Poem: Blue, Specifically Navy.

Actually, I've made two poems as part of my English class, and I thought I'd share one of them, saving the other one for next week. This will also give me time to work on and finish a short story I've started, which although is not horror (unfortunately), I hope it will be great and otherwise enjoyable to read. Once it's finished I'll just run it by my two editing buddies... and maybe it'll be a good read! Anyway, until then, please enjoy this poem:

Blue, Specifically Navy

I use

Calligraphy pens with navy blue ink,

The thick and thins of flowing lines

From deep ink to rough expensive paper.

Not the thin, perfect airplane paper,

But a mountainous horizon of repurposed trees

So that the ink does not bleed through.

And although the smooth pen of plastic

With it’s old and rusty nib

Dips and sways into beautiful lettering,

All I can think of

Is quiet passing ships

On the sea.

The color of the ocean

A hundred feet below the shore.

Of seagulls and sea salt,

Of sailors suits and the bright sun

On the reflecting blue sea

And the white sparkling ships.

All this I think of only

From the simple color of the ink.

Navy blue, it seems, is so easily forgotten

In old men’s suits

And the night sky

When no one is looking.

  

Thanks for reading! Stay warm!

Your sadistic friend, 

Layla.

Short Story: Hide in Fear (Well, it could be worse...)

Here's a short story I had written around August, and it wasn't very good so I sent it through the huge intimidating Editing Shredder Machine and got something slightly better out of the metal blades of revision.

Er... it's not quite horror, but it isn't really normal either.

It may not be the best, but hey! It's better than silence!

Hide in Fear

I've stayed upstairs for about an hour, but that's nothing compared to the weeks that have gone by where I haven't even left the house. I know the longer I stay here, the harder it is to leave, or so it seems.

There's a rumble from beneath my feet, it shakes the lamp and the computer and the pictures on the walls. There's an earthquake down there, I know, there's a monster that only wants company...

What's the name of a monster in between a small furry animal that only wants to snuggle, and a ferocious beast that will rip your head off if you do anything it doesn't like? Well, whatever it is, it's in my basement and it wants me to come down there.

And I do. Willingly. Why the heck do I let it control me?

Yet I walk down the concrete steps and into the cool of the basement, to confront...

My safety. 

My worst enemy. 

My guardian.

If I'm protected in the basement by a monster with more sharp teeth than I can count, then I cannot be hurt. 

I walk, quickly and silently, to the rising and falling mass of fur. It has a giant, hard hide on its back, like an armadillo, and it turns, reaches its paws reach toward me and brings me into a warm and comforting hug. I know I am safe. I do not think of anything, only how soft its fur is and how warm its body is and when I lay my head on its chest I can hear its heartbeat. I lay there, with my monster, for minutes. It's so big, and so strong, and I know that if I want to pull away it will overpower me. And yet--

The phone rings, upstairs.

In a flash my monster is up and baring its teeth and snarling. It pushes me gently to the side where it steps in front of me and growls and barks. Its teeth glisten and snap. The telephone, upstairs, obviously does not hear and keeps ringing. The monster is enraged. It's scared of the telephone, it's scared of the noise, it's scared of the change, and most of all it's scared of the people behind the telephone. My monster has scared away many people before, chased off people at the door and guarded me, protected me, safe down here. I know I am safe when it's only me with my monster.

Sometimes I lock the doors and no one comes. No one comes and I unplug the telephone and it doesn't ring and I stay in the basement with my monster. I am safe.

Sometimes I stay too long. I wonder what the world is like. I think of people in fancy clothes and interesting shops and I wonder what it would be like to be one of those people.

The telephone stops ringing and my monster goes back to the cold floor and curls up in a ball. It hesitates, waiting and listening, then reaches its head back and searches for me. I walk over and lie next to it, my hand resting on the strong, protective plates on its back.

And although it is nice down here and I love my monster, I remember those who would hate this. They'd hate being in a dark, damp basement, they'd hate my monster, they'd hate being alone, they'd hate being cut off.

And how can I help anyone if I'm alone?

I'm not even helping myself...

I get to my knees and stand, but the monster jumps and makes an excited purr. It gets to its low feet and looks up at me, willing me to stay and cuddle.

I can't.

I want to, but I can't anymore.

Once I dreamed of scaring people off. I dreamed of becoming my monster, that my appearance alone could scare off the world.

Now, I know, it won't work. It won't work the way I planned it, but in fact it may just do the opposite.

Which, now, is exactly what I want.

I jump over my monster and run up stairs, shutting the cellar door. It won't come up, I know, it's too scared and it lives in the basement.

Black. Anything black.

Makeup, buckles, boots.

Gloves. Metal. Anything.

In minutes I become someone else. Now I'm dressed in black, now I look like death, and now I have the power to passively attract attention. People will look at me, people will judge me, and I'll have nowhere to hide. But that's what I have to have.

Before I meet the monster outside of my house, I have to say goodbye to the monster in my basement.

I reach for the doorknob to the basement door, and my hand shakes. I hear it downstairs, its feet pounding the floor. It's right at the bottom of the stairs. I open the door and look down. At the foot of the stairs it looks up at me with tears and recognition in its eyes. It knows. It's angry, but it can't do anything. It's stuck down there in a fit of anger and fear, and I slowly and quietly close the door again. 

Outside, outside is where I must be. And I will walk among people and they will talk, and I will be afraid, but I will remember what lies in the dark.

 I will remember what it is to be afraid and I will run from fear.

Thanks for sticking with me!

Your sadistic friend, 

Layla

I AM EXTREMELY SORRY.

...I'm so ashamed. I've been away for two months. I had promised I would be away for no longer than a week! I'm an awful planner! And also a really good procrastinator!

Most of my time away has been due to homework issues, and also absences from school at the demand of one confused and upset stomach. I'm a junior in high school, and also given the fact that I plan to go to medical college, my grades are very important.

*sigh* Well, unfortunately I don't even have a short story to give you. I have a couple ideas, but I don't quite have the time to flesh them out the way I'd like. Even some of the ideas I had beforehand were really not that great and had to be trashed. And so marches on the continuous thread of editing... paving the way for only the best writing... at least I try.

Last year I started making Coraline-themed dolls. (Remember that movie? The stop-motion one by Tim Burton? Yeah.) I make them personalized for people, so when they buy them they get a small, creepy doll-version of themselves! They're so cool!

To fill the void of shame and awkwardness, you wanna see some pictures? I AM selling them currently, so if you really really wanted one you could just say so. I'm not solely putting pictures up here to sell stuff, I just don't have any writing to give you. So.

mm, let's do them one at a time...

This one I made for (and sold to) my sister Anna WHOSE BLOG YOU CAN FIND HERE:

http://annasketchstudio.blogspot.com/

SHE'S A VERY TALENTED, WONDERFUL ARTIST. AND SHE'S MY SIS. AND HERE SHE IS WITH HER CREEPY SMALL TWIN:

paint stains on the pants: a great sign of any artist.

Also featuring a zipper-coat, aka my over-achieving sewing skills.

Well, I hope you enjoyed that, and I again apologize for my absence. Hopefully I can crank out a really good story soon.

Sadistic as always,
Your friend,
Layla.

Thought I'd drop by...

Oops, I missed a bit there.  I mean it wasn't really a long absence at all but I'll be updating on the weekend hopefully, and at least I've got another story started. So, I'm not completely unprepared...

Your sadistic friend,
Layla

Short Story: The Blessing Of Hot Food

 eeyerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrg. I'll soon be running out of stories-in-waiting. Actually, wait, nope, I've completely run out of stories-in-waiting, so from now on all stories will be totally recent. As far as I can tell.

I made this a while ago, and I think I've grown as a writer since then. I like the tone, but I think the details and setting could have been a bit better. Anyway, enjoy!


The Blessing Of Hot Food



Jimmy was standing stiffly in his poor, small backyard, not looking at the gnarled tree or the birds in the sky or the neighbor's blue window shutters. He focused on the horizon and the gentle breeze, trying with all his might to keep his emotions under control, and trying not to hear what it was that his mother and the car driver were saying at the front of the house.

His best friend had just died.

George had been run over. He had ran out into the road without looking and had been hit, bang, smash, splat. Jimmy had screamed and sobbed loudly until his mother had to pull him away and tell him to go into the backyard to calm down. No comfort or consolidation. The man who had driven the car may have apologized as the boy was hauled away, but Jimmy didn't hear. Nothing could register in his thoughts except the image of George's crooked body, his chest shuddering through their last cold breaths.

Focusing on the horizon didn't help, for Jimmy could still hear plainly what his mother was saying to the driver. A tear rolled down Jimmy's cheek and his jaw shook. Quickly he fled toward his house, and as his feet pounded he failed to keep her voice from entering his ears.

'You'll have to forgive him, I'm afraid. Jimmy's become awfully attached to his friend, poor dear. I've told him to go out and get some better friends, but he won't listen. He's always going and getting upset at little things... what a simple child."

Jimmy ran up the stairs of his cramped house, letting his muddy feet make probable marks on the threadbare carpet. He opened and slammed the door of his room behind him; then stood there awkwardly with heaving breaths.

Everything was ruined now. Jimmy and George were going to be pals forever. Nothing would separate them. But now something had, and it would be impossible for Jimmy to keep going, to have the strength to live.
Jimmy was, generally, hungry. It was true that he had not had a good square meal in about three days. His mother had a full time job as a house-cleaner and was paid less than minimum wage, which wasn't a whole lot to support Jimmy and his two younger siblings. The access furniture had already been sold, along with Jimmy's books and the semi-valuable heirlooms that his mother had been given when she married. She even had to sell her wedding ring, but explained to Jimmy that it was alright because Daddy isn't here anymore and sure as hell isn't going to be coming back from the brothel.

Jimmy was always hungry. His dirty shirt hung loosely about his rib-cage, and his cheekbones and collarbones had begun to show themselves more. Now his eyes brimmed and his cheeks burned. There was a lump in Jimmy's throat, but he couldn't swallow and gobble it down, and even if he could he would have thrown it up with the way his stomach was churning with shock and despair.

Jimmy collapsed on his bed and buried his tear-stained face in the thin pillow. He cried for a very long time and then fell asleep when his eyes ran out of tears.

About four hours had passed when Jimmy's mother said something and shook him awake, an apron tied around her gangling neck and waist. She did not try to be gentle or sit on the edge of his bed, but she waited until Jimmy stirred and rubbed his eyes before repeating herself, now that he was awake and listening to her.
"Jim, it's time to get up, dear. I've got supper ready. Come down and eat it while it's nice and hot."

Jimmy was confused after sleeping in the middle of the day, but he decided it must have been around the time when dinner should be eaten, because it was darker than it had been when-

He suddenly remembered the accident, forced a sob down, and tried to think about other things. Like dinner, for instance.

He hadn't had many proper dinner-times; they were all small and quick with no eye contact, because if there was, it would only spread feelings of hopelessness and make Mother feel guilty that she hadn't done enough for her family. Jimmy wondered briefly what it was that was ready downstairs. Having to make do with very little, there wasn't much that dinner could have been. Jimmy did not imagine an extravagant meal of roast turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy. If there ever were such a meal, it would be a dream, and Jimmy would eat to his heart's content only to wake up with his stomach aching even more from the hopeful longing that it may have been real. However, his mother's words of hot food was better than nothing, and if it was hot then it would taste better and be more satisfying.

So Jimmy floated down the stairs, wiping the dried tears from his eyes. In the dining/living room, his younger sister was seated opposite the chair that he usually sat, right next to the stair landing. Her thin blonde hair was tied prettily into pigtails and she kept her head down to get as much stew in her mouth as was possible. She didn't even look up as Jimmy came down, but kept spooning soup up as fast as she could. His little brother was nowhere to be seen.

Mother was there in her apron once again, and this time she smiled and handed Jimmy a heaping wooden bowl of hot soup. He looked down, and although his plan was to examine it, he could not help but close his eyes and draw in the most delicious smell. The long-forgotten smile on his face was so large that he thought for a moment he thought his face would split with pleasure and gratitude. He loved soup, and this batch was warm, comforting, and steamy. He carried the bowl carefully to his chair, sat down, and propped up his knees a bit so that he could set the bowl down on his lap without it being too far away. After all, they had no table. Jimmy's mother smiled at him and graciously handed him the cheap plastic spoon that had been deemed his for the last few years. Jimmy took the spoon, smiling back at his mother. He looked down pleasantly at the bowl and smacked his lips. It had a yellowish broth, and it was thin, but it also had chunks of white meat, probably chicken; along with carrot and celery. He dipped his spoon in the soup and began to eat.

The soup itself was very tasty. It was fresh, too, and that added to its flavor. It was warm and oily from the chicken meat, steamy, and the vegetables were so hot and filled with broth that they just fell apart in your mouth.

"Mother?" Jimmy asked, when he was about halfway done with his soup. "I don't remember you buying chicken."

Mother was silent, and continued to stir the rest of the soup in the large metal pot on the stove.

She then answered, "Of course I did, Jim dear, you must pay more attention."

They were both silent. Jimmy's sister had finished cramming the soup into her mouth, but she was still and quiet, looking almost fearfully at her mother. Although she probably wanted another bowl, she did not dare break the silence.

Jimmy looked mournfully into the remainder of his soup. He began to sob quietly.

Mother rolled her eyes and threw the spoon from her hand into the soup pot. "Alright, will you cut it out?! Eat your soup!" she yelled, with more annoyance in her voice than was necessary.

This, however, did not help, and Jimmy continued to flavor his soup with his tears.

"Look, Jim." Mother said sternly. "I know you're upset. But George is gone now, and he's not coming back."
Jimmy's face was contorted once again in a wet, red agony. He could not help but think of George again. He knew that he should put it behind him, but he couldn't help thinking of how gentle George had been and how impossibly soft his furry black and white coat had been. He would close his black rabbit eyes in pleasure whenever Jimmy stroked his soft, downy ears. George had been the perfect pet rabbit, and he had been Jimmy's best and only friend.

Jimmy began to cry louder.

"Just forget it!" Mother yelled again, as Jimmy choked and hiccuped on his sobbing.

Jimmy wanted to eat the rest of his soup, he really did, he was so hungry; and although now he did not want to, he began to think about how his mother hadn't gone shopping recently or how he didn't see her bring the chicken home.

Mother was very impatient now, but she knew that there was nothing she could say that would make him stop. Instead, she stared intently at Jimmy with her thin arms folded across her chest. "Well?" she asked sternly. "Have you decided to finish eating your soup as you were told?"

Jimmy slowly raised his bloodshot eyes to hers. Tears were streaming down his face, and his mouth was working silently against the tear-logged syllables. "You..." he squeaked out. "You... how could you..."
"Do you think I'm just going to let this family starve?" Mother said. "Do you think I'm just going to bury your stupid pet rabbit because it never did anything to support you or your siblings? You'll eat your soup because I told you to, and you're going to enjoy it!" She paused, eyes flashing, anger and frustration in her head, then quieter; gentler now, "It was just a rabbit. Let it go. It will do far more good in your stomach than it ever did in your heart. You don't want to starve, do you? So- just- " She trailed off, not knowing what to say.
Jimmy opened his mouth, and with trembling hot breaths said, "I hate you."

Mother answered passive-aggressively, "I'm sure your sister would like to have the soup I made for you."
Mother turned back to stirring the soup, and whispered quietly to herself so that her children couldn't hear, "Yes, there'll be rabbit soup for a few days, but what then? You can't fight hunger with just a small pot of soup, and meals don't just fall from the skies... God knows how I support my children but I can't pay for food anymore..."

Jimmy shyly looked up at his sister. They exchanged looks of understanding; his sister knew how bad this was getting for Jimmy, and that she could really do nothing to help. She reached across the table and grabbed the sides of the bowl, setting it on her lap. Jimmy stared dumbly at his sister as she ate his soup.
Most of all, Jimmy just wanted to leave. He slid off his chair and away from the monster in the kitchen that was stirring the soup pot of murder. Their house was small, but there was one room that he could go in that was downstairs, and that was his brother's room.

Jimmy found his 1-year-old baby brother sitting on the carpet and playing with the cat. It was technically his sister's cat, but the whole family enjoyed its presence. It was honey-colored, and very patient, shown when the baby made a large show of kissing the cat on its back, then hugging it roughly. The cat didn't hiss or spit, it was quite tolerant of being showered with love from one who did not quite understand the proper techniques of cat-greeting. Jimmy smiled lovingly at his brother, who looked over his shoulder at Jimmy and smiled a large, half-toothed smile.

"Jimmy?" his mother called. "Where are you? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, mother." he called back, and although he was still angry, he walked back along the hall to the kitchen so that he didn't have to shout. "'Bastian's just playing with Molly."

Mother turned halfway. Her eyes glinted.

"Mother?" Jimmy asked.

Mother mumbled to herself. "God knows..." she whispered. She shook herself a little, then turned to her daughter and asked, "Honey, Molly's getting kind of old, isn't she?"

Jim's sister did not answer.

"She's getting old, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't live for much longer." Mother smiled sympathetically at her daughter, then turned back to her soup.





Well, that's it, thanks for reading!
Your sadistic friend,
Layla

Procrastination is fun until you find your watch

Soon it will be school time. Obviously the only reason that is worth mentioning is because it makes my time for writing shorter. Also given the fact that I'm hurrying to finish up badge work before the end of September, posts nowadays may be a little slim...

I procrastinate, and I'll really have to make sure I don't miss out on a lot of things I'm supposed to finish over the summer. I haven't done a lot and, well, I need to. Things like getting my permit and learning to drive is also thrown in there. Yeah, I don't have to do it now, and it doesn't have to be over the summer, but learning to drive in snow and ice doesn't sound great to me. And I'm supposed to get a job sometime soon. Geez.

Anxiously yours,
Sadistic as always,
Your friend,
-Layla

Short Story: Enter Sandman

Oops, I didn't mean to take that much time away. Time to take one of the precious short stories-in-waiting from the pile...

I'm really proud of this one. I love it. I wrote it... maybe a couple of months ago? Anyway, it's pretty mature, so don't read it without your big-boy glasses.

Oh, and by the way, I wrote this because I heard the song "Enter Sandman" by Metallica on the radio. It was mind-blowing to hear metal on the station I was listening to, which mostly plays random 80's and 90's stuff, never anything that hard. I love metal, so it was wonderful to hear, and I also got a short story from it.



Enter Sandman

Now I lay me down to sleep

Pray the Lord my soul to keep

And if I die before I wake

Pray the Lord my soul to take

Marie slipped underneath the cotton sheets on her twin bed, pulling the covers just under her eyes and peeking innocently up at her father. "Goodnight, Daddy." she whispered.

"Goodnight, Mary-berry. Did you remember to say your prayers?"

A pause followed and drifting green eyes, before snapping back to her father to answer. "No, Daddy, I forgot."

"Well come on out then, Marie, before you go to sleep.”

Marie pulled the covers away and slid off the bed, kneeling down with clasped hands and forehead cuddling the sideboard, baby blue nightgown sweeping her calves; the gown thin, soft, and lacy on the bottom. Her bowed head close to her interlaced fingers, she looked shyly over at her father. "Pray with me, Daddy?"

"Sure, Marie." He took a step away from the bed and also kneeled by the sideboard. "I'll start, and you repeat, honey. Now I lay me down to sleep."

"Now I lay me down to sleep." repeated Marie.

Older, "Pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Younger, "Pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Father, "And if I die before I wake."

Daughter, "And if I die before I wake."

Bass, "Pray the Lord my soul to take."

Alto, "Pray the Lord my soul to take."

Both unclasped their hands and stood up, Marie pulled on the sheets to help her. She climbed back into her bed, under the covers, head atop the pillow. Her father bent down and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, Marie. Sleep tight, sweet dreams from The Sandman." he smiled, then turned to leave the room, turning the light off and closing the door behind him.

Marie, in darkness, stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. She closed her eyes, collecting her thoughts; filing off memories and relaxing into sleep.

***********

The young man's eyes weren't really accustomed to the dark, and he fumbled with the paperclips. He grappled at one with his good hand, scraping the metal up against the back of the door knob. His other hand was wrapped very thickly in an ace bandage from his knuckles to the middle of his forearm. The cream-colored cloth bandages went only a bit onto his fingers so he did have a little freedom with them, but it was hard to grasp the other mangled paperclip. He had to use both hands for this job, one paperclip for each hand.

He shivered. It was sort of cool out, but the main reason it seemed cold was because he was wearing tights- yes, pantyhose, the kind women wore, but they were green. He had cheap brown cloth shoes on his feet and a silly little green shirt on that came down a small bit, like a raggedy skirt. He couldn't understand why anyone would create a character in a children's story to look like such a faggot, but here he was, just the same, in this stupid costume. He lifted one paperclip and slid the other.

He even had a cheap green hat with a long feather in it, and he had dyed his dirty-blond hair red last night. Hey, who knew, it might just work out exactly the way he planned, and if it did then he would secure his future for the better. Yeah, everything will be fine, he thought. Everything's thought through.

Having slid the paperclip in the full arc, the door was successfully unlocked. He dropped the paperclips on the concrete outside the door, he had no more need of them. He blew on his cold fingers, then pulled open the door.

***********

The sound was so faint that Marie didn't really hear it until he was a couple feet away from her bed. She was about to scream, but he quickly put his good hand around her mouth. A muffled, strangled noise came from behind his tight fingers, and the girl's big watery eyes looked at the silhouette of the stranger, terrified. The white moon had come out from behind some clouds, and seeing this, the boy  leaned forward into the light. His gentle, friendly eyes looked into the girl's, he was just visible in the moonlight. The girl made some softer noises from beneath the boy's hand, and he moved it slowly away. His hand was soft.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Don't you recognize me?" he asked, grinning.

The girl was silent.

"Here," the boy said, squinting into the dark room, reaching to a lamp and turning the dim light on. He backed away from the bed and stood straight and tall, his head held high and his hands in fists on his hips. His feet shoulder length apart, powerful, he looked at her and grinned again. "Now?" he asked.

The girl, from the bed, took in the green shirt and pantyhose, the red hair and the feathered hat. Her eyes widened in excitement and hope and kid-magic. Full of admiration, she said, "You're Peter Pan!"

He smiled proudly. "Yep. The very same."

Marie gasped and stared in a gaping smile at the young man. "Are you going to take me to Never-never land?"

The boy, embarrassed, forced out an awkward chuckle and said, "You know, I'd love to, but I don't have any fairy dust. You know that you need angel- I mean fairy dust- to fly."

Marie gasped again, this time in horror, her hands flew to cover her mouth. "Tink!? What happened to Tinkerbell?"

"Well, she's..." he paused, looked right into Marie's eyes. "I don't mean to worry you."

Marie, staring, her hands still over her open mouth, shook her head no.

"She's... dying. Of course you know all about fairies, you're a smart girl, but-"

"You could've clapped your hands and saved her!" her voice was on the border of accusation.

"But look." He stretched his hands out to her, to let her see more clearly the ace bandage. "My hand's broken. I can't make any sort of noise at all with this thing on, and I can't very well take it off."

"Oh." her eyes fell, and the excitement was gone.

"But that's why I need your help," the boy said, coming closer again and sitting on the edge of the bed. "I need you to clap for me and bring Tinkerbell back to life before it's too late. We still have some time, but we have to hurry."

"Then let's go now!" Marie sprang up and out of bed, running to the door and out in the hallway. "Come on, Peter Pan!"

The boy who called himself Peter stayed in the room a moment, his eyes sweeping the walls and floor. He looked at the doorway, and thought of the girl so willing to go. He smiled, a deep, dark smile; so unlike the charming grin of the hero in the children's story.

****************

Once the girl was safely buckled in the car, the boy slid into the driver's seat and breathed a shaky sigh out through his cheeks. There was a good walk from the girl's house to the car, after all he didn't want the parents in the house to hear him or to see the headlights. For part of the walk he had carried her, she was tired, and he told her how wonderful it was to live in Never-never land and stay a child always, to never grow up.

As he carried her to the car and she hugged his neck, he told her what it was like to fly. "Oh, it's great. So wonderful. You feel so... detached, you know? Sometimes you can get a little numb in your arms and legs, but it's not so bad. It's also a little hard to control where you're going, but oh, you feel invincible. And sometimes you get a little dizzy if you get really high. But man, I love it. It's great going really high."

The key struck the car and the engine turned over, headlights flashed, exhaust blew. Over the rumbling of the car the boy said to the child, "Growing up is really overrated."

Marie looked at him, and although she didn't know what 'overrated' meant, she knew by the way he said it that growing up was bad.

He continued, and Marie was quiet. "This place has got to be the best you'll ever go to. Much better than here where you have to get older." There was an awkward pause, then he said nothing for the rest of the 10-minute trip, his eyes focused on the road.

**************

When the car stopped, the boy grabbed the key and flung open his door. "Follow me." he called to her, and she followed. He opened the door to the dilapidated off-white house, leaving it open for her, turned on some lights, got out his cellphone. He dialed some numbers, waited a few seconds, stuffed his car keys into his pocket, then said "Hey, it's me." into the receiver.

Marie did not hear the reply, but if she did she would've heard a sleepy, confused, frustrated but still smoky female voice. "Hoodat?" the woman said.

"You know." he glanced awkwardly at the child.

"Whatchoo havin' me guessin' for? It's one in the morning, douche-bag."

The boy coughed and muttered, "James."

"Oh, Jim. What, you lonely or somethin'? I can't talk right now, I'm sleepin'. Dealers gotta sleep too, you know. Besides, you still have to pay me for last time. Money don't grow off of trees."

"Yeah, I know, that's why I called you."

"You tellin' me you got yourself a job?" the woman snorted. "Hell no, not lazy-bones Jim. You couldn't even f-"

"Look," he said, interrupting her, "We need some fairy dust."

"Fairy dust? What the hell you takin' now? You mean angel dust, dimwit?"

"Yeah, that's what I meant, whatever. I uh, I have a friend here."

"If your friend wants some too, it'll cost the same for them. I ain't making discounts for friends."

"No, uh... it's a little girl."

"Little? How little?"

"Maybe six."

"What!? Jesus, James, what the hell you got a six year old for?"

"Well, I don't have any money. I thought if we could-"

"Jim, did you kidnap this kid?" her voice was stern, yet more exhausted. She sighed. "I don't have time for this. You could get in jail."

"Same for you, having fairy dust."

The woman on the other side said nothing. Then she said, "Get me the money, I'll get you the dust. It'll be extra though, cause you didn't pay up last time."

"Fine. How much?"

"Last bunch and this bunch'll be about... a thousand would do."

"Jeez, really?"

"Hey, it's your high." she said, and hung up.

The boy closed the phone and sighed. He turned his head, looked down at the girl. "Hey, what's your phone number?"

At this Marie was confused. "Why?"

"We'll need it if... if you get homesick in Never-never land." he improvised.

"six zero two, zero one nine three." she said.

"Great. Thanks." he opened the phone again and dialed the number. He waited for the phone to be picked up.

And he waited.

And waited.

"Damn!" he spat. "Don't they care about you?"

Marie was concerned, she didn't like hearing Peter Pan swearing. She wanted to go to Never-never land. "Peter?" she asked hesitantly. "Where's Tinkerbell? Were you just talking to her?"

The boy looked over at her calmly and spoke in a gentle, deep voice. "Yeah, that was her. She's... she's getting better. We'll still need that dust to fly high, though. Hang on a second-" he turned around in a little half circle, his head low, his hands out, searching for something forgotten. He reached into a pile of discarded clothes, brought out a small packet of white powder. "Yeah! Here we go."

"Are we going to Neverland now?" Marie asked. She was getting cold.

"Well, I still got some dust here, from last time... last time I was flying. Hey, uh-" he stuck his hand into his pocket and his fingers brushed his car keys. "Oh, could you do me a favor? I left my keys in the car. Go get them for me, would you? It's very important, so don't come back until you've got them."

Marie hesitated; she didn't remember him putting the keys in his pocket, but she didn't remember them being left in the car, either. She ran obediently to the car and closed the door.

Quickly the boy turned and dialed, once again, Marie's phone number. Finally, the receiver clicked and a loud, angry voice answered. "What the helldya want? We're trying to sleep-"

"I've got your daughter." The man named James cut in. "I've got her here and I'm not giving her up until you pay ransom."

There was a silence, filled with the man's worry and sudden terror. "For Pete's sake, how much?"

"Ten thousand."

"Where are you? Can I talk to her?"

"I'm at 2504 Linden Avenue. White house. Hurry up and you'll be able to talk to her in person, otherwise you might not be able to."

"Please, let me speak to my daughter!" he begged.

"Fine." then covering the phone with his hand, yelling, "Yo, my little friend! You can come back, now."

Marie walked back, full of shame and tears and red cheeks. "I-I-I didn't find..."

"Aw, I'm sorry, baby," he cooed, in ironic friendliness. Then almost smiled to himself, the tears would be a nice touch for the worried father. "Okay, repeat after me, 'I'm here with my friend and you better hurry with your price'. You got that? Say it really loud." James held out the phone in the air above the girl.

Marie shouted, "I'm here with my friend and you better come fast with your price." then smiling up at him, "Was that good?"

"Beautiful, hon, you did great." he twitched. A sudden change of mood came over him and he shouted into the phone, "You got that?! Get your money and get over here!" he twitched again, his hand dropped his phone and it clattered on the floor.

Marie, with tears still on her face, was frightened. "You okay, Peter Pan?"

"Nah, little friend, I need some dust." he said in a husky whisper. He grabbed at the bag he had found, scratching and tearing at it, stretching the plastic. He stuffed his face into the small bag and inhaled. Not the way he normally did it, but it got the job done.

Colors spun, the world flipped upside down. The girl grew to unimaginable heights and looked down at Will with eyes like light bulbs. "Let's go to Never-never land," the girl’s voice was as deep as Satan's. "The world where we'll never grow up."

James, in terror and adrenaline, reached for the dagger in a belt around him that was part of his costume. "You'll never grow old, that's for damn sure." he said, as he slashed the dagger. He slashed at the lighted eyes of the monstrous thing, the gaping mouth with its numerous sharp teeth, its neck so... small and white. The little girl collapsed, still in her nightgown, now bloody. Her face and neck was cut, she was no more the adorable girl she had been. She was a mess.

The boy stumbled back, still in some sort of trance. "Never grow up..." he mumbled. The knife fell to the floor and made a weird sound, the sound of a cat screech. Suddenly, lights.

Lights were everywhere and blinded James, costumed as Peter Pan, and although he wanted the lights to stop he could do nothing, and instead tore at the ace bandage that had become a snake around his wrist. Hissing, the snake slithered away into the blinding light and James flexed his hand, the hand under the bandage that had never been broken. The lights, so bright... yet so beautiful. And like a moth to a lamp, so William to this heavenly light…

***********

A frazzled man in the blue truck hit something- he thought it must have been a person, a person that had, for some reason, ran into the approaching truck. Bringing a wad of green paper bills, his eyes searched anxiously in the light of his headlights for the body, praying to God that it wasn't his daughter, praying, praying, that her soul had not been taken.

Thanks for reading!

Your sadistic friend,
Layla