This is where I'll put everything non-anime related. I will definitely put in short stories, possibly some poetry, and...maybe a chapter story. We'll see. Hope you enjoy!

Satisfaction

Title: Satisfaction
Series: Original
Characters: All nameless. A gray wolf, a black wolf, and a few minor unimportant characters.

With one last vicious bite from the snarling black wolf, the deer shuddered and fell.

The misty gray wolf trotted towards the kill with the rest of his packmates, ready to receive his share of meat. Sinking low to the ground, he approached the black wolf, his belly brushing the dirt. Whining, he rolled onto his back, exposing his vulnerable white neck to the looming wolf’s hard yellow stare. The black wolf let out a snarl, scratching his claws across the gray wolf’s snout. A few of the other wolves did the same, growling happily.

After a few minutes, the black wolf led the others away towards the kill. The gray wolf stayed in the dirt, not daring to join his packmates.

After they had all feasted, the black wolf gave a sharp bark, his snout glistening with blood. He ran towards the trees, his dark pelt melting into the ever-growing night. The rest of the pack followed, barking, happy and full.

The gray wolf stood, shaking loose dirt from his fur. Without a second glance, he ran after his packmates, leaving the rest of the meat to the scavengers.

Give It Back? Never.

My favorite game has always been ours. The one with the unspoken rules.

We used to play it every day. And I still remember it perfectly. I still think back on it, and smile.

*****

“Oh, hello, Martha!” my mother called cheerfully, waving. I looked up from the pile of dirt I was inspecting, groaning when I realized that Martha had brought along her daughter. Annie was seven years old, like me, but she was a girl. “Annie,” my mother said sweetly, “Zach’s over there if you want to play.”

She came running towards me.

I jutted my chin out defiantly. What do I need her here for? I’m more than capable of playing by myself, thank you!

“Hi Zach!” she chirped happily as she skidded to a stop next to me, her dress flapping along behind her.

“What do you want?” I muttered irritably. If she moved even a step forward, she would ruin my dirt pile with her stupid bare feet. And I needed that dirt for…experiments. And dirt bombs. I began to separate the dirt bombs from the rest of the dirt, putting them in their own little pile.

“You’re going to step in my dirt pile!” I said angrily. This girl was such a pain. She was worse than useless.

“Oh! Sorry!” she quipped, jumping back a few steps. I ignored her, focusing on organizing my dirt bombs instead. After a few minutes, Annie timidly kneeled down next to me. “I like that one!” she informed me, pointing to the smallest dirt bomb.

I picked it up. “This one?” I asked. She nodded eagerly. “Hmph,” I boasted, crushing it between my fingers. “Why? You can’t do anything with it, anyway.”

Annie’s face fell. “Why’d you do that? That was the cutest one!”

“That’s the stupidest thing I‘ve ever heard!”

“Well, then, let’s go look at those pretty white flowers over there then! C’mon!” She jumped up, grabbing my hand and dragging me along behind her.

“I don’t want to go look at some stupid girly flowers!” I whined.

But she laughed.

“They’re so pretty!” She squealed, stopping suddenly in front of the flower patch.

“No, they’re not,” I snapped, kicking the petals off of the green stems.

They were so green…why did they need to compete with the flowers, anyway?

*****

The days passed, weeks, months. We kept playing our game. And then the rules changed.

“Zach! Zach!” Annie wasn’t even in my yard yet, but she was still screaming to me as she crossed the street.

“Mommy! We have to hurry so I can show Zach!” She was beaming. Was it excitement? Or was it hope? My seven-year-old brain didn’t notice. Or it didn’t care.

“AHHH!” I screamed, running to hide behind my mother. “Mommy! Why does she have to come here every day? And now she’s going to poison me, Mommy! AHHH!”

My mother shook her head and clucked at me, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Don’t be so rude, Zach! She’s not going to poison you! Now, come out from behind me, and go see what Annie has to show you!” With a final nudge from my mother and a kind smile from Martha, the two women left us on the front lawn and walked away towards the patio, chattering.

“Do you want to see, Zach?” Annie bounced up to me, her mouse brown hair framing her face in waves.

“Ugh, let’s just get it over with,” I grumbled. She smiled, reaching into the folds of her dress.

I never understood the purpose of a dress. It looked like all it did was get in the way. Pants seemed so much easier to wear. I asked Annie about it once, but she said that boys weren’t allowed to know. I guess that was just another rule.

“I want you to keep it, Zach.” She held out her cupped hands, and I peered inside. Was that…blue? I reached in and pulled out a small, clay heart. I turned it in my fingers and realized only part of it was blue; it was all different colors, combined to make one...thing. “What is it?” I held it carefully, as if I were holding a life in my hands.

“It’s my heart,” she said simply. “Mrs. Cedy helped us make them at school. It took us a week! She told us to give them to someone important to us to hold onto. So I did.”

I smiled, clutching the heart tighter in my fingers. “Girls do the weirdest, stupidest things!”

But she smiled.

*****

I turned it over in my fingers again and again. Thinking back to that day so many years ago, barely aware of the wild grin rapidly spreading across my face. Of course I had kept that little clay heart.

“Zach! Martha and Annie are here for dinner!” My mother called up the stairs.

“Coming!” I called back, carefully locking her little clay heart in my desk drawer. I slipped the key and its chain around my neck and clomped down the stairs.

I wonder if she knows she has mine.

Click

I turn the page, my hands clumsy.

We smiled up from those perfect pages. The sun was bright behind us, and we were laughing at a joke forgotten over the long years. Back then, it didn’t seemed like anything could go wrong. It seemed like we were going to spend the rest of our lives that way, just enjoying the sunny day, not wondering about what would happen next. We had years and years before we were going to have to think about the future.

We thought we did, anyway.

She moved. Lauren moved. She moved 300 miles away, in the beginning of our first year of middle school. And there was nothing we could do about it. Except cry. No more all-night movie marathons. No more raiding her bookcase. No more days lazing around in the sun. No more time.

Friends of mine have moved before. But this was so much worse. This was Lauren. The one person I never imagined would be forced to move away and leave me here. Lauren was…she still is…my closest friend, the one person who understands me better than anyone in the world. We just click. It was always so natural for us, so easy.

And it still is. Now, there are three hour phone conversations, page long e-mails, New Year’s celebrations over a webcam and a dinosaur of a computer.

And, of course, the visits. When I go to visit, 300 miles away, it’s like nothing ever changed. So what if I’m in the middle of the country? So what if it’s a little too hot, there’s a little too much clay, and there’s a little less civilization? It doesn’t change anything. We’re both there, and we’ve stolen a little more time. And we still click.

It’s still so easy. I turn another page. We smiled up from those perfect pages. And curled up on the couch on just another sunny day, I smile, too, mascara running down my face. A small tear pooled on the protective plastic pages, swirling with dark mascara and a dark sorrow.

Ready, Set, Meet the Pavement

Ring, ring.

There is nothing in the world that I hate more than the telephone.

Ring, ring.

It expects more of me than I do. It always asks something of me that I never want to give.

Ring, ring, RING.

I never want to answer it. I want to-

RING!

I pick up the phone.

They want to go out again. Just like every other Friday night. Every week we pile into someone’s car. They’re usually already drunk. I pretend to laugh while they “pretend” to poke fun at me. But we all know they mean it. Every word.

<<<<<

This week’s party is at some jock’s house. None of it is any different. I do what I’m supposed to do; I smile and I flirt and I flip my hair like I’m having the time of my life. They fall for it every time. They actually believe that I want to be here. That I’m one of them.

But I’m not.

I sip water from the bottle I brought with me. They all think I spiked it with straight-up alcohol. They all think I’m hardcore.

Good. Let them think that.

There is never anything in those bottles but water. I’m just not stupid enough to drink in a room full of idiotic, vicious, socially bloodthirsty teenagers. Or maybe I’m not brave enough.

<<<<<

The room is spinning now. A vertigo of noise. And people. They’re nothing more to me than colors. They’re only faceless blobs. Identical, faceless blobs.

Not a single one of them is real.

I’m not even sure I’m real. Not anymore.

The hours wear away and finally we can leave. We all get ready to pile into the car again. The guy I’ve been talking to offers to drive me home. I refuse, regretfully. He’ll turn out to be just like every other guy out there, no matter how sweet he is to me. But I won’t fall for their tricks. I’m different. I’m different. I’m different.

They’re calling me, yelling at me to hurry up in their unbelievably snobbish voices. They’re used to getting what they want. So I hurry over to the car, faking a smile when they ask me what took me so long.

Nothing, I say. It’s not important.

<<<<<

The drive home is almost as obnoxious as the party. They gossip, laughing and giggling. I’m too busy trying to blend in with the upholstery to say much of anything.

They’re driving like manics. They’re way too drunk to be driving. I think I’m going to puke. Maybe I should take the wheel. I hang my head out of the window instead. They think I’m funny. So I stick my head further out the window. I’m rewarded with more laughter. It’s so easy to keep them happy. It’s not as easy to calm my stomach.

<<<<<

Finally, finally, they screech to a stop across from my house. I practically fall out of the back seat and onto the pavement.

All I’m thinking about is how glad I am to be away from there, away from them. I’m walking really fast now, towards my house. Trying to keep my keep my stomach in line. At least until I get inside and they can’t see me. I don’t want them to tell me I’m weak. I can still hear them giggling as they rev the engine, the tires squeaking on the pavement.

I walk faster. I want to run. Far. Fast. Be anywhere but here. I’m going to be sick. I don’t want them to see me be sick. But I can’t let them see me run. They’ll call me weird.

I’m different. I’m different. I’m different. It’s a good thing. I’m different.

They’re screaming my name. I turn towards the car. I had never really noticed how fast a car can go until it was coming towards me. I see panic in their eyes. I feel it thrilling through me. The car’s going faster now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What am I supposed to do?!

“REBECCA!”

But I’m free.

The Worm Within the Apple

Ehhh, not my best. But I hope you enjoy it anyway.
******************************************************************************

The monstrosity of a bus pulled away from the curb, dragging its rear wheels behind it as it slunk back into traffic. It fought its way sluggishly between the cars, trying unsuccessfully to get ahead as the shiny red convertibles and sleek black BMWs forced it back. Pushing his long brown bangs out of his eyes, the boy watched the old bus’s slow progress until the thick veils of smog hid it entirely from view.

Without a second glance, the boy turned and bounded up the rough concrete steps of the apartment building behind him, his backpack a bright speck of blue in an otherwise dark gray landscape. He pounded through the cramped hallways, smiling ear to ear as he flew past rows of closed doors, the cement under his feet jarring his bones with every step. Around a sharp corner. Up a cold metal flight of stairs, the clanging metal echoing in his wake. One, two, third door on the right. He pulled it open.

“Mommy!” the boy shouted, slamming the door shut behind him. “I’m home!”

Silence.

“Mommy!” the boy called again, brow furrowed and voice tinged with confusion. “Where are y-”

“AAARGH!” a voice roared from the kitchen . Fear thrilled through the boy and he began to sprint down the hallway towards the sound. He skidded to a stop as a door burst open to his right. His mother lurched out, still facing the nightmare in her kitchen. “SON OF A B…umblebee,” she amended quickly, catching sight of her staring son. She wiped her frustration off her face, replacing it with a smile as she swept a few loose wisps of hair back towards the messy mahogany-colored knot at the nape of her neck. “Hey, honey. I was just trying to cook,” she informed him as she wiped flour off her face with a damp rag. Her skin looked as shiny as plastic. “So…what do you want for take-out?”

The boy smiled, shaking his shaggy head at her. He and his mother both knew It was a known fact that she couldn’t cook. The intention was there, but she lacked all coordination in the kitchen.

The boy opened his mouth to tell her so, but was interrupted by a muffled “Ugh!”. The boy closed his mouth, his grassy green eyes widening. His mother turned away stiffly, her eyes unfocused, stalking towards her room.

Her son stood immobile in the forgotten hallway behind her.

Did Mommy just…forget about me?

<<<<<

“Ahhh,” the boy’s mother sighed twenty minutes later as she walked into the kitchen, her damp hair tousled around her shoulders. “I feel better now that I’ve had a shower. So, what do you want for dinner, Squirt?” She asked her son, ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, making her way over to where he was sitting at the kitchen table. The shadow of a smile fled her face only to be replaced by a ghost of a frown as she watched her son, her slate-colored eyes narrowing.

The boy didn’t notice his mother’s change in attitude. He was oblivious to everything but the thick brown paper and lumps of chalk in front of him. A little more red here, a green undertone there…and it was finished. The little boy was beaming.

He leaned away from the table, catching his mother’s eye. “Mommy!” he practically shouted in her face, his already wide grin growing even bigger. “Guess what, Mommy! I made you a picture!” He leapt from his chair and hopped around the table, hiding his masterpiece behind his back.

The grin faded from the boy’s face, replaced with a look of worry and confusion. His mother didn’t look happy like she had before. She looked nervous, upset…and even a little angry.

Did I do something wrong?

“Mommy?” he asked quietly. She wasn’t looking at him. He tried speaking a little louder. “Mommy? Are you ok?”

With a slight shake of her head, the boy’s mother dragged herself back to reality, refocusing her slate eyes on her son and dazzling him with a too-perfect smile.

“Sorry,” she said, still showing him her teeth. “I just…got lost in my thoughts for a minute. You wanted to show me a…picture, honey?”

“Yeah!” he chirped, his former toothy grin already spreading across his face. With a flourish, he pulled the thick paper from behind his back and shoved it in his mother’s face. “I made it for you! Do you like it, Mommy?”

The boy’s mother bent her head over the picture, staring at it in amazement. “Honey…this is beautiful. I never knew you could…draw…this well.” Her eyes were hard.

“Yeah, Mommy!” The boy exclaimed excitedly. “My teacher even told me that I was really good. She’s the one that gave me the paper and chalk, for at home. I told her art was Daddy’s gift to me. AND she asked me what I liked to draw! I told her I liked to draw apples, because that’s what Daddy always used to draw for you!”

“Awww,” the mother said in a sickeningly sweet voice, giving her son a hug. A single tear ran down her face. “Thank you, sweetie. I’m going to go…put it in my room, okay?” Her voice faltered. With one last blindingly fake smile, and a few more tears unseen by the little boy, the mother headed towards her room. The door clicked firmly shut behind her.

The boy sat down at the table again, suddenly tired from his long day. He slumped onto the kitchen table and put his head on his arms, his grassy green eyes drifting closed.

The last sound he heard before sleep stifled him completely was the scream of the paper shredder.