. Be honest to their personalities when they aren't in the sack as you work to get them there. You may think readers are just after the sex, but we really do care about what happens before. Anticipation and all that.
7. Adrenaline rush is not a pass go, collect $200, get out of jail free card when it comes to sex. Yes, it is documented that in situations that trigger adrenaline, even if they're terrifying, we want to be close to someone. But do we act on those impulses? Not often and even LESS often with people we've only known for a few hours. At least have some sexual tension building up to it if that's how you're gonna roll.

I might update this as I as read/watch more, and notice more things that don't work.

Now, you might be asking yourself, "Maria, why does your book have to have sex in it at all? Isn't the market saturated with books with sex and romance as it is? Stand strong and keep your story free of icky, boy-girl smut." Okay, no one asks this except maybe the voices in my head, and they're notorious killjoys.

Originally it was just one scene to get a character into place and to justify my main characters reaction. But as the plot has come more into focus, my main characters sex life and escapades have become a larger part of the book and her growth. The acts themselves reflect Fin's (main character) mental state and her many changes. Sex, along with art, is the barometer by which Fin's mental and spiritual health is measured. And the comparison of sex acts between Fin and her many partners expresses the growing depths of her psychological issues.

So, yeah. Sex is kind of important to this book. This research is going to be very weird.

Avert your eyes! It's -
Maria D

*These rare exceptions are Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, Anne Rice, and sometimes Nora Roberts.

Fin Tells A Story

My story isn’t a ghost story exactly. But it’s creepy. I heard back when I lived in New Mexico. I’d been in an accident and this old guy had found me and talked to me while we waited for help. He told me all sorts of stuff, but this one stuck with me.

Long before whitey came to this continent, before our history remembers, a great catastrophe fell upon the land. No one knows what this catastrophe was, but it was big and bad and people were desperate to avoid it.

To get away from whatever was happening, the whole of the world came together to hide in these caves in the desert. The caves went deep down, all the way to the heart of the world, and everyone who’d once lived separately above ground now lived together beneath it.

After many years had passed – maybe ten, maybe a hundred – the catastrophe passed. It was safe for people to go live under the sky again. So for three years, the people toiled to make a ladder that would reach all the way from the heart of the earth to the skin. Once the ladder was finished, people started climbing it. Everyone was excited as the people who’d climbed first and reached the surface sent word back down of how bright the sky was. Soon more and more people reached the top.

But once one third of all the people in the world had reached the surface, they moved a mountain over the opening, so that the people below could never reach the surface and get revenge. Now, whenever the earth quakes or the mountains spout fire, it’s the spirits of the people below. Some of them are pushing against the mountain, trying to move it and escape to heaven. Others are setting fires beneath the earth that will reach the surface, hoping to burn the children of the people who killed them.

But some say that not everyone trapped died. Instead they…adapted. They became monsters, killing and feeding on the others. And they grew used to the perpetual dark and the cold and the taste of human flesh. Sometimes, at those times when the earth trembles from their efforts, these descendants escape. Sometimes people like us see them. I’ve heard that some of them look like lizards, with scales and slit eyes on humanish bodies. Others are like bats; shadowy people with bat wings and eyes that glow. Then there are the ones who’ve grown huge and hairy. They have to be big to fight off the others, and the hair keeps them warm in the cave.

But there are the truly frightening ones as well. The shadow people. There are two theories about them. The first is that they’re descendants who stayed smart. While the others became like animals, these descendants retained human intellect but forgot everything else, like how to be human, how to feel. The second theory, the one no one likes to think about, is that the spirits of the dead found new bodies and have come to the surface for revenge.

It’s always made me wonder, if maybe we aren’t the monsters. I mean, if something like that were true, how horrible would we be? We’d be the descendants of people who’d killed the rest of the world for no reason. They created monsters, Moth Men and Big Foots, never mind earthquakes and volcanoes.

We accuse people who make two-headed dogs and put kittens in ovens of being monsters. We avoid their families for fear that that sort of evil is contagious, or it’s a trait passed from generation to generation. Our ancestors were, like, Frankenstein and Jekyll and Hyde and, and, and every serial killer you can think of rolled into one and spread out over everyone who would be the parents and grandparents and great grandparents of everyone who ever existed. And we’d be left over from that genetic line. What would that make us?

Nevermore Character Stats: Renata Dunn

Renata

Eyes: dark brown
Hair: long, mahogany brown, straight, she keeps it braided most of the time.
Height: 5'9"
Abilities: powerful psychic, second sight, can hunt down any Dunkin Donuts and Taco Bell within a 6 mile radius. Professional exorcist; is a living legend in the Baltimore Necropolis.

Renata was possessed by a demon when she was twelve. This event has, understandably, affected her outlook on life quite a bit. After spending almost a year hidden in a corner of her captive mind, planning escape, Renata managed to reassert her will in an epic battle royal, absorbing the demon into herself, imbuing her with powers of Hell. Then there was the older demon to deal with, who had caused all the initial trouble and created the demon that possessed Renata. Accounts of the following differ depending on who's telling the story, but it is clear that Renata, thirteen and powered by Hell, bitch slapped a millennium old demon into being her man-whore/servant.

Over the past three years, Renata has become a staple of the Baltimore Necropolis. If you don't know her and claim to be part of the spiritual and psychic scene along the East coast, you're a damn liar and everyone knows it.

Renata has the unique and terrifying ability to cross from the land of the living to everywhere else. There are a series of interconnected worlds which overlap and intersect with our reality but which humans - with a few rare exceptions - can't enter while alive or conscious. Renata refers to these other realities as the Never Worlds and she is the only human who can enter them without leaving her body.

Among her many occupations, Renata is first and foremost an exorcist. She tracks down others who may be victimized like she was and helps them. But when she's not doing that, she has a long list of other projects which demand her attention.

Her two largest projects involved mapping the Never Worlds and where they connect with our reality, and rating how dangerous they are. Some points of connection, sometimes called portals or vortexes, are relatively harmless and can be left alone with only some small wards to keep anything malevolent from entering or exiting them. Others require sealing, as they lead to dangerous, unpleasant, or downright evil realities/worlds/etc. There is no strict dichotomy with portals and the Never Worlds. They function within a continuum of danger and deadliness. Even if a vortex doesn't need to be sealed, many still need to be monitored, and Renata has routine road trips during which she checks on her known vortexes.

The second project is similar but involves locating and listing all the haunted spots in Maryland and rating the severity of the haunting. She keeps track of these location on her blog, Renata's Guide to Haunted Maryland.

Renata has been home schooled since she entered high school, enabling her to have time to do all these jobs. And she has a (pet)demon on standby to help her with her homework. And though she doesn't consider it her job, Renata also finds and mentors young psychics like Raven Jenkins, and most recently Fin Constantine.

Renata can be found holding down the cashiers station and chit-chatting with customers of dubious humanity at Red Emma's bookstore and coffee house in Mt. Vernon, Baltimore.

Nevermore Character Stats - the Constantine Twins

Artemis Constantine
Eyes: Green
Hair: Blonde, wavy
Height: 5'9"-5'10", very slender and willowy
Abilities: powerful empathic talents and a trance medium, also has second sight. Natural witch

Artemis is the older twin and the eldest of the Constantine sisters, children of Michael Constantine. Her empathic abilities have always made interpersonal relationships difficult. It's hard to put on a friendly face for the sake of politeness and convention when you know what the person you're with feels about you and it's not always good. However, while she's reclusive and somewhat cold in her interactions outside her family, at home she's loud, eccentric, and extremely silly, and is very close with her siblings and some friends. Her sense of humor is translated fully in Bitter Irony along with her personal tastes in media, entertainment, and education. As a result, those who work with and under Artemis in Bitter Irony grow to have the best relationships with her and know her best. They see the hard shell she presents to the world as well as the thought process and wackiness that's part of her creative process and are able to understand her coldness as a defense mechanism more than anything personal against them.

By the end of high school though, Artemis has managed to successfully merge her Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personalities, turning her into a well loved employer and artist, and a fearsome businesswoman. Artemis takes no prisoners and either she gets her way, or no one does. At the beginning of Nevermore, she's shuttling between coasts and New Orleans, negotiating syndication contracts with multiple TV networks and other interested parties. Artemis is the brains and drive of the Constantine sisters.

Holly Constantine
Eyes: Green with hints of Hazel
Hair: Brunette, curly with natural blonde highlights
Height: 5'8 1/2", curvaceous, long legs with a proportionately shorted torso, beautiful body type in everyone else's opinion but the proportional discrepancy bothers her.
Abilities: second sight, some precognition, Santeria priestess, natural witch.

Holly is the younger twin and the middle child. Either because of this or in spite of it, she's the most outgoing and personable of the sisters. Holly is invariably where the party's at. Holly managed to cope with her abilities fairly early in life, mostly because her first experiences with ghosts were with deceased family, so there was no big scare or drama until she was older. Also, Holly's abilities started off slowly and grew in power as she aged, so she had time to adapt to them. Holly's focus has always been on performance and dance. Aiding Artemis in Bitter Irony was always considered to be a means to an end; it let her perform.

Holly is never consciously conniving, she just sees things she wants, sees ways to get them, and goes after it. As soon as it comes to her attention that someone has been hurt in her quest for attention, she's immediately remorseful. Altruism is a personality trait of both twins, but it's more apparent in Holly. Since she's so outgoing and personable, Holly works as the unofficial PR person for Bitter Irony. She's also one of the official 'faces' of Bitter Irony. As the show expands to become a grassroots network with multiple shows, Holly has a role in almost all of them. The screen time has the desired result: after high school, she's approached by a dance company in New York to perform in one of their shows on Broadway. At the start of Nevermore, she's been there two years and is quickly becoming Broadway's rising star. Holly is the sister closest to Fin and comes to visit her in Baltimore every other week.

Holly is unlucky in love and completely unconcerned about it. She jumps from man to man, always certain it's true love, and always bored after a few weeks. Amazingly, hardly ever are her relationships ended on bad terms and she still keeps in contact with many of her old flames. However, she can't get off Scott free forever.

Of the sisters, Holly is not exactly the heart, but she is the face they show the world collectively; proof that their aren't as weird and insane as their art and actions may lead viewers to believe.

Seraphim Constantine
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: a shade shy of Black, some natural highlights, dead straight
Height: 5'4", thin but very buxom
Abilities: psychic, second sight and projection, energy manipulation. Sorceress and alchemist.

Nickname Fin, Seraphim is the youngest of the sisters, three years their junior and child of another mother. Fin is the most introverted and unusual of the sisters, though it's hard to tell if this is because she's psychic or unrelated to her abilities since she had no perception of them until her teens. Fin is quiet, driven, and something of a genius. She finds her niche early on in life in arts and crafts and chemistry. When Artemis starts Bitter Irony, Fin almost immediately establishes herself in the position of Prop Mistress, scavenging for toys or whatever is necessary for the scene and building what she couldn't find.

It's doubtful that Fin would've discovered or used her natural artistic talent if Artemis hadn't pushed her into it. Fin displays very little drive to accomplish anything on her own or for herself. This changes a little as she ages, but she still requires a push or some form of motivation. The only thing she started looking into on her own was chemistry, specifically biochemistry and the study of venom's and neurotoxins. Which has led to it's own disasters.

Fin is difficult for people to be friends with. There's nothing really wrong with her that anyone can see, but something in her demeanor is off-putting. However, while this makes her difficult to deal with on a person to person basis, it makes her fantastic to watch in her cameos on Bitter Irony shows and a great muse to the writers and other artists she knows. Her sarcasm, inapproachable attitude, bizarre humor, and attractiveness all work together on screen to make her a fan favorite.

Fin considers herself primarily an artist with a focus in metal work. She's gained a reputation for the quality of her work and has her own studio and students to help her deal with commissions and work load.


*I will probably expand these later, but for the moment this should give you an idea of who you're reading about.

Changes They Are A-Coming

I've been wondering about the state of my blogs for some time now. One updates rarely, since I write in anything BUT a chronological order. The other is a dumping ground for what ever the hell I'm thinking on a weekly basis. Neither works well. That said, I'm shifting things around.

This blog, Nevermore, will now will host not only the story but also any posts, thoughts, or extras related to Nevermore that I want to share. This way, you'll know more about the process of my writing, what I'm up to, when I'm wallowing in my inferiority complex, and thus get some sort of idea about when the heck you might get an update.

The Box will now be Maria Meeps - a bit more appropriate since the URL is mariameeps.blogspot.com - and it will return to the purpose I'd dreamed for it originally: a review blog. I'm not sure why I didn't make it one, since my original intention of having a blog was to review books and music, but OH WELL STUFF HAPPENS. Now, when you go to http://mariameeps.blogspot.com, you'll find reviews of books, movies, music, events, and life in general as it relates to the media we consume. The reviews that are already there will remain. Things relating to Nevermore and writing will be re-posted here. Anything inbetween will probably be deleted or at least privatized so no one but me can view them.

Thanks for following me so far, and I hope you'll continue to through the impending changes. Feel free to leave complaints, compliments, or random conversation in the comments. Thank you.

-Maria D

Smoke Break

Iris managed to get us tickets to Don Giovanni.

“All the doors magically open to you when your dad’s an alumnus with deep pockets,” she winked at me, explaining. We were going to a show at the beginning of October, 7:30 PM, black tie event. Apparently this was the gala night with a big after-party. “Dad was a little weirded when I told him a couple of teenage girls wanted to go see opera. He asked me why.”

“What’d ya tell him?” I took a drag on her cigarette, then handed it back to her. Iris had been trying to convince me to start smoking. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but there was some kind of stress relief associated with the action.

“I couldn’t think of anything,” she giggled, “so I told ‘im what you said at 13, about the murderous statue.”

I groaned. “Your parents are never gonna let me come over now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she patted my arm. “If they’ve managed to stand some of Ian’s friends for this long, I’m due for you.”

“If your parents can stand Ian,” I started, but the bell saved Iris from having to hear me rail on her brother more. We slid away from the warm wall of the kiln room and hurried back inside the sculpture studio.

Our trip to 13 had marked the last warm day. The Saturday after had been frigid, and every day since had been the same. We’d taken to having Iris’ smoke breaks outside the sculpture studio, where the heat from the kilns seeped through the brick walls. I’d stopped hanging out in the library and computer labs during my ‘study periods.’ Instead, I’d become a nearly permanent fixture in the sculpture studio. When I wasn’t working on my homework or helping the underclassmen with their projects, I was reclaiming clay or checking the kilns to make sure nothing was in for too long. It was all repetitive and easy, and very Zen.

It was also possibly keeping me from killing my other teachers. Mr. A had developed an annoying habit of standing directly behind me and watching me draw. My classmates had noticed it. Liam had already started making jokes about him trying to get a better look down my shirt this past week. Ms. O’Neil had asked us what we wanted to do with our painting skills. I’d made the mistake of telling the truth; set design. Oh no, that wasn’t real art. Not that I could get a job in set design anyway. Entirely too much blue in my work. The theater is about passion and everyone knows that red is the color of passion. My calculus teacher couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler. No, seriously. He couldn’t. We saw him try to in class one day. It was squiggly.

School was monotonous on good days, and degrading the rest of them. And home wasn’t much better. Dad had the presence of mind not to bring his many girlfriends home while I was living there, but still. I heard the messages on the home answering machines and saw the new boxes of condoms on the grocery receipts. If I’d had anywhere else to stay, I would’ve gone. All I could do was keep to my own room as much as possible and pray that brain bleach would be invented for localized application. Hopefully Don Giovanni would be a temporary respite from the stupid.

13

Friday was bright and shiny and hot as hell. Iris and Ian rode my bus with me downtown. Ian and I got into one of our usual fights; he’d started pontificating about absurdist lit, but I nailed him about never having read anything by Camus, bitch, whine, piss, moan, rinse and repeat. We convinced the driver to let us off before the official stop, and we started our march up to Mt. Vernon.

Mt. Vernon was one of those cultural hubs a lot of big cities have. Peabody, a big music school, was there, along with the Walters Art Gallery. The Baltimore Book Festival was held there every fall, and Iris told me there was the best indie bookshop in the world a few streets down from the Walters.

The store was in a half-exposed basement level of a massive corner townhome. The first floor had elegant, tasteful signs next to the door, advertising offices related to Johns Hopkins University. But the basement had a big, garish sign at street level that said in black, white, and midnight blue:

13: For All Your Alternative Book and Beverage Needs

There was a short but wide window with book displays, oversized coffee cups, and manikin torsos with tutu’s and biker jackets. There were a couple of candles and a witch’s hat on top of a stack of books. A Cesar Chavez sticker was plastered against the glass. I had no clue what sort of bookstore I was entering, if it was indie, Wiccan, anarchist or what. I don’t think the store knew what it was either.

I followed Iris down a short flight of stairs to a narrow door, covered with flyers. People were advertising bands, concerts, roommates, used textbooks, study groups, anarchist study groups, tarot card lessons, fortune telling sessions, lost pets, pets for sale, gallery shows, you name it and it was there.

“Um, Iris?” I tapped her shoulder as she opened the door. I’d just seen a sign, hidden amongst all the flyers and posters, saying: All persons under the age of 18 must be accompanied by an adult. No book bags or school bags are allowed with the premises.

She just winked at me. “Don’t worry about it. I got someone on the inside.” She pushed open the door. There was a little jingle and a rush of cool air. “Hey Renata!”

“Sup hon?” came from the far wall. “I’ll be with ya in a sec. Just taking care of some customers.”

The lighting was low. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust from the bright sun outside to this…cave. The ceiling was low, the furniture and shelves were dark wood, and lighting was minimal. The door opened into an open area with tables and more poster boards for flyers. The rest of the store stretched to the right, with mismatched shelves and even less lighting. What I guessed was a counter stretched across the far wall. I could only assume it was a counter since there was a cash register, but the whole thing was covered with books, posters, and an espresso machine that’d seen better days.

By the cash register were three people, two of them standing. Those two caught my attention first. They were very tall and very beautiful. The woman had impossibly red hair, almost blood red, and it waved down to her butt. She was dressed in a flowing skirt and a peasant blouse, with a bright orange scarf wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was falling across her face, but I caught a glimpse of high, arched eyebrows and what romantic authors called alabaster skin. The man was 6’3” easy and looked like he’d just walked off the set of a GQ photo shoot. But I really couldn’t say for sure what he looked like. They were both leaning over the counter, talking to the girl Iris had yelled to. When they saw the three of us - Iris, Ian, and myself - they both moved away and headed to the door. The man called back to Renata, ‘farewell, my sweet,’ or something stupid like that, and left.

Iris had licked her lips when he walked past, and behind me, I could tell Ian had gone stiff as a board when the woman looked at us. When the door jingled shut behind those two, my friends relaxed. Iris grabbed my hand and dragged me over to the counter space the pretty people had just left. I finally got a look at the third person seated behind the register.

She was wearing an oversized Otakon 2005 t-shirt that draped on her. Rubber bands, hair ties, and Dollar Store charity bracelets covered both wrists. Long brown hair was braided tightly and hung over her shoulder, while straight even bangs nearly covered her freakishly dark eyes. She had a beautiful but cartoonish face, round and wide but symmetrical. Overall, she was pretty and slender and graceful, and looked like a girl from an 18^th century cameo. But something about the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin gave me the distinct impression that she could snap me like a twig. And there was a look in her eyes that made me uncomfortable, even though she was smiling.

“Renata, this is Fin. She goes to Copy Cat with me.” Iris shoved me front and center. I felt like a dead bird the family cat was dropping at the foot of its owner.

“Um, hi?” I waved a little.

“Fin?” she shook my hand. She had an eyebrow quirked in a quizzical expression, but she held out a hand to shake. I took it and tried to look appropriately embarrassed over my unusual nickname.

“Short for Seraphim, Seraphim Constantine.”

“Cool name.” It really was kind of boss. Occasionally I wished I just went by Seraphim. But people were always shortening it, and they were always shortening it to Sarah, and I hated being called Sarah.

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty fond of it.”

“Renata Dunn. Nothing interesting about being named after an opera singer no one’s heard of anymore,” she laughed. “Well, welcome to 13. Chuck your bags on the counter so Hal doesn’t have a conniption fit and feel free to browse. We have coffee and soup and whatnot over at that counter if you can stand the heat. Honestly, if it’s too hot for me to drink coffee, it’s too hot for anyone.” She took a pull on slurpee that’d been stashed under the counter.

I dumped my backpack on the counter. My shoulders nearly screamed in relief. “Thanks,” I rolled my shoulders, trying to work the kinks out. “So, who’s Hal and why’d he be having a fit?”

“Hal is the manager of this fine establishment…for the moment.” Renata moved my bags behind the counter, then did the same for Iris and Ian.

“That sounds ominous.”

“13’s got a pretty high turnover rate for managers,” Iris laughed, “it’s like the Venus fly trap of jobs. Looks really cool, real easy, very pretty on the resume, but once you’re here, it mangles you.”

I raised a brow and looked to Renata. She shrugged and smiled good-naturedly. “Pretty much. I’ve been here part-time for a little over a year, and I’ve seen four managers come in and get wheeled out in a straight jacket. Hal’s pretty close to the edge, and I don’t want him snapping when he gets back in.”

“Hal’s not in yet?” Ian asked, wandering over to a section labeled Poetry.

“Nah, he’s still at his anger management session.”

“They put someone with anger issues in charge of a store? Are the owners on crack? I mean, geez, why don’t they give you the job? You seem pretty chill.” I was slightly flabbergasted.

“Thank you! And to answer your questions in reverse order,” she stopped, took a pull on her slurpee, met ice, and started stabbing it with her straw, “I don’t think they’re interested in giving a 16 year old keys to the stock room. And rightly so. I would walk out of here with soooo much stolen merc, you have no idea. I mean, way more than I already do.” Sluuuurrp. “Second, the correct drug is heroin. Mr. McGee’s drug of choice this year is heroin. He’s got a dealer in Arbutus who mules it in state with computer parts. Way crazy. And Hal didn’t have any anger issues till he started working as manager. Before that, I learned much of my chill ways from him.”

Okay, I was more than slightly flabbergasted. “This is a fucked up store.”

“But we have some absolutely fab merchandise.” Renata chewed on some ice chunks and motioned to the shelves. “Go check it out.”

Their selection of books was pretty amazing. There were lots of books on psychology and gender identity. There were two walls dedicated to anarchist and atheist literature, with tons of Nietzsche. I picked up a copy of the Anarchists Hand Guide. That would piss off dad if he ever saw it. I spent at least half an hour reading titles and flipping through pages, while Iris and Renata talked in low voices at the counter and Ian stood unmoving in the poetry aisle.

The lighting was abysmally low. I had to lean close to the shelves to see book titles. Consequently, I didn’t see the man dozing in the corner until I tripped over his outstretched feet.

I gasped loudly as I fell to my knees. A quick assessment told me that I was fine. I turned to guy I’d just tripped over.

“Hey mister, are you okay?”

He was a short black man, wirey-thin with his hair cut close. His white button-down was loose and worn, while his tan slacks were held up with suspenders. It was hard to tell if his skin was really that dark or if it were just the poor lighting. The look of him kind of freaked me out. Something about his clothes made him look like he’d just stepped out of a 30’s movie. And what was he doing sleeping in a corner of a book store?

He hadn’t answered my question, I asked him if he were okay again. He just looked at me, eyes wide, as though he couldn’t believe I was talking to him, that I could see him. Everything about this guy was freaking me out, so I quickly ducked into the nearest aisle that took me out of his line of sight. Tragically, unfairly, it was the poetry aisle. Ian looked down at me with his usual contempt, and I sneered back at him, trying to cover up my suddenly pounding heart. I was still crouched low to the floor. Trying to make it look like this was on purpose, I reached out to the books on the lowest shelf. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. I opened it to somewhere in the middle and started reading Ad Finem over and over again.

I felt I was being watched. Looking up, I saw Ian leering at me. When I met his gaze, he licked his lips and then looked back at the book he was holding. Pig. There was an iron poker next to a bricked up fireplace behind us. I wondered how long it would take me to grab it and swing it at Ian’s knees, which were right at my eye level. I could probably reach it faster than he could effectively dodge. Most likely. It was worth the risk. My left hand inched towards the poker.

“Hey Fin! Wanna go to a party?” Iris yelled out over the stacks.

“Um…sure?” I agreed hesitantly. I abandoned my knee-cap shattering plans and went to join her and Renata over at the counter. Ella Wheeler Wilcox got dropped on top of some other books and I skirted past Ian, making sure to kick him in the ankle –hard- as I passed. He grunted in pain and I smiled. It wasn’t a trip to the hospital but it was something.

Iris was bouncing with happiness and Renata was still smiling. “Okay, so there’s this park over by Ellicott city and it’s awesome and abandoned and they’ve been clearing some of the rides and buildings out but there’s still a ton of stuff left over and it’s in the woods and Renata and some other people know how to get in and they wanna hold a Halloween party there and it’ll be awesome do you wanna go?” It was amazing that her skin hadn’t started to match the purple of her hair. She took a gasping breath as soon as she finished, but then held it while awaiting my response.

“Sounds like fun,” I agreed again. “We’re going to do this on Halloween?” I posed the question to Renata while Iris squealed in pleasure. It seemed to be her shindig so she’d probably know the time better than Iris.

“Weekend before. I’ve already got plans for Halloween and so do a couple of other peeps who’re coming. But we all want to do this, so it’s happening. That weekend free for you?” There was something about her eyes that made me so uncomfortable. But if Iris was there, and other people were there, maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with her much.

“As far as I know, I’m free.” Dad wasn’t a ‘making-plans’ sort of parent so I highly doubted anything would interfere from that area of my life. And the Mom’s were both so busy. So unless the Twins came,… nah, they’d want to come with me if they knew. “Yeah, I’ll be free.”

“YES! Time for a victory smoke.” Iris started rifling through her many pockets, looking for her cigarettes and lighter.

“Outside!” Renata declared, pointing a finger imperiously towards the door.

“Aw, but-“

“ASTHMA!” she yelled louder, pointing to her chest.

“Oh. Right,” Iris looked a little awkward, then perked up, saying “be right back,” before she dashed out the door into the sunshine. We heard a quick scream of “the sunlight! It burns,” before the door tinkled closed behind her.

“You’re asthmatic?” I asked Renata.

“Not since I was twelve, but there’s no need for her to know that.” She noticed the anarchy book I was holding. “You wanna buy that?”

Renata rang me up quickly and shoved the book in my backpack for me. Then she was distracted. There was a loud beep, and I realized she had a laptop stored under the counter. An IM conversation left over from last night was starting up again, she said. She was talking to a guy who called himself rain maker Tobai in Savannah.

The door tinkled again and Iris stepped back inside, picking the conversation back up where she’d left it. “Renata, you gotta tell us about some other stuff going on in tow. We have to indoctrinate Fin into Baltimore culture.” Iris wrapped an arm around me.

“That was a quick smoke,” I said. Normally she took twice that long.

She snorted. “I want the cigarette to burn, not me.” Then she turned back to Renata, whining “Renaaaaaaaa.”

“Take her down to Market Street and leave her there for a few hours. That should do it,” she said, never looking up from the laptop screen. The ferocity of her typing and the frequency of the beeps notifying replies made it seem like a very heated discussion.

Iris pouted.

“Baltimore Book fest is going to be here in the next week or two,” Ian called from a few shelves away. “And after that, we head into October and Free Fall. There should be something going on there to entertain you two.” Free Fall was this touristy thing Baltimore did where tons of otherwise expensive cultural events were suddenly open to the public and free of charge. I’d gone to one of those events once, a jazz concert at Eubie Blake, before Nonna and Poppy had died. It had been kind of fun.

“The Peabody’s doing a show. It’s scheduled to be up and running by the end of the month,” Renata chimed in from behind her laptop.

“What show?”

“Don Giovanni. There’s a poster for it on the wall near the door,” she nodded her head in that direction. “It’s a student production. It’s the first time they’ve done this show in nearly twenty years. If you’ve got nothing else to do today, you could run back to Mt. Vernon proper and pick up some tickets at the school.”

I rushed over to the board with poster and sought it out. “That definitely sounds like something I’d be interested in.”

“Fin, you like opera?” Iris sounded stunned.

“I like this opera,” I clarified. “A statue comes to life at the end of it and drags the title character off to hell. Homicidal sculpture. What’s not to like?”

Iris and I decided to go to the Peabody soon after that. We’d been in 13 for nearly two hours and the air conditioning was getting to me. We left Ian hidden among the stacks. He hadn’t shifted his position at all. Iris told him where we were going; I didn’t hear what he said in response. All I heard was Renata call after, very softly, “see you soon, Seraphim.”

I was standing on the corner outside 13, still talking to Iris, when my dad drove past us. He hadn’t said anything about where I could or couldn’t hang out. But from the look on his face, I could tell I’d done something wrong by being here. His car circled the block, then came back to pull up to the curb where we were standing. The passenger window rolled down, and dad leaned over the seat and stuck his head out.

“Hey Fin, who’s you friend?” He was smiling a little, but his eyes were cold and distrustful, the way they always were around new people.

“This is Iris. She’s in my class. Iris, this is my dad, Mike,” I tried to make the conversation as quick as I could - Dad wasn’t the parent you introduced to people you liked – that distrust of Iris, and his obvious anger at me got my back up. What the fuck was his problem? I said bye to Iris and got in the car, ready for a fight.

We drove for a few blocks without saying a word. I wasn’t going to speak first and set myself up for more trouble. Finally,

“I don’t want you walking around here. It’s not safe for you. Not for anyone, but you even more. You don’t know what to expect.”

“I told you I was hanging out with a friend today. And what’s with this ‘not safe’ business? I’m not a noob, dad. New Orleans ain’t winning any prizes for safety and I used to stomp around the city all the time there.” It was hard to talk to my dad without being defensive or antagonistic.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re a tough girl. Now don’t gimme that look!” He’d caught my sneer, and probably knew it meant I’d be bitching to mom about him later that night. “I know New Orleans is bad. A lot of places are. But none of them are Baltimore. Baltimore, now she’s a beast unto herself. She’s a mean old bitch of a place.”

We were driving through one of the dingier parts of the city. He was back roading through residential streets instead of the main ones that were jammed this time of day. We passed a street corner where there was a Charm City bench falling apart. Most of them had been removed a couple of years ago

“Charm City my ass,” he muttered. “Sure, she’ll charm you alright. And once you’re charmed stupid, she’ll fuck you up, leave you broke, broken, and dying behind one of those big churches on Saint Paul Street, reeking of piss – half of which ain’t even your own!”

“Thanks dad. I needed that mental image.”

“Shut that smart mouth before I shut it for you.” Dad had never beaten me or my sisters, but that didn’t mean his threat was idle. I shut my ‘smart mouth.’ He went on, “see all these houses? See them all boarded up and empty?”

I nodded.

“It’s bull. There’re people in all of them. Some live there, squatters. Some people run businesses out of them. We found a whole row not far from Market Street where they were running beauty parlors.”

“Do you have a point, or are you just trying to talk me to death?” I snapped.

Dad paused, took a breath and said, “nothing that looks empty here ever is. Not really. And it’s hardly ever that it’s something as harmless as a beauty shop.”

I heaved an exaggerated sigh, “sure dad. Right. Don’t go near the boarded up houses. Well, that marks about half the city ‘off-limits.’ I’ll keep this all in mind, dad. Thanks.”

“And on the flip side of that” he raised his voice to speak over me, “places that look occupied, places that appearance and common sense tell you should be full of people who’ll give a shit if something happens to a pretty young thing like you – those’ll be the places where no one will hear you call for help.”

I thought about this for a minute, looking at the dark, derelict houses that passed by our window. “So what you’re telling me is that I was fucked the minute you and mom agreed to move me up here.”

He actually laughed at that. My dad, expressing concern for my welfare and then laughing at something I said, all in the same night. Would wonders never cease.

“I’m giving you a warning. Some people spend live their whole lives in this city, never going to DC or even stepping over county lines, and don’t figure out the obvious. Then they bitch about how hard their lives are, not making any connection. This city is a vindictive bitch who’s out for blood. She’s not too picky about whose. I’m giving you a heads up to watch you’re your back. Be grateful and don’t go walking here on your own.”

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf

I’d rehearsed my lines about the attack well enough that I could explain what happened without freezing up, getting defensive, or, God forbid, crying. I’d gone into the desert to do something stupid, a wolf attacked me, I nearly died. By the time I’d gotten out of the hospital, we’d moved to New Orleans, and I’d never been near a desert or a dog since. There it was, the whole stupid string of events. But beyond the basic info, it was hard to dish.

The first half of my life was spent in New Mexico, in a church at the edge of the desert. It was one of those old Spanish, adobe missions, perched on a hillside. It had been abandoned by the priests more than a century ago, and had sat alone and untouched in the wastelands until Val found it and fixed it up 18 years ago. It was an unconventional home, a fitting setting for an unconventional childhood. I had loved it, and the desert it ruled over, desperately, passionately, and unconditionally. That love, and the trust that went with it, had ultimately been my undoing.

I never suspected how dangerous it really was. Back then, I was invincible. I was a child. I was immortal. The desert was my closest friend and confidant in my childish, overly romantic mind. And even if there was danger, the saints would protect me.

I did not grow up in a religious house. Granted, we lived in a church, but to the Mom’s thinking, that was the beginning and end of spirituality in our lives. But still, it was a church. There were tiny alcoves and cabinets all around the house, with the statues of saints still inside. The Spanish monks had left them behind when they fled, and they added a sense of mysticism to the homestead. When I was bored, I’d run all over the house and try to find new statues and hidden cubbyholes. Before going out into the desert, I would leave offerings of cactus flowers and pretty rocks I’d found. In New Mexico, those ancient icons and childish superstitions formed my faith.

What did I do in the desert? Good question. I never really did anything. I’d kick off my shoes and walk barefoot across the parched earth. Sometimes I’d pretend I was a lost princess or an evil witch, banished to the waste. Sometimes I was a desert thief, and lost traders and merchants would have to kowtow to me so that I’d guide them back to civilization. But most of the time, I didn’t think of anything. I just walked, mind and feet bare to whatever the hot sun brought me.

The hot sun brought me to carcasses and vulture feathers, which I’d collect and make jewelry from. It brought me to monolithic rock formations, jutting out of a flat terrain like a knife or a broken bone. It brought me to the mouths of caves, which I’d wander into without a flashlight and wander back out of with only a few scraps and scratches on my knees. It brought me back home, mostly unharmed, and I’d thank the saints for keeping the Mom’s from knowing.

Somewhere along the line, I’d heard that snake venom, when mixed with nail polish, made the colors even brighter. Like an idiotic little sister, I told the Twins about this factoid. They wanted to try it. So I was sent out into the desert with gardening gloves and pickle jars to hunt up snakes and scorpions and whatever else might be poisonous. Meanwhile, they kept the Mom’s occupied and distracted from the fact that little 7 year old me was on the lookout for neurotoxins.

Needless to say, I succeeded. I won’t bore you with too many details. The Twins stole some chemistry equipment from their middle school, and hand copied notes about venom and the practical application to make-up from library books. After a year of trial and error and hiding snake skins from the Mom’s, we had a product. The Twins ran the business aspect. They found buyers, set prices, and kept school officials in the dark about the cottage industry doing business in girls’ bathrooms and locker rooms. And I made the product, mostly nail polishes with very vibrant, unique colors.

I was happy to do it too. Sure, the Twins never gave me a fair share of the profit – back then, I still hadn’t learned the valuable tool of blackmail – but I got paid in other ways. The other girls stopped teasing me. The middle school and high school girls who had boyfriends made sure I wasn’t bullied and got an escort when walking to the bus stop. If only I’d had that sort of protection in the desert.

I was nine, and the landscape was as familiar to me as my own face. I knew the boroughs of the different animals. I knew by tracks when the coyotes were passing through. I knew by the number of vultures how big a carcass was. So in theory, I should’ve known there was a wolf wandering around. That’s what I kept telling myself. But I didn’t know about the wolf. I just knew that my heart stopped when I saw the shadow of a rock I’d passed a thousand times before rise up into a black, living mass.

This happened in the morning. No one found me until it was nearly sunset. I spent 12 hours under a May sun, and while May sounds nice in the Northeast, in New Mexico, it may as well be summer. I was alone, bleeding from under my right armpit to my hip, with organs ready to fall out if I moved. I couldn’t move. I didn’t move. I lay there, watching the vultures circle me, feeling the sun bake me. Fillet Fignon.

I’ve read a lot of survivor stories, where the injured would fade in and out of consciousness from dehydration and pain. I wasn’t one of those. I was awake and aware of the pain at all times. The only respite came sometime in the afternoon. An old man had seen me while he was out looking for his terrier that had wandered off. He went home, called the authorities to let them know there was the body of a little girl in the desert, and then came back to get a better look and make sure the police came. When he saw I was still alive, he sat with me. He talked and kept me company while we waited for rescue. The pain didn’t lessen any, and he didn’t have any water - not would I let him get some; that would mean he’d leave for a moment and I’d be by myself again - but it was nice knowing that I wouldn’t die alone.

He told me about his dog and his wife who’d died of consumption years and years ago. He told me about following fallen stars way out in the valleys and canyons. All sorts of things were said, secrets of the land shared, which I forgot over the months of pain meds and psych evaluations. I never saw the old kook again, didn’t even catch his name. I’d asked the Mom’s and the doctors about him once or twice, but never got any answers. After a few weeks, I forgot to ask. Morphine fueled my youthful self-centeredness and it was easy to overlook the debt I owed to the old geezer. Meanwhile, the Twins had started Bitter Irony, the Mom’s were moving us to New Orleans, life moved on, and by the time I was healthy enough to go look for him myself, I was in a whole new time zone.

Reminiscing had left me a little jittery. I couldn’t keep my hands from spasming and jerking around in sculpture. My distraction was obvious. Mr. J knew better than to call on me during class, and when everyone else was occupied, he pulled me aside to ask if I wanted to go to the nurse or a guidance counselor. I didn’t want any of that. I just wanted to finish the day out and go home where I could sulk in peace and quiet.

I survived until dismissal. Iris had noticed that I was out of it. She grabbed me before I got on my bus. We stood there for a minute. She didn’t seem to know what to say or do, like she’d only planned up to getting my attention but not past that. Personally, I had nothing left to say. Sulking was my top priority for the afternoon.

“We should go out Friday.” The words seemed to surprise her as she said them, but she seemed to catch on to herself pretty quickly. “I’m betting you haven’t seen too much of the city yet, right? I mean, you’re still pretty fresh and all….” Iris trailed off not quite sure what she was saying. My bus driver was yelling at me to hurry up.

“Friday!” she suddenly yelled. “Friday after school, Ian and I will ride down with you to the Inner Harbor and we’ll show you around. There’re some places I know you’ll love.”

The driver yelled again, and I stepped towards the door. “Sure, sounds like fun. I’ll talk to you about it later, ‘kay?” I waved and stepped on the bus. Iris stood outside the closed doors for a minute, looking unsure. I saw Ian come drag her to their bus as mine pulled away from the curb.

Callway

School started up again in September. My senior year of high school would be finished at the Callway Conservatory. It was a magnet school nestled to the left of Towson’s cold, robotic heart. It sported music, theater, visual arts, and writing majors. At the end of my first week, I learned that students called it the Copy Cat School for the Arts, since the programs borrowed heavily from the Baltimore School for the Arts. I couldn’t argue. Everything I’d seen from the art departments was so … generic. It all screamed “I’m a young artiste! I draw/paint/photoshop deep, meaningful stuff! Take me seriously!”

The art major was broken up into four departments: multi-media, painting, photography, and sculpture. All art students had to take drawing with the head of the art department, Mr. Anders, and painting with Ms. O’Neil, regardless of what their area of focus was. I’d ended up choosing sculpture for two reasons; first, it was the only focus area whose works on display showed any originality, and second, the studio was fantastic.

The sculpture studio was this big warehouse that had obviously been attached to the school as an afterthought. Metal shelves were filled with unused slabs of clay and plasticine, and student sculptures in various states of completion. There were two or three reclaiming stations, where dried clay was broken to bits and immersed in garbage cans of water until they were pliable again. Kilns were through a door at the far end of the room. In another corner was a blowtorch. Hooks and chains hung from the ceiling in abundance, holding up installation pieces.

There was a giant model volcano made from melted crayons on a shelf. From the ceiling hung a pterodactyl made from welded silverware. In the back of the teachers office was a life-sized human figure…made from the exoskeletons of seventeen-year cicadas. And everything was coated in a fine layer of clay dust.

Since I’d managed to fulfill most of my non-focus related credits down in New Orleans, my schedule was pretty light; three art classes and one Calculus class. I foresaw a lot of potential free time this semester which I’d probably waste reading manga on the library computers. I’d already prepared my excuse; ‘I’m studying the use of different drawing and inking techniques in storytelling. See how so-and-so is drawing from traditional insert-obscure-cultures’-art-history-here?’ First period was drawing with Mr. Anders in the AP studio at 7:15 AM. Because your hand-eye coordination is so sharp at fuck-o’clock in the morning.

Mr. Anders was of average height and average build. His one concession to artistic oddity was a stubby ponytail he'd pulled his average brown hair back into. When he spoke, he had a musical voice, which resonated in the melodious tones of the pompous and ass-holy. He handed out our syllabus for the year, explaining the sketchbook policy (two entries a week, all sketches must be taken from life, no photos, no fantasy, no cartoons, any sign of originality or individualism are punishable by death, etc), then moved on to roll call.

“Constantine, Seraphim.”

“Yo,” I flipped my left hand up to catch his attention, then let it flop back to my lap. I was scrutinizing the syllabus, trying to find the rule or loophole that would be taken advantage of to spell my doom this year.

“Cool name. Can we call you Sarah?”

“I prefer Fin.” Seriously, what was the point of having a weird name if you shortened it to something normal?

“Fim?” It wasn't really a question, the way he said it. It was more of an “I've-decided-I-don't-like-you-and-want-the-rest-of-this-class-to-dislike-and-isolate-you-too-because-it’s-within-my-power-to-do-so sneer. I immediately understood this type of teacher wouldn't waste time using a loophole in the syllabus to fail me. My assignments would just conveniently disappear and he'd be forced to fail me, counting on parents to take the word of a teacher over the word of their kid. He was right. Fuck.

“Nope," I sighed, biting back my tempter and bracing myself for the coming semester. "Just Fin.”

“Fin. Not Seraphim? Or Sarah?” I looked at him, making sure to give him my biggest, bitchiest smile.

“Nooo, Fin. As in finished, finicky, or Finland. Think the ending of French noir films. Fin.” A few brave souls laughed. I held Mr. Anders gaze, smiling, showing off my incisors.

“Oookay, Fin it is.” I gave him another too-bright, bullshit grin, then dropped it completely and turned back to the syllabus. Roll call rolled along and the girl next to me kept laughing. I ignored her.

The class was seated in a semi circle around a small stage, draped with sheets and covered with boxes, jars, vases, flowers, shoes, dolls, - and that was just what I could see from my side. Across from me, on the other side of the still-life set, two boys were whispering about a naked Barbie peeking out of a purse. My classmates were mostly sophomores. Because I hadn’t started from the ground up with the program, I couldn’t be in the same art classes as the rest of the seniors. Boo fucking hoo. It didn’t matter too much to me. I was short and hardly anyone ever realized I was 17. It would probably take them until next semester to figure out that I wasn't a sophomore if I didn't tell them.

Roll call finished and we pulled out our sketchbooks. A slight hush fell over the room as we all began drawing sections of the still-life. There were whispered conversations going on continuously; I eavesdropped when I could. Gossip was a hell of a lot more interesting than the Charlie Brown soundtrack Mr. Anders had put on.

Gossip is pretty much the same in all schools, but every now and then, you hear some real gems. This sharing session was particularly juicy. Sure, I heard more snarky comments about Copy Cat school and how half the freshman class had been rejected from Baltimore School for the Arts, but I also heard that the Latin teacher had tried to commit suicide over the summer and was at Shepherd Pratt, and the chorus teacher had been fired last year for sleeping with his student and his replacement had been fired from his last job for sexually blackmailing college students. Oh my god, I was either going to love this school or burn it to the ground and salt its’ smoldering ashes.

After a while, I noticed the two boys across from were pointing, not to the Barbie anymore, but to me. Paranoia set in briefly, then I saw that their gazes kept flickering back to my chest, which was exposed by the low cut of my tank top. Ah ha. I was being checked out. Not too surprising. God had graciously gifted me with a blessing of bounteous boobage (what? Your teachers never gave extra points for alliteration?), and my hair – almost black, straight, long and feathered – was pulled back, giving them a pretty clear view. I liked my tits. They were my bodies one concession to maturity on an otherwise stunted torso. And their size balanced out my fat Italian ass, giving me what might almost be considered an hourglass figure. Drew, the Twins step-brother, had said before that I was “kinda hot.”

But in New Orleans, my attractiveness had been an afterthought in the wake of the twins. Artemis, through some perverse quirk of genetics, had overcome generations of stocky brunettes and grown up to be a 5'10", leggy, natural blond with green eyes. And Holly was one of those perfect women, the kind God makes just to prove that He can. She was tall like Artemis, with perfect legs, a perfect figure, high C-cup breasts, and the most amazing hair; rich, curly brown with natural blond highlights. And her whole body was toned from years of dance. I'd seen both my sisters stop traffic. I was the Betty Boop to their Jessica Rabbits; nothing to sneeze at, but no one would notice me with my sisters in the room.

It occurred to me now that there was no legacy of the Constantine Twins to haunt me. I was the hot new girl. I was going to enjoy this.

My internal gloating was cut short as class ended. I didn’t have Calc until 3^rd period, so while the class filed out the door and rushed off to whatever they had next, I loitered in the hallway. The only person who wasn’t rushing was the girl who’d sat next to me and laughed at my snap at Mr. Anders. She hung outside with me and waited for the rush and jam of bodies to ebb.

Five minutes later, the hall was almost empty. Mr. Anders had a new class to drone to on the other side of the door. It was just me and weird laughing girl. All alone in an empty hallway. While she kept staring at me. Yup.

“Hi,” she smiled, “I’m Iris.” Iris, aside from laughing at my bitchiness and engaging in mildly stalker-y behavior, had the nicest purple dread locks I’d ever seen on a white girl. No joke. They were tight and beaded and all that cool shit. “You’re Fin, right?”

“Yeah.” Iris was also had a functioning short term memory. Good to know.

“I liked your jab at Mr. A. Fucker deserved it,” she chuckled a little.

“I take he’s always an ass?”

“We don’t call ‘im Mr. A for our health,” her smile widened. “What’s your next class? I don’t got anything til 4^th and I need a smoke.”

And so began my friendship with Iris Moore. Iris was 16, a junior, and had switched from the theater program to photography last year. Like me, she was starting from the bottom up. She had a twin brother named Ian who was in the literary program. She was only at Callway because School for the Arts didn’t accept her and there were no tuition fees here.

We were sitting on benches outside, in clear view of the office. When Iris lit up, I was expecting teachers to come to the windows or rush outside demanding we put it out and come back inside to speak to the vice. But none of that happened. People from the office looked out at us, Iris waved, and they went away and left us alone. At my raised eyebrow, Iris explained.

“Welcome to ‘mandatory socialization’ at a half-assed art school. As long as they know you’re a student and you’re with another student, they really don’t care what you’re doing,” she paused and took a drag. “Unless you cross the parking lot to the Taco Bell. Then they freak the hell out.” She rolled her eyes and took a looooong drag. “So. Whaddya think of our happy little high school home?”

“Well, let’s see. What do I think. After one period. On my first day...” I cast a look back at the office window and broke up laughing then and there.” I think this place is fucking retarded.”

“Amen to that,” she cackled, “but it’s better than any of the alternatives. I mean, at least we get to wear hats here and shit.”

“At least.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Calculus was calculus and the less said about it the better. Painting was 4^th period, and I sat with Iris again. Ms. O’Neil was a head trip through and through. She didn’t like cooler shades and felt that you could only express true emotion through the color red. I made a mental note to infuse all my compositions with copious amounts of blue and green. We didn’t get to do any actual painting, and probably wouldn’t for the first week, she said. Instead, she gave us a list of art supply stores and told us to write an essay about a painting that ‘moved’ us. I was going to write about something in Picasso’s blue phase.

Lunch was followed by two periods of abso-friggin-lutely nothing. Iris had classes, so I lounged around in the library, looking up which free manga sites could get past the security firewalls. The high-traffic sites with fairly tame manga was blocked. The largely unknown sites, the ones with all the hentai, were invariably accepted as “safe” by the school network. Weird. The last class of the day got me into the sculpture studio. Sculpture was taught by Jasper Zimmer, who everyone called Mr. J. He rode a Vespa to school, spoke 5 foreign languages fluently, and he looked like Jesus.

After roll call, he talked to all the students he’d known from last year a little, talked about the summer vacation. I was the only new face in the group, so we had the usual get up and tell us about yourself routine that plagues all grade levels. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it would be. When he heard I was from New Orleans, he talked to me in Creole French for a while. I spoke French, Italian, and Spanish, none of it fluently, but enough to hold a conversation and, more importantly, insult people. We traded a few favored curses and then he told the class about the time he lived in Mississippi as part of a resident artist program. It was hilarious and I’m not even going to try retell it. I’d just ruin it.

Class was over way too soon. We all milled around the buses, checking and rechecking numbers to make sure no one got on a bus headed to Catonsville when they really wanted Owings Mills or Essex. I saw Iris and a guy I guessed was her brother board the number that went to Hampdon. I wondered if I could persuade Iris to pick me up a Hon Café sticker. I’d had one from my last visit to the city, but it had worn off the folder I’d stuck it on.

I managed to find the right bus, in spite of my continued fears about public transportation. The ride was about two hours with rush hour traffic. I started the calc homework (because there’s always calc homework) and tried to think happy thoughts about reorganizing my book shelves while the other kids were screaming and jumping around in back. This was pretty much the pattern for the rest of the week. The only thing that changed were my conversations with Iris and Ian.

I met Ian on Wednesday and immediately started cultivating a verbally abusive relationship. He started pontificating about how To Kill A Mockingbird was the perfect book, I said I got its importance but the format and style really weren’t my thing, and the conversation tail-spinned from there. Lunches turned into verbal sparring matches about books and authors on the benches outside. Iris played referee while she smoked and munched on Taco Bell take-out. Friday, she gave me one of his poems to rip into at lunch. He actually winced. I enjoyed his suffering even more since he looked like an indie rocker; scrawny with shaggy black hair and vintage tees. Indie boys always deserve whatever pain is sent their way. The only way I’d only enjoy it more would if he were emo. Win some, lose some.

The second week of school, more of my classmates started talking to me as they got used to the look of me. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that a lot of them were guys I’d caught looking down my shirt at various times last week. Not that it was hard; I was short, the weather was still hot, and tank tops are friends to all tall boys. I think they realized I wasn’t going hit them just for looking.

The inquisition went as follows: where did you come from? Why did you move here? Are you Mexican? Where’s your accent from (I had a very slight southern accent that only came out when I was getting pissed about something, something like being asked if I was Mexican)? Do you have a boyfriend? Are you a lez? How’d you get into art?

As if I needed more proof that my boobs were a main attraction, I got a couple of questions about my pendant. I had a wolves tooth on a silver chain that I wore all the time. I was so used to it that I usually forgot it was even there.

“Seriously? You were attacked by a wolf?”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit yourself,” I snarked back. “I was out in the desert when I was nine and I got attacked by a wolf. Fucker tore open my whole right side. I was out there bleeding for a couple of hours before anyone found me. They pulled this sucker out of a rib,” I said, fingering the tooth proudly. We were sprawled out across steps in one of the stairwells, me, Iris, some guys from our painting class, and one or two girls who’d passed by while we were talking and stayed to listen.

“I was in the hospital for nearly a year. Mom was freaked right on out.”

Everyone was quite for a minute, before one of the guys - Liam, I think his name was – said, “I still think it’s bullshit.”

Obviously the boy wanted proof. I could give him proof. I pulled up the end of my shirt on the right side, exposing a mass of shiny scar tissue, several shades darker than the rest of my skin.

“Holy shit!” Iris squeaked. Some of the guys looked squicked out. I shrugged. I’d never been too self conscious about my scars from the accident. There’s that bumper sticker that says “Scars are tattoos with better stories.” A classmate had visited me when I was in the hospital and stuck that sticker on my bandages. The nurse had had a fit, but I’d taken the words to heart.

“What the fuck were you doing in a desert? I didn’t know there were deserts in New Orleans.”

“There aren’t. This happened when I was living in New Mexico. It’s hard to avoid desert out there,” I smiled, totally chill about everything. “I was hunting for snakes. Snake venom can be mixed with some cosmetics to enhance them. I had a little elementary school, cottage industry, mixing rattle snake venom with nail polish. It was cool.” I was so chill about this conversation, the temperature had dropped. If my hands were clenching or my smile twitching, it was just in response to how cool everything was.

“Don’t you guys have classes?” There was suddenly a teacher at the top of the stairs. A few people got up to leave. I went with them. I didn’t have class but I was through with this conversation.