Getting Back on the Ball...

...is pretty hard, especially once you fall behind. Because that means you have to run to catch up to the ball, then get back on it, then gain back your momentum and balance, and...you get the picture. Going back to school after two heavenly weeks of rest and Tumblr-ing all day (well, not really because of apps and stuff, but you know what I mean) is pretty challenging, but it's been that way for my whole life. I don't think it'll ever stop being hard going back to school though because that's just the way it is--human nature wins again. But I am working on getting back in the groove (Do people still say this?).


Okay, so I had a pretty emotional night internally and it involved words and my belief that they are sacred, most especially mine. I just wanted to spend some time with my keyboard and possibly a potential audience on the other side (i.e., you, the reader) in order to remind myself that words are and always be the bestest friends anyone can have. Reading the words of a friend is great, but it's something else to write them yourself.


I'm pretty protective about my writing, to the point where only a few trusted people get to read them and/or make comments and/or feedback. It's not that I hate receiving constructive criticism, no, it's not that at all. I appreciate feedback and make changes accordingly. It's more that I have a strong personal pride in my own ideas and my writing. Don't get me wrong, I am wrong and my writing sucks most of the time, but I'm willing to improve myself. I just like to make sure that my work is made up of my own words, not words that someone else has put in my mouth. I want to form my own opinions, say things the way I want to say them, organize my ideas so that they support my message, etc. and this simply cannot be possible if I hand over all of my drafts in a silver platter to someone else. In short, I like the ownership that I have with my writing. And having that taken away from a writer is possibly the worst thing that anyone can possible do.


I love words, have I mentioned that? Not oh-yeah-I-love-big-words, but OH-MY-GOD-jumping-up-and-down-and-giggling-nonstop love them. I like the feel of words in my mouth. I like tasting them, coloring them, kneading them and letting the sounds of each individual letter roll around on my tongue. Nothing else feels like that.


This teenage-portion of the blog ends here. Moving on...


Next week is a "short" week because it's finals week. I have two semester finals, but I'm not complaining or worried because I know some people have four. Or more. Which reminds me, Smalls should do something for these special people.


I have lots of "personal projects" going on! I didn't realize this until after 2011 NaNo, but I actually like having something to do other than school, extracurriculars, and home stuff. It breaks the repetitive cycle that always haunts my life and I've realized that I barely do anything for myself anymore. So, I have projects. 


Project 1: This Purple World (Tumblr)
*NEW* I started a new blog just this month and it's called "This Purple World"--it's basically just that, a compilation of purple pictures. Purple clothes, flowers, beads, people, places, scenes, etc. It's a simple blog and it doesn't require much from me at all, but running it gives me something to do. And it's relaxing because of all the purple haze. I love purple because I think it's the color of dreams and fantasies, and I just wanted a blog in which I could convey that. Check it out at thispurpleworld.tumblr.com.


Project 2: some things only words can do (Tumblr)
This is yet another blog that I've made, but this one is older. I just haven't been posting at all for the past few months. It used to be "some things only songs can do" but I recently changed its title. It's dedicated to song lyrics, quotes, etc. and I mean to create everything that I post here, no reblogging whatsoever. I'm working on revamping everything and trying to get it back to active. Soon, hopefully. It's at somethingsonlywordscando.tumblr.com


Project 3: these hands of ours (Tumblr)
This is also an old blog and it's filled with pictures of hands. I've been very religious about posting (except for my NaNo November absence)--I have over 100 posts on queue! This one is really close to me. Sometimes I just love going back and looking at all the pictures I've already posted or the ones that are on my queue list. If you're feeling handsy: thesehandsofours.tumblr.com


Project 4: 29-Day Gift Challenge
*NEW* This one is actually something that both Kendall and I are doing for February. It's on The List and we'll be blogging about it EVERY DAY next month so get excited! We will both immerse ourselves in the spirit of giving and we'll be letting you know about it every step of the way. More info coming soon. Check out the website at 29gifts.org


Project 5: The 18th Year
My 18th is coming up and I wanted to do something special for myself. I didn't figure out what it would be until recently. 18 is supposed to be a threshold year, right? It's the first year of adulthood and I wanted to keep a record of it. So I'm doing it "old school." I will be keeping a handwritten daily journal of my thoughts, opinions, experiences, stories for the next year of my life. Plus, it'll be a good excuse for me to write everyday. I also plan to keep it and maybe I will give it as an 18th birthday present to my first child (yes, I know you're thinking that this is incredibly cheesy, but this is me we're talking about guys...).


Project 6: Dance With Me, Will You? (Blogspot, not Tumblr)
GAHH, I have been working on this blog for almost a year now and it's still not fully launched. I've been constantly pushing back the deadline for myself to get it up and ready but now I'm putting my foot down. My personal blog will be up and official by the time I start college, how's that?


Project 7: Happiness
This one is really small and simple, but I have a feeling it will make a big impact on me by the end of the year as small and simple things often do. My sister got for me The Happiness Project calendar and I've been writing little notes in the back of the pages that I rip off every day before I go to sleep. These little notes are often reflections about the advice/quotes/thoughts on happiness/etc. that show up for each day but, mostly, I write down what made me happy that day.


Project 8: <3
So, Kristina Horner and Hayler G. Hoover announced that they are writing stories about long-lasting friendships and romantic relationships that have been formed and developed with the help of the Internet. And they're asking people for submissions so that they can compile everything into a book that they are going to call Less Than Three: Stories About Love, Like, and the Internet. Kendall and I are both writing stories for this and even if they don't take ours, it'll still be a fun experience. I have lots of ideas on this topic and I'm reluctant to mash them all up so I might end up submitting more than one. 


Project 9: Forever the Name On Your Lips/Against All the Odds
This is my unfinished NaNo 2011 novel. Over the break, I found myself going back to this and writing more stuff whenever I needed a break from the college app essays. I guess it'll become a thing now. Speaking of which, I didn't posting stuff over the break so......this is the second to the last installment, I believe, for now. So I have one more in line after this part, until I write some more. I'm not particularly happy about the way Carson is in these couple of "chapters," especially with the one with him in the shower. I want to kill him when he's in the shower here but that's the way it turned out. I might change it in the future....


Risks taken: 11 

Hugs: 0 

Current food cravings/obsessions: ramen

Playlist(s) of the Week: "World, Thy Name is Beauty"


P.S. TFiOS is out in 3 days!!!!! SO EXCITED!!!!


P.P.S. I put the P.S. here because I don't expect you to read all the way through...


P.P.P.S. But now that I've said that, you will now...right?

*CARSON*
“All right, I’m going to tell you most of what I know now, straight up,” Dark had told me. “This is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You won’t be ready for it.

        “What is it?” I had asked.

        Dark pursed his lips. “That I can’t tell you,” he said slowly. “But I think you already know that it has something to do with Nicole and her dreams.”

        Nicole’s dreams—no, Nicole’s nightmares—had gotten worse, to say the least. They were already pretty bad when she first started getting them when we were seven, but they had been increasingly getting worse since then. And when Mrs. Fields died two years ago, Nicole almost made herself sick every night after that. Just last week, I had stayed with her on the phone for hours because she was afraid to fall back asleep.

        Dark shook his head, a little impatient. “When it comes, you’ll know and you’ll just have to do it. You have to trust me.”

        “That’s the problem,” I had said. “I don’t.”

        He sighed. He had worn his hair down that time, his red locks flowing on his back. “You don’t have a choice, Carson.”

        I was eleven then, two years after Mrs. Fields had died and after Dark had told Nic and me about our 17th birthdays. I was perched on a tree branch that bore yellow Shamwow towels, various Pillow Pets (PandeeB and Trevor!), and other As Seen on TV products. Dark looked up at me from below, standing on the green candy grass with his hands in his pockets. He was in my dream this time, not Nic’s, which was a bit weird since I found out later that Dark had to stimulate negativity in my mind first in order for my dream to turn into a nightmare, allowing him to enter. That was the first time I had ever seen Dark outside of Nicole’s dreams. He was in my dream when he told me about my “choice” that didn’t really provide me with options.

        I still remember the first time I met him, the day after Nic had told me about seeing him for the second time.

        “He keeps asking me silly questions in my dreams,” she had been complaining.

        “Can I meet him?” I challenged, not really believing her. I looked up from my homework. We were in her room trying to finish our homework together so that we could play outside later on until our parents called us for dinner. I was already working on the reading assignment, but Nic was still working on the math worksheet I had already finished. She kept doodling on the margins so she wasn’t really concentrating. But I knew that once we got our worksheets back, Nic would have a perfect score and I would come in second as always. I’m not bitter, though, because I also knew that she would need my help on the English homework later. If she didn’t finish her math worksheet any time soon, we wouldn’t have any time to play at all.

        But curiosity got me anyway. “Can I?” I asked her again, my pencil hovering over the comprehension questions.

        “I don’t know. How would that work?”

       

        I shrugged, satisfied with the fact that I was sure she was lying. “Beats me.”

        I knew she didn’t want to do homework so she kept on going. “Maybe if I dream about you, you can meet him, too.”

        “I don’t think dreams work that way.”

        “Let’s try anyway.”

        She lay on her bed and tried to go to sleep. I watched her from her chair. Eventually, we both fell asleep. I found myself on a pirate ship’s mast. It was storming and I struggled to keep my balance as the boat rocked back and forth. “Okay, just a dream. You’re dreaming, Carson,” I told myself, grabbing my feathered pirate hat as the wind threatened to blow it away.

        “Cars!” I heard Nic’s voice from afar. I looked up and saw the shoreline of a small island not very far from where I was sailing. She waved at me.

        “Oh look, I’m dreaming about Nic,” I murmured. Then I realized that she was trying to say something.

        “Get your butt over here!” she shouted.

        That’s weird. Dream-Nic is talking to me in my dream.

        “Am I supposed to drive this thing?” I yelled back.

        “Yes!” she nodded, jumping up and down.

        That’s even weirder. Dream-Nic is responding to me as if she were real. As if she could read my thoughts, she yelled, “This is my dream, you dummy! Not yours!”

        Well then.

        I looked around for some way to get down to the ship’s deck. “Can’t you control your dreams or something?” I asked loudly. The rain drops pattered on my glasses.

        “I’m trying to bring you closer to shore!” she cupped her mouth and yelled through the rain. “It’s not working!”

        Great. I’m stuck in a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean in my best friend’s crazy dream and it’s storming. Just great. Giving up on looking for a rope or something, I closed my eyes and jumped (I can’t get hurt while in a dream, right?) and landed on the deck just fine. I spotted the steering wheel in the front of the boat on the level right above the deck. I made my way toward the bow, careful not to slip on the rainwater. Finally, I clambered up the steps and gripped the steering wheel. It wouldn’t budge. I yanked and I pulled and I pushed and still, it wouldn’t move. Giving up, I thought about how cool it would be if the ship had wings. The sides of the ship suddenly jolted forward and I caught sight of two new extensions on the sides of the ship. Wings. Dragon-like wings. Then I knew what to do. I imagined soaring through the rain toward shore. As easily as I thought of it, the ship glided smoothly toward Nic who was standing in the sand, awestruck. As the ship touched down lightly next to her, she started whooping and cheering.

        “What did you just do?!” she yelled loudly, excitement clear in her face.

        “I don’t know,” I said as I jumped over the side and landed on wet sand. “I just thought about it and it happened!”

        “That’s what I do!” she smiled excitedly.

        “That’s what everyone does, Nic. Don’t get too excited.”

       

        I turned and saw someone dressed in all black. Although I found out later that he was seventeen, he didn’t look it at first because he had an ancient feeling about him. His hair was red like blood and his eyes reminded me of pure silver. He started when he saw me but he caught himself and continued walking toward us, his hands behind his back, as if nothing had happened. “So this is Carson?” he asked before looking at Nic. Nic beamed and proudly announced, “He’s my best friend.”

        “My name is Dark,” the young man said, his silver eyes met mine with great intensity. “Pleased to meet you, Carson,” he continued. But he didn’t sound like he was.


----

*NICOLE*

Even after years of trekking the rough path from our ubdivision to Mrs. Fields’ remote residence,

I don’t think I’ll ever refuse a hot shower immediately after. I took a quick one first so I had a bit of extra time to think while I was alone in the house’s third bedroom after I finished. I shifted around in my sleeping bag as I listened to the water running across the hall. Carson has been in there for almost an hour now. I tried to listen for Mrs. Fields’ breathing from next door, but I couldn’t hear anything. I had tiptoed to the door earlier, meaning to say good night again, but she had already locked it and the lights were off.

        Do ghosts sleep? Because that’s what she is, right? Mrs. Fields is dead, I know that. She’s just here temporarily. So what does that make her? A ghost in a rented human suit? A spirit in a temporary body? I shook my head. I felt myself getting a headache. It doesn’t matter, anyway. What matters is that she’s here. She’s here to guide us until we have to make our choices, she said. Which were what? What does that mean?

        I’ve never particularly liked Dark, and his riddles made me hate him even more. Why can’t he just say things the way they are? Why can’t people in general say what they really feel, what they really mean?

        “One will mean certain death, two will save you, but three is what you really need. Three will make everything possible,” he had told me. “Don’t tell Carson until the right time comes. You’re smart so you can figure it all out in time. For Carson, he will have to look a little bit harder. But he needs your help.”

        We were sitting on the edge of a high cliff, facing the horizon as the sun was setting. The sky was a strange mix of purple and red, bloody and beautiful at the same time. Two seagulls flew overhead, making noise as they headed toward the west and chasing after flying pigs. I hadn’t wanted to interrupt Dark. I was too busy trying to remember everything he was saying, clinging to every word. He kept his eyes on the horizon, his palms digging into the soft caramel that was supposed to be soil at his sides. I hugged my knees closer as I felt the first cold breezes of dusk.

        “As time goes by, your head will harden and your sense of self-worth will increase.” He looked at me this time. It was the only time I had ever seen him with his hair down, red locks cascading down his back. “You are meant to do so many things, but you can’t do half of them if you cannot see anything for yourself. Open your eyes, Nicole. Then help Carson see the same thing. He won’t unless you do. Or else, it’ll be the death of you. Of both of you.”

        I was eleven then, two years after Mrs. Fields had died. That was also two years after Dark made that “prediction” about our 17th birthdays. He had come back more frequently along with the nightmares.

       

        “Nightmares are my haunts,” he had explained when I had first met him. He had been munching on a red apple as he explained. “You have special dreams,” he had said. I found that out for myself a couple of days after that when Carson had appeared in one of them on a pirate ship. That was the first time Dark had ever met Carson.

        As he chewed, he waved the apple in his hand, hoping to achieve some kind of effect, no doubt. “I exist wherever nightmares exist. I enjoy people’s nightmares.” He took another bite of his apple. Like I said, I’ve never particularly liked Dark.

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

*CARS*

I let the warm water run as I kept my head down and my eyes closed, letting the water beat the back of my neck. I sighed inwardly. I’m so stupid. Why can’t I act nonchalantly whenever anyone brought up the whole couple thing? Nic can always make these kinds of situations not awkward, laughing it off like it’s nothing, like it’s all a joke. Which it is, I told myself, gritting my teeth. It’s because she doesn’t think of you like that.

        I sighed again but kept my eyes closed, tired of having to remind myself every single time. But I gave myself the same speech anyway, over and over again, knowing that the water would muffle my mumblings. “You’re at a good place right now, Cars. Don’t ruin things. This is a good thing, a great thing, that you have here with Nic. It’s a wonderful thing. It’s the best thing ever. Stop wishing for more.”

        Satisfied with myself, I finally shut off the water, straining to listen if Nic was still awake. Silence. Quickly, I dried off and got dressed before turning off the lights. The third bedroom was right across the hallway. As I closed the bathroom door and turned to open the third bedroom’s door, my head, bent downward with my eyes on the floor, hit something. A pair of dress shoes shone in the dark and I backed away, looking up and searching for a face in front of me. But the lack of light hid everything save for a mane of bright red hair.

        “Dark?” I whispered. I opened the bathroom door and quickly flipped the light switch on. The hallway was suddenly illuminated with light but no one was there. Just carpet, walls and the door. I swear Dark had been standing right in front of it, blocking my way, just a couple of seconds ago. 

        “Dark?” I whispered again. But how could he be here? I know I’m not dreaming. I know I’m not in one of Nic’s dreams either.

        Nothing happened, so I turned to witch the lights off in the bathroom again, only to have Dark standing right behind me, a goofy smile on his face. “Boo!” he whispered and I jumped, hitting the wooden door of the closet inside the bathroom with a loud bang.

        “What the, DARK YOU FUGG--!”

        Nic must have heard the loud bang because the next thing I know, she was at my shoulder, her fall blanket around her shoulders and a tennis racket in her right hand. Dark stood in the middle of the bathroom, arms folded, a triumphant smirk on his soft face.

        “You should have seen your face,” he smiled.

        “Dark?” Nic asked as she lowered her tennis racket. I rolled my eyes and walked over to Dark in the black suit that was crouched in the middle of the bathroom. I thumped him on the back of the head, hard, and he immediately frowned, his hand reaching for my neck but he thought twice about it and stopped, settling instead to give me a deadly glare. I shook my head without a word before storming off toward the bedroom door.

        “I’m confused,” I heard Nic say behind me.

        “Allow me to explain.” Dark followed us into the bedroom, closing the door behind him after glancing cautiously at Mrs. Fields’ door. No sound came from her bedroom, just silence.

P.P.P.P.S. Was I right?? That makes one time.

Guilty As Charged

I haven't blogged in two weeks. I shall sit hear quietly as you all pelt me with rotten tomatoes and cream pies. I deserve them all and so much more.

I've been really busy and blogging slipped my mind twice. You know how school gets as it nears winter break. I literally just remembered when I opened my eyes this morning. So I really owe you guys. Like, REALLY REALLY owe you guys. So.....who wants a peek at my unfinished NaNoWriMo 2011 novel? Will this be enough to satiate your thirst to slit my throat for leaving you uninformed about my weekly activities and nonsense? WILL IT?????

This is about two best friends (duh, it's so typical of me), Nicole and Carson. They're 17. Well, this takes place on the very early morning of their 17th birthday. It alternates POVs between the two of them. Keep in mind that in NaNo this year, I wrote this all down blindly--I didn't pre-plot or anything so that I would actually write-write-write and not write-revise-revise. It's pretty random and very vague, mostly because I didn't know where I was going myself. This is just a small part of it. I will continue to post the later parts incrementally over the break as part of my weekly blog posts.

I had two working titles: "Forever the Name on Your Lips" and "Against All the Odds." Enjoy.............................................................

NICOLE

Tap-tap-tap.

        My eyes snapped open. As I groggily lifted up my head, another soft tapping came from my window. I turned to look at the clock on my bedside table. 1:17am. I rolled over on my back and blinked, letting my eyes adjust in the dark. Slowly, I began to see the photographs of smiling faces, dogs, and random objects all peering down at me from the ceiling. My two favorites are tacked right above my head. One is a faded photo of two sleeping babies both wrapped in a fluffy blue blanket: a boy with messy dark black hair lay next to a little girl with long eyelashes and pink pouty lips. Their hands were curled around each other’s fingers as they slept facing each other. Directly below it, a tall boy of about thirteen or fourteen, wearing a black Blink 182 t-shirt, dark jeans and a black belt, stood erectly in front of a wooden bench beside a thick and wide tree trunk, his thin arms folded across his chest and a small smirk on his thin lips. He had messy black hair and his face was directed towards the camera but his dark eyes, partially hidden behind black rectangular wire-rimmed glasses, looked sideways at the girl standing next to him. Almost, but not quite, he seemed to be thinking. She was shorter than he was, with a full head of tight black curls that she wore short, just below her chin. Her chocolate eyes shone beneath her thick eyelashes. She was standing on the tips of her toes, her flowered dress billowing a little behind her as she tried her hardest to be as tall as the boy. Her mouth was frozen in laughter because the top of her head only reached his raised eyebrows. The two teenagers were surrounded by books. Hardcovers were stacked one on top of the other on the park bench behind them and paperbacks littered the ground around their bare feet.

       

        I smiled as the picture reminded me of today’s date. September 21st. Then I instantly frowned when I remembered what today really means.

        I shook my head as another round of tapping, this time louder and more urgent, came from the same window.

        “Wake up!” a voice whispered through the curtains. “Wakeupwakeupwakeup!”

        I kicked my blanket aside and quickly tapped the base of my lamp, bathing my bedroom in a dim orange glow. I shuffled towards the window, careful not to step on the three separate piles of school work I had made on the carpeted floor the night before—Finished, In Progress, and Procrastination Wins Again. Unfortunately, the last pile was the tallest of the three. I guess they will all have to wait until Monday, in addition to the homework that I’m going to miss in school today.

        As soon as I pushed the purple curtains to the side, I heard the familiar click of a shutter and saw a blinding flash. When I regained my sight again, I turned my head back toward the window and was greeted by the top of someone’s head, someone with a mop of messy jet black hair. Carson reached his hand toward me, clutching his camera, so that I could see the reason why he was so pleased with himself on a very early Friday morning. He was comfortably straddling the tree branch nearest my bedroom, his argyle Chuck Taylors resting on the small sill outside under the window’s frame. A petite girl with short black curls, wearing gray sweats, a charcoal gray hooded jacket and a sleepy expression, standing behind windowpanes peered up at me through the glass. I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him as I unlocked the latch and quietly opened the window. Without waiting for an invitation, Carson expertly reached his right hand through the window and gripped the wooden door handle that he had screwed on my wall many years ago specifically for this purpose. Using the sill as a secure foothold, he eased himself through and into my bedroom. When we were younger, he could do it in a matter of two seconds but these days, he averaged six seconds. Seven, almost eight, when he’s half-awake.

        He sat down on my bed and rested his elbows on his knees as he scrolled through his pictures. He was also wearing gray sweats, a white shirt and a gray jacket with the hood up—all Carson regulars.

        As I turned to close the window behind him, he asked, “Did you get a lot of sleep?”

        “Nah, I finished what I could just a little after midnight,” I answered. “Then, after I packed, I decided to take a nap.”

        I plopped down next to him and lay down.

        “I didn’t even bother with homework last night,” he said. “I just went straight to sleep.”

         I yawned and he snapped another photo of me. “Stooopppp,” I groaned sleepily, imagining the embarrassing photo that I knew would inevitably end up on a slideshow, Carson’s photo wall in his bedroom, or worse, online.

        “You stop,” he said, nudging my side with his elbow, eyes still on the camera’s screen. “Don’t go back to sleep, Nic. We’re leaving in a couple of minutes.”

        Sighing, I got up and rubbed my eyes open. Carson was still looking through his pictures. “What, d’you have new pictures?” I asked. “Can I see?” When he didn’t answer, I sighed and crawled under his arms, plopping my stomach on his lap and reaching for my pillow again.

        “Nic,” he said, “get up.” Without warning, he stood, pushing me off the bed. I landed on the floor with a loud thud and an accompanying “Ow!” escaped my lips.

        As I rubbed my right temple where I had hit the floor, I scowled at him and said, “You’re supposed to be nice to me, Cars. It’s my birthday.” I pouted for good measure and batted my thick eyelashes (just once though because I can’t stand those girls who do it more than once).

        He had moved to the old maroon couch near my desk, the one we had carried together from a neighbor’s garage sale when were twelve. “Yeah, well, it’s my birthday, too, sweets.” He finally looked at me for the first time. “So you have to be nice to me as well.”

        I gasped and sat up from where I was lying on the floor. There was a large gash on Carson’s cheek.

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

CARSON

        “It’s nothing,” I said impatiently. “Don’t worry about it, Nic.” I set my camera on her desk, next to the open sketchbook with her colored pencils strewn over the open blank page.

       

        She came back from the bathroom down the hall with a wet paper towel in her right hand. I rolled my eyes as she began dabbing at the open wound. It stretched from my right ear, down to right below the right corner of my lip, but it didn’t even hurt. I told Nicole so, but she just continued dabbing. Dab, dab, dab, Pause. Dab, dab, dab.

        “It’s not even bleeding!”

        In response, she stopped her dabbing only to show me the paper towel splotched with red. “Wait, what the—” I shot up and crossed the room to reach Nic’s rosewood dresser. I peered into the mirror, trying to catch the light. Blood pooled around the edges of the wound, shining under the lamp’s orange rays. “It’s bleeding?!” I asked incredulously. Nic’s concerned face appeared next to mine (she had to stand on the tips of her toes just to stand level with my face). “It’s bleeding,” she said matter-of-factly before turning to go back to the bathroom. Getting the first-aid kit, no doubt.

        I stared at the wound. “But it’s not supposed to bleed,” I whispered to the thickening blood.

        “Yeah, well, it is.”

        I jumped. Nic stood behind me with a menacing look in her eyes. She violently grabbed a band-aid from the kit before slamming it on the dresser.

        “Which can only mean one thing,” she continued, waiting for me to explain myself. Her hands were shaking so much as she opened the band-aid that it started ripping along the middle.

        “Shh, stop making so much noise,” I whispered as I saved the poor blameless band-aid from her murderous hands. I turned again to escape her glare but she continued to look at me through the mirror. “See, it stopped,” I said as I attempted to affix the band-aid over the wound. I missed.

        Nic sighed exasperatedly before turning me by the shoulders (her strength despite her pocket-sizedness always surprises me) and ripping another band-aid out of the box. She carelessly slapped a second band-aid next to the first one, pressing on the wound just a tad bit too hard for my liking that I almost cried out loud.

        “There,” she huffed. As she started putting away the first-aid kit, I turned back to the mirror and ran my finger down the two band-aids, making sure that any and all blood left over would be absorbed by the cotton lining. It’s not supposed to bleed.

        Nic stomped back to the bathroom to return the first-aid kit and I turned to get my camera. I had just put the lanyard around my neck when she came back. “Come on, let’s go,” I said, glancing at her clock on the bedside table. 1:26am.

        But Nic started climbing back into bed, fluffing her pillows. I sighed, “Niiiiics.” She turned to give me that thunderous look again (God, she was so good at that) and I shut up. Her look was clear, “I’m not going anywhere with you today, you filthy and disappointing excuse for a best friend.” I gulped before forging on.

        “Nic, come on,” I reached over and took hold of her favorite blanket (which I had given her one Christmas, by the way. It’s brown with orange and red leaves printed all over, and looks exactly like fall—not only was it warm, it looked warm, too,). I put it on the side, near the foot of the bed, and sat down in front of her. She folded her legs and arms and waited for me to continue, her eyebrows knitting in the middle just a centimeter like they always do when she’s thinking, “I don’t want to listen to you but fine, hurry up and make your case because we both know I’m right in the end” but doesn’t want to show it for fear of backlash. You would think that having her just sit there patiently, quietly staring at me, daring me to speak, would make it easier for me to say whatever it is that I have to say. But the thing is that every time Nic does this, it’s because she and I both know that what I have to say is the farthest thing from the best thing to say, but true nevertheless. Like now, for instance.

        I inhaled first. “I know I promised that I wouldn’t go and see Dark without you.”

        Nic opened her mouth and I instinctively knew that she was about to say, “Yeah, you did, Carson, you promised” in that condescending tone she uses so well in these kinds of situations, but she decided against it. She’s currently on a “I promise I’m going to be a better person this school year” phase, the same one she has undergone each first quarter of every school year of our lives so far, and I silently thanked the heavens that she was actually keeping her word and doing her best this year. I breathed an inward sigh of relief as she nodded for me to go on.

        “Buuuuutttt—” I continued.

        “I knew it!” Nic suddenly exclaimed, self-righteousness glinting in her eyes. So much for keeping her word and doing her best. “I knew it! There’s always a rear end to your promises!”

        I opened my mouth to retaliate. Then I sighed as I caught what she had just said. Yep, Nic is pretty mad, but not mad enough to miss an opportunity to pun her way through an argument. I’d rather she be not mad at all, but I’d pick angry-but-punny-Nic over too-furious-for-clever-wordplay-Nic any day.

        “But I had to talk to him,” I continued. Nic cocked her left eyebrow, a classic Nic face. It’s her “Really, now? Try saying that again and let’s see if I don’t punch you” face, daring me to go on.

        “Because,” I paused. “Well, because I thought he might be able to help me talk to Mrs. Fields.”

        Nic’s face softened faster than a stick of butter in one of Paula Deen’s saucepans. “Mrs. Fields?”

        I nodded.

        “Cars,” Nic slowly began, her face confused and full of concern. “Mrs. Fields is dead.”

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

NICOLE

        “Okay, so let me get this straight,” I began warily, stuffing the old big Jansport with whatever food Carson handed me from the fridge. “Dark can bring people back to life? Why didn’t he tell us before?”

        “No,” Carson answered as he placed six tangerines in my hands. “Well, only temporarily. Kind of,” he continued as he opened one of the drawers inside. He emerged with cheese in his hands. “And only for special cases. I don’t think he’s the one that does it, though. Motts or Parm?” He held up the two cheesy choices for me to see but before I could say, “Defs the motts” he read my mind and handed me the mozzarella.

        “And your cut?” I asked. “Why did you say that it wasn’t supposed to be bleed? Don’t you always bleed whenever you see Dark?” Carson doesn’t usually bleed. It’s a rare genetic thing, the exact opposite of hemophilia, and it has plagued the Dames men for centuries. However, whenever we get our customary cuts and wounds from being in Dark’s presence, Carson gushes red blood.

        “I wasn’t in one of your nightmares,” he shook his head. Which made sense, I guess, because I didn’t have the slightest hint of a nightmare earlier when I was asleep. “I was in one of my own. I had never bled in my own dreams before, with or without Dark being there.” Which, this time, did not make sense. Carson rarely has nightmares. When I told him so, he answered, “Yeah, I know, but I actually tried to have a bad dream earlier, and it worked,” he shrugged. “Plus, when I talked to Dark, he said he sensed my attempts and helped out with some negative energy of his own so that he could actually appear in one of my nightmares this time. Is that all we need?” The refrigerator was the only source of light in the kitchen, but Carson’s eyes shone in the dark anyway. They have always reminded me of onyx stones.

        “Water.”

        Carson rolled his eyes. “You’re such a hydroholic,” he said as he opened the freezer and passed me two plastic water bottles. He moved to close the door but I made a tutting sound and held up my empty palm again. “You need three?” he asked incredulously as he handed me another one.

        “I need more than three, actually, but we’ll get some more later.” I slipped it on top of the croissants, zipped up the bag and handed it to him. He closed the refrigerator’s door and we were, once again, in the dark.

        “Ready?” Carson hitched the well-worn backpack on his shoulders and I nodded. I glanced at the time on the microwave. 1:42am.

        “Let’s go.”

        With my tennis shoes in one hand, we tiptoed across kitchen, lightly stepping on the tiles and using the island’s countertop as a guide toward the back door. Carson suddenly stopped in front of me. “Wait, why are we sneaking around?” he whispered, turning his head to look at me.

        “ ‘Cause discreetness is half the fun,” I shrugged. “Why are you whispering then?”

        It was his turn to shrug. “We’ve been doing this for eleven years, sweets. I’m sure your parents already know.”

        “Twelve years today, actually, to be exact. And they do know.” I pointed to a post-it note affixed on the doorknob. Carson carefully took it and read the message out loud, his nose almost touching the paper because he had stuffed his glasses in his jacket pocket earlier.  He may have the onyx eyes, but his eyesight is terrible.

        “Carole slash Nicson—psh, they think they’re so clever!”

        I scoffed at the disgusting nicknames and prodded his back to continue. “Please make sure you lock the door behind you this time,” he read. “And be back for dinner on Sunday, 7 sharp. Love you both, Ma and Pa.”

        “Seven sharp?” I asked, “Isn’t it supposed to be eight?”

        “Well, Sunday’s The Day.” He avoided my eyes as he placed the yellow post-it on the counter behind me.

        French the llama, how could I have let something like that slip my mind?

        “They’re giving us more time that day, I guess,” Carson continued, fiddling with the straps of the backpack. His voice was hollow.

        So was mine, I realized as I could only say, “Oh. Right.”

        Carson turned. His eyes weren’t shining anymore. He looked like he was about to say something, but he hesitated and closed his mouth. Then he seemed to snap out of it and said, “All right, time to go.”

        I followed him out into the cool night. After eleven years of neglecting to lock the door properly, I made sure that it was secure this year, the twelfth and final time.

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

CARSON

        After jumping over the white fence that bordered the subdivision, we scurried across the main street (though we didn’t really need to—there aren’t any cars out at almost two in the morning). The land on the other side of the road sloped steeply, almost vertical, so we had to use our hands as much as our feet to climb up to the top. When Nic and I first crawled up this hillside years ago, we swore to ourselves that we would carve a staircase right down the side to make it easier to climb. Every year, we would bring it up, but every year we would ignore it. The climb has to be hard in order for the top to be sweeter than the bottom. As always, I reached the landing just a couple of seconds ahead of Nic and, as always, I offered her my hand to help. She ignored it and pulled herself up. As always. I shook my head, took my hand back and smiled.

        From the top, you could see only about a fourth of Sillview, an unfinished supposed-to-be-circle-shaped subdivision. Two of our friends, Jay and Cammi (or Jammi slash Cay when we feel like being “clever”), who live on the other side nicknamed it “the croissant” but we think it’s more like a kidney bean than a croissant. While they live at the crook of the kidney bean, we live on its perfect arc at the exact opposite side.

        We waited to catch our breaths before moving on but, really, we both knew we just wanted to see the view from the top for the last time as we were now. Most of this outing will be similar to what we’ve done for years in the past, like The House and The Food, but we knew that it’s also our last outing like this. So it’s really not that similar to the others.

        Since we turned five, Nic and I have been doing this on our birthday weekends, skipping school when necessary. Our parents never had to cover for us either. Everyone just knew about September 21. The whole neighborhood called our little outings our “adventures” but no one really poked their nose into it too much. Our parents don’t even know where we usually go. Just last year in homeroom, when Nic and I decided to “go to school under an invisibility cloak” (it’s a long story), Mrs. Dyliacco took roll and said, “The duo is absent tod---Ope, wait! It’s September 21st.” Then she changed “Absent” to “Excused” on the attendance sheet.

        Good times, but, yeah, we have good reason to think this weekend will be our last.

        Nic reached over and lightly tugged at the camera’s lanyard around my neck. For some reason, I didn’t want to snap a photo (which is weird because I’m always taking pictures of everything I see). Taking a picture now seemed to have such finality to it that I can’t help but think that each click of the camera’s shutter this weekend is going to be one click closer to the last picture on Sunday.

        I don’t want this to end. And from the way Nic hasn’t said a word since I mentioned Sunday back at the kitchen, I was certain that neither did she. Reluctantly, I peered through the eyepiece and clicked. Nic seemed to understand because she squeezed my free hand before turning away from the houses and walking toward the sea of tall grass that awaited us.

        We walked in silence, me leading and Nic following behind me. Some of the grass had grown taller since summer when we had trod through this way, but the beaten path our feet have paved for years was still clear. The cool breeze made the tall grass sway and rustle like languid dancers in the dark.

        Suddenly, I heard Nic’s soft voice behind me. “Do you remember,” she softly sang, “the 21st night of September?”

        “Love was changing the mind of pretenders,” I continued, though a bit off-key. Her well-trained musical ears detected it, of course, but she didn’t say anything so I stopped in my tracks and I just belted out the next line of the first verse. “While chasing the clouds awaaaaaaayyyyyy!”

        Nic caught up to me from behind, trying to sing through a fit of giggles, “Our hearts were—were ringing in the key—the key that our—that our souls were singing!”

        She clutched her stomach to keep from making too much noise as I finished it for her. “As we danced in the night, remember how the stars stole the night away, yeah, yeah, yeah!”

        Nic suddenly straightened up, her eyes bright under the moon. “BA DE YA! SAY, DO YOU REMEMBER? BA DE YA! DANCING IN SEPTEMBER!” we both yelled at the top of our lungs before collapsing into laughter. I thumped my knee and tried to control myself but everything was just too funny—the song, Nic’s giggling, the fact that we were singing it together the loudest we’ve ever sang it in the middle of a sea of tall grass on this very night. Funny stuff, man.

        After what seemed like forever, Nic finally straightened up, a foolish grin on her face. Another classic Nic face, the one that said, “This is what life is all about—laughter and love.” This was my favorite classic Nic face of all time, partly because it has always seemed to me that Nic only put on that face when she was looking at me. A surge of warmth passed over my body and it felt amazing with the cool breeze brushing against my face. Nic, on the other hand, shivered.

        “Hey, did you know that if you lie down flat on the ground, it won’t be as cold as it is when you’re standing up?” Nic suddenly asked.

        Without even thinking about it, I immediately dropped to the ground and felt the temperature go down.

        “How is it down there?” Nic asked, peering down at me.

        “Less cold,” I answered. She smiled and looked up at the sky.

        “So,” she started. “What did Dark say?”

        I shifted uncomfortably before speaking. “He didn’t seem too happy to see me.”

       

        Nic looked down at me, her eyebrow cocked.

        “Okay,” I admitted, “So he’s never really happy to see me. But this time, I felt like he especially didn’t want to see me.”

        “What did he say about Mrs. Fields?”

        I pursed my lips and folded my arms behind my head. “He said, ‘Just wait.’”

        Nic sighed before setting herself down next to me, crossing her legs in front of her. “That’s it?” She looked at me hopefully.

        “That’s it.” Sometimes, it seemed that Dark was the only one who could help us out. He looked young, but we know that he knows it all, or at least a lot more than we do. But at the same time, Dark was also the least helpful. Or the least willing to help us out.

        “But we’ve been waiting for ten years,” she said dejectedly. She shook her head and got up, dusting herself off. “Come on,” she offered me her hand. I took it and she helped me up.

        As I dusted off the dirt and blades of grass on the seat of my gray sweats, Nic sighed. I turned to her and asked, “What is it?”

        She now had a look of sadness about her, another classic Nic face. She could be dying of laughter one moment, high on life the next, and heartbroken the following second. But she still had a small smile on her face, despite the heaviness that clearly showed through her eyes. “Happy 17th, Cars,” she murmured.

        “Happy 17th to you too, sweets,” I said softly. I gave her a small smile. If you think about it, that was all I could really give her today.

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

NICOLE

        “On the Sunday after your 17th, you will both lose what you will never have and gain what you already have,” Dark’s velvety voice came back to me in my thoughts.

       

        “So,” I had immediately said, scoffing, after hearing Dark say those words, “nothing will change.”

        Carson had nodded beside me, agreeing, his hands folded across his chest. “Essentially, right?” he had asked.

        I still remember the smirk Dark gave me in response. Then his all-knowing eyes flicked toward Carson. “Essentially, no matter what happens, you will no longer be friends after your 17th,” he had said.

        The first time I met Dark, I was seven. My nightmares were the worst that year so, naturally, Dark visited me several times. He always made sure to drop by during the weird ones, the ones that don’t really make sense but scare the hell out of the dreamer anyway. As a seven-year-old girl who was deathly afraid of needles, pineapples, and falling off from high places, I had a lot of those types of nightmares. During the first couple of times he appeared, I was more intrigued than afraid. His face was young, soft, almost kind, but his gray eyes were steely. As he revealed himself bit by bit, I liked him less and less. 

        I had been chasing after a bumblebee in that first dream. I was running and running, first down a hill, then a winding road, then through a never-ending corridor. I couldn’t stop, I just kept chasing the bumblebee. As the sun set, it began to get dark in my dream world. The bumblebee slowed down and I finally jumped with my palms wide open and caught the black and yellow bee in my hands. It continued to buzz loudly even after I held it prisoner between my fingers. I opened my palms up just a little bit, peeking through the opening. It had already grown very dark. As my right eye neared the small slit between my two hands, the buzzing suddenly stopped and my hands dissolved. I was holding two large golden pineapples. I flinched and flung them as far away from me as I could, my heart racing. The pineapples continued to grow menacingly until they loomed over me, their green tops quivering with ferocity. I had tried to scream but I was frozen in place, as always. And then I died. I don’t know how. I just know that I died. All of my nightmares then always had the same ending—me, dying.

        Until Dark came and messed everything up. I felt myself about to wake up right after dying in front of two terrifying pineapples (embarrassing, I know) when I felt a sudden jolt in my spine as if I had been hit by electricity, yanking me back into the dream and away from reality. There was a strange beating from inside my head, like a finger softly tapping the side of an aquarium, deep and hollow. Tap-tap-tap. Then everything went black.

        When I finally came to, I was lying on a purple cloud. At first, I panicked because I thought I was awake-awake. But the strange shine that accompanied everything signaled to me that I was still in one of my dreams. Two gray eyes stared at me above my head. I hadn’t known it then but he was trying to figure out whether I had really died or not, his eyes merely looking but checking for my vitals—blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, etc.

        “Interesting,” he murmured before straightening up. The young man’s voice was rich and velvety. He was seventeen, I found out later. He’s still seventeen to this very day. As Carson and I aged, Dark stayed seventeen. Tall and thin, he always wears a sharp dark black suit. His dress shirt and tie are also black. He held his hands behind his back and thoughtfully tilted his head to the side, his blood red hair swept up in a neat ponytail.

        “What is?” I asked, sitting up.

        “You’re not dead. And you’re a little girl.”

        “Um, yeah, I know I’m a girl, thanks. I’m dreaming so I’m not dead.”

        “No, that’s not what I meant,” he shook his head. “Tell me, how many times have you had these dreams?” He gestured with his hand before he started pacing up and down in front of me.

       

        “The one with the bumblebee and the two pineapples? Or just weird nightmares in general?” I followed his movement with my eyes, back and forth in front of me.

        He stopped. “There are others?” His voice was suddenly breathless, amazed.

        “Well, yeah, I’ve had ones where Mrs. Dyliacco is yelling at me for no reason,” I answered, crossing my legs and shifting my weight around to get comfortable. For a purple cloud, it was surprisingly hard to sit on it. The young man suddenly looked confused. “She’s my math teacher,” I explained. He nodded for me to continue. “Anyway, there’s one where my best friend is attacked by tiny needles and then won’t stop bleeding. I dreamt that I was drowning in a pool full of sharks once. Just last week, I had one where I fell of a cliff and then got caught by a giant pterodactyl that could talk. He told me that Chuck Norris isn’t real!”

        “Interesting,” he murmured again.

        “I know! Chuck Norris is so real.”

        He looked at me, now with a slightly irritated face. I decided to shut up. I got up and peered over the edge of the cloud. I hadn’t noticed but we were moving, and fast. We were rolling over green fields. We weren’t very high up so I decided to jump. As I got ready to do so, the young man interrupted me, “What do you think you’re doing?”

        I turned to him impatiently. “I’m going to jump. You’re boring me.”

        “But won’t you die?” he asked, his face quizzical.

        “No,” I sighed exasperatedly. He was giving me a headache. “I told you, I’m dreaming!”

        “Yes, exactly.” His face was serious. I shook my head and gave up. Without another word, I turned and jumped.

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

CARSON 

        When we got to the House, it was already a little bit past 3 in the morning. The moon shone brightly in the west. Nic had taken out her flashlight a couple of minutes ago, knowing that we were nearing the gate. She never liked seeing the House in complete darkness. “It looks so creepy,” she explained. “And it shouldn’t look creepy.”

        I reached down to lift one of the stone cherubs that guarded the gate, meaning to take the key hidden underneath. But there was no need.

        “What the--?” Nic whispered, her flashlight directed toward the low metal gate. It was unlocked. She pushed and the gate opened easily. She looked at me and I understood. Someone has been or is here. Which is impossible. Nic and I are the only ones who know about or even have the ability to find this place. Unless…

        Our eyes widened in unison as we both thought the same thing. Without a word, we sprinted across the grass, past the wishing well and the Japanese garden and through the alcove. We were nearing the house now and sure enough, a light shone through the second bedroom’s window in the second floor. Mrs. Fields’ bedroom.

        I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. What if this was what Dark meant about our 17th birthday? I stopped in my tracks but Nic kept on running. I stopped myself from yelling out her name. If I yell, whoever or whatever it is that’s up in the house would also hear me. I gritted my teeth and ran as fast as I could to catch up with Nic. I reached for her arm and jerked her back right before she bounded onto the porch.

       

        “What are y—” Nic turned around. But she stopped when she saw my face. “You’re pale.”

        “I don’t think we should go in, Nic,” I whispered. “We don’t know who’s in Mrs. Fields’ room. It could be anyone.”

        “Or it could be her.”

        “Or it could be anyone. It could be an axe murderer.”

        “You and I both know no one else alive besides the two of us can find this place. It could be her.”

        It hurt to look at Nic’s face because I knew how badly she wanted it to be her. I did, too, but I didn’t have a good feeling about going into an old house in the middle of nowhere at dawn, alone. Well, not technically alone; we were together. But still. I sighed as Nic continued to look at me expectantly, her expression pleading for us to go in. I looked around and the shed caught my eye. “Wait here,” I told her before trotting over. Leaning against the door were the two rakes we had neatly left propped against the side when we came for our annual cleaning this past summer. I grabbed both and jogged back to Nic. “Here,” I handed her one of the rakes.

        She shook her head. “Carson, I have a black belt.”

        “Fine,” I retracted both rakes so that they were just half their original size. I held one in each hand and turned toward the front door. It was probably already open, too, if the gate was left unlocked. “Let’s go.”

        No sooner had we stepped onto the porch when the front door creaked open.

And that's it for now!

We have Winter Ball tomorrow--exciting.

Again, I'm sorry. Punishments are welcome.

Risks taken: 11 (One for doing Impromptu Speaking last Saturday...phew!)

Hugs: 4

Current food cravings/obsessions: currently, nothing (GASP! It's because it's Christmas time and there is SO MUCH FOOD IN THE HOUSE!)

Playlist(s) of the Week: "I KASE" (this one's new, I just made it last week) and "INTERROBANG"