i LiKE HOW YOUR EYES ADJUST TO THE DARK

                _{you become more aware of your other senses}

_{you stretch out your hands}

                _{run your palm against the wall}

_{slow your breathing so that footsteps}

                _{their creaks and thuds}

                _{direct you:}

                                _echolocation

_{your pupils expand and for a split second}

                _{you understand how cameras work}

_{but the lights come back on and your arms drop limp like a ragdoll's}

_{your eyes tell you all you need to know}

_{sometimes you forget how blinding it can be}

                _{but you adjust}

                _{as fast as you adjust to hot water in the shower and the cold air}

_{when you exit in december even march because no matter what winter is too}

                _{damn long.}

_{i enjoy that moment}

                _{before my eyes absorb enough rays to form images}

_{before it calibrates itself to suit my needs}

                _{there's fear at the back of my throat}

_{my hands don't know where to search like i'm a}

_{zombie (sleepwalkers that freak out their spouses a lot}

_{both somewhat bleary as they couldn't see in the dark)}

_{when the lights are out}

                _{we connect by touch}

                _{bumping into each other}

_{after a while you work out little details about someone}                                                                       

                _{like how they always lisp their 's' when they're impassioned}

                _{the light might cast a shadow over their dimple}

                                _{but you never noticed how they hum themselves to sleep}

_{the darkness lets us see things in a new light.}

Ribbon

Mrs. Josephine's Dance Studio was always cold in the summer, like a dog's nose pressed against your thigh. I went there, near the classes, listenin to the music, they got violins and drums sometimes. Tap tap tap. Some rooms had louder taps, real sharp and crisp that reminded me like construction sites outside Grandfather's window. I didn't sit near those rooms, with hard shoes and metal clicks, but light an soft, padding, tap. Mrs. Josephine had yellow hair like a banana, and wore pink or white. She was pink. She stayed extra long, the little girls with fluffy skirts had gone and she would stay, dancin and dancin. I wish I coulda but I'm too fat. Even when I was short I was big, no way to twirl without knocking over the potted plant outside the dance rooms, belly poking out of Grandfather's shirts.

            She threw something in the garbage, one day she did, all mad with her yellow hair loose stickin to her face sweaty. I pushed over the can turned it all inside out it was a shoe. A ballerina slipper. It was white. It wasn't much bigger than my hand, but even when I was short I had big hands able to cup birds and two or three kittens. I stuffed it in my pants so Grandfather wouldn't see it but he did, told me to take them off show him what I had. Even then he wasn't strong, but he was mad told me it weren't right, pulled it broke. But today I still got the ribbon, the ribbon that wrapped around Mrs. Josephine's tiny ankles like they made of glass, so fragile I coulda snapped them. Even with my hands so big, they was small.

What's Behind the Door of Room 101: Breaking Fragile Things

Obsessed. That's the word Grandfather snarled at me when he saw me sortin through my box, moving and cleanin and taking better care of my things than my dog or him. I don't have too many things. My things are presents, things I found. They're delicate, soft as butterfly wings or hard as glass. One rough move and they could tear, shatter. My fingers are so big that they squish ants when I try to see 'em, I too strong and hurt things. My dog got a bone on his leg, on the ankle part above his foot, that's so thin and delicate I could snap like a turkey wishbone. Some things I'm allowed to break, others I'm not. I've learnt this. I told her that the bird had hit the window, broke its neck. My fingers twitch towards Grandfather's neck when he sleeping, pull snap, twist break. Life is so fragile, innit it? I'm scared of myself. Scared that one day, when I'm setting out china plates, I'll crush them in my hand, feel the blood drip down my hand and drop them, throw them, hurt them.

Most Important Relationship

I only known Rory for half a year, but he's my favourite person. I love him more than I love finding quarters in the fountain outside Terry Park, more than small things made of glass, dog eating sherbet ice-cream, and sometimes even more than Grandfather not waking up when I get home. Rory gives me things. He gives me things to eat and hugs. I squish him and giggle when we hug, he's so small. He isn't from here, but somewhere with lots of 'i's and 'k's, maybe. He said once they got guns there. "Do you know how to shoot a gun?" I asked him when we were walkin passed the shops. He was gonna buy me a bread sweet.

            He never did anything bad, he said, he never hurt anybody. I wish I could pack him in a box and bring him home with me, live him in my room and take care of him. He buys me things. I want to hug him so tight sometimes, break him I feel, I scared. I get real scared. I remind myself, I gotta be gentle. I hold his wrinkled brown hands, like paper over books without their covers, tiny.

            Rory runs a shop, sells videos. I never seen a video, I told him once. Never seen a video or a cinema film. I want to eat yellow pop, I said, popcorn. Eat it with salt and melted butter, get that butter on my fingers and lick my fingers clean. Rory laughed. I like it when Rory laughs, makes me warm and I smile. "We go see movie," he told me, "we go see movie together, okay?"

            We were sitting down at the back of the theatre, my head wasn't blocking anyone then. There were silly characters that made me laugh and I understood the story, there was a girl and two boys, two of them made a kiss near the end, the boy and the girl. I was crying and blowing my nose into my sweater. The tears were good and when I licked my lips it was salty and butter. Rory wanted to know why I was crying, so I turned and I pulled him in close, I hugged him round the shoulders and I told him, I said, "I love you." And Rory said "I love you also, I do." I only known Rory since it rained and the flowers come out, but now the leaves are orange and he is my friend.

Seven or Eight Things I Know About Him

His Mother's Baby

The day after his mother screamed and his father drove her to the hospital, he found a towel laden with a red liquid staining her cream coloured carpet. He threw it in the garbage bin in the bathroom, the one with hand-painted yellow ducks swimming on it. When his father drove home, alone, three days later with inflamed eyes and alcohol ridden breath, he was found tucked inside his Hot Wheels bed, the blood of his late mother and sister on his hands.

The Dog

The Boxer was shabby, ugly, its fur matted with dirt and its nails far overgrown. Its hair was raised as it looked at him in fear. He reached forwards with his grubby little hands, sticky from the mud and the popsicle on his face and the booger he had picked from his nose, and grabbed on the dog, pulling its skin and massaging it. Like any other dog, this one reached forwards to lick the leftover peach from his face, giving him sopping, wet kisses that he was happy to return. He was lucky that dogs, especially that one, were tolerant creatures, especially near children, because even though he stood two feet taller and eighty pounds heavier than the other kids who played on the monkey bars, his skin was still like Play-Doh, tears were always near the surface, and he still had four baby teeth.

The Sunroom

Every day at three o'clock, the little children would close their eyes and yawn like tiny mewling kittens, drag their blankets into the glass-roofed Sunroom and curl up like pillbugs and soak up the sun. He loved the Sunroom. When he turned six, he was told that he was too old for napping. He tried crying for three days, but he wasn't as cute as the other children. He was big and homely and reminded the supervisors about everything they hated about themselves. He snuck into the Sunroom and didn't leave on the Friday. They locked the door, not seeing him inside the largest empty clay pot. He got hungry and wailed, but no one was there to hear. He threw a rock at the glass and went to the hospital, unconscious and covered in cuts. The principal made an announcement the next Monday that the Sunroom was closed and would not reopen.

First Criticism

When he was four years old, he was stuffed in a suit and his hair was combed with fervour in order to please his mother's father. His pudgy hands were clasped together and he was forced to keep eye contact with his grandfather's surly stare. "Well? Doesn't he talk?" He opened his mouth and gurgled, his thick tongue trying to make sense of his grandfather's name. "What's wrong with him? Is he stupid? Mina, feed him less."

Listening In

A Sunday walk with his dog, passing, hear, "Not many years left, not many at all."

Self-Criticism

"There're doors I can't fit through, bottles I don't know how to open."

Fantasies

A world so simple, with everyone he loves and no one he hates. A world where there's an infinite supply of Oreo ice-cream with little sprinkles, where his grandfather never existed and where he had a little sister. A world where his dog could tell him its name.

The Weather Girl

With one hand clutching the rudder, a girl with bubblegum pink hair manned the sails of The Astrium. The salty sea spray stung her bare back. The rope she'd paid fifty-eight sea urchins for cut into her hand; droplets of red stained her ship's deck. Her shaggy dog sniffed her wound in concern.

            The gales were getting harder to control, forcing her to knot the ropes. Sucking her hand, the girl dipped her foot into the water, enjoying the cool liquid running over it. She smiled to herself, teeth dyed with blood, longing to dive inside and feel the seaweed tickle her ribs, her thighs.

            Her dog yelped, skittering backwards. While he was drinking from the ocean, a fat goldfish had taken its chance to bite the dog's cracked nose. The girl plucked the fish out of the water by its tail, scolded it, and swallowed it whole.

            "C'mon, boy!" she yelled, hoisting the injured dog to its feet, "We've got a job to do!"

            She dried her hands on his matted fur, wishing that she could be covered in warm fur instead of squishy brown skin. Readjusting her hold, she untied the ropes and heaved. She braced herself against the strong wind that was towing her to the sinking whirlpool in the water. "I'll beat you!" she screamed, tightening her grip.

            Her sailing sextant spun across the deck as the ship's bow lifted in the air. Its sun-bleached sails bulged and strained under the force of the wind. And then—the boat lifted, leaving a stream of algae painted water dripping beneath it. The boat gained altitude, sailing higher into the black storm. The girl adjusted the ropes, her hair frosted with clouds, until the wind rushing against her bony hips and small breasts forced her to sit. She pulled her dog close for warmth.

            The girl laid back against the ship, tired from her daily chore. She would let it fly itself for a while—it always knew how to calm the storm.

            "Make it summer," she whispered into the hull, patting the knots. A bolt of lightning tickled her toes, lulling her to sleep.

Black Liquorice

I walk down from the church where my grandparents got married. Past the thousand year old tombstones, eroded beyond legibility, clothed in moss. On my left, the Vicar's house, on a true cobblestone road. A hanging sign, 'Ye Olde Eight Bells Shoppe.' Door rings a jingle, doesn't catch on the latch. Postcards of the Christchurch Priory, expensive scale models, knick-knacks and collectors' items (Thelwell ponies) in the back. Quaint cups here and there, a tea towel for dad's mum. The real candy's in the front. Toffee, fudge—whatever your parents can feed you that'll glue your teeth together for a while.

            The cashier's a child of the weathered streets, grown to care for her town in turn. She waits patiently for my order, watching me stare slack-jawed at my options. Welsh Mint Humbugs, Rhubarb and Custard, Treacle Toffee Sherbert Lemons, jars full of no-names and stuff I'd think was for grannies. I ask for one chocolate caramel fudge and one vanilla swirl, please, as the bell chimes, a little blonde ringleted girl and her mum come in. There's an exchange of names—Marian, the cashier, Sara, the girl—the words 'mummy', and 'could I have some black liquorice, please' in her little British accent.

            Marian calls for Nicola, teenager in the back who hadn't made a peep. Her brown hair loose like the hem at the base of her sleeve, bookish. They all know each other. Marian and Sara's mum are cool, calm and collected. Nicola runs an uncertain hand across the labels 'Cola Cubes,' 'Butter Scotch,' 'Blackcurrant Gummies,' searching for Sara's treat. Marian adds my purchases, weighs them a few times, Nicola keeps going to enter Sara's purchase in. My dad and I silently finding the whole exchange endearing, sweet. As I exit the shop, candy in mouth, eyes on thatch roofs, I say, "Now this is what I thought England would be like."

Public Poetry

Despite the powerful prowess that prodigies possess,

and our defined, refined, confined but blind education,

humans are traveling down a one-way path,

and we've won the way to self-destruction.

Long before Adam and Eve,

our primitive primate ancestors

goaded their grey matter to grow

by nibbling on their neighbour's noggin.

Munching on a little meat

enabled bigger brains

with advanced capabilities—

who cares about better bodies?

In these temples,

we have mazes that amaze me

and tracks that trace routes

faithfully without fail.

What's wonderful is what's inside—

not the tangled strings of emotions,

or the puzzling parts of personalities,

but our bizarrely beautiful science.

There's a stigma surrounding mutations,

that altered DNA is always bad.

Humans could be more efficient,

identical, perfect drones.

The Kitchen Boy

A lad with tousled hair tossing shortcrust pie,

with hands as cracked as the skin on his forehead

when he says 'ello to the princess's maid.

Fig juice spilling down his chapped knuckles like blood,

staining his face as he wipes off the sweat caused

by the oven; he can't stand it. Escaping

to the familiar bales of hay never masks

his fennel fragrance; his anise aroma.

He leaves a trail of flour through his matted locks.

Working so young and eating the rejects—

gruel.

Social Commentary Poem

Encapsulated in my memory,

for no stable imagery exists,

homes a lush, roadside grove.

Unnatural.

Mother Nature never called

for rows of trees.

She doesn't bother

with order.

In it bears a modern house,

worn dirt paths find their way

to unsightly gas guzzlers

sitting on the dried gas.

No, it is not true nature.

No, it isn't located

in the middle

of nowhere.

But the rows are uneven,

the spacing wrong,

frequent gaps

and rotten apples.

The house is built from

its surrounding neighbours,

true.

But large, ungainly pines

shield their friend

and block the enemy.

Years pass.

The orchard flourishes.

Families drop by,

grabbing apples

that are too small,

eating apples

that don't

even

shine.

Years pass.

A parking lot is built

so more families can visit.

Gravel is put in to lead

to the house for

easy access.

The pines

are

chopped

down.

Years pass.

'The Orchard
Coming Soon'

The sign looms

as if to say

there wasn't

an orchard

already.

Months pass.

The trees are

slaughtered.

The earth is

mulched.

The house is

not a house.

Weeks pass.

The dirt is gone,

replaced with gravel.

The trees have returned,

transfigured into lavish huts.

The memories remain,

as does the sign.

The only real orchard

is the one

in my mind.

Everyone's Least Favourite Word

I'm not that gross.

            I'm great for describing the contents of a cake recipe. What, is wet any better? The soggy brownies? The dripping cupcakes? No. Your cheesecake is not damp; it's moist.

            Most desserts are filled with warm—you guessed it—moisture. If it causes you pain to hear me, then grow the hell up and call your cookies mushy.

            Is it the way that the 'o' and 'i' sound together? If yes, then explain why hoist gets along fine with the rest of your vocabulary; with its harsh 'h' and aggressive tone.

            I know the truth. I know that you dirty-minded English-speaking humans associate me with your disgusting reproductive methods. I often find myself in the same boat as penetration, traversing the seas of immature individuals who can't accept the fact that Betty Crocker's cakes are moist, not 'non-dry'.

            Why bother wasting your time complaining about me, an underused, underrated, and unfairly hated syllable, when disastrous words such as 'epic' have stirred the minds of many? Epic is lame. He talks a load of bull and only hangs out with greasy gamers.

            Use me for baked goods. Use me for sweaty hands. Even use me when describing your nasty human activities. But don't you ever try to eliminate me.

            Now go and eat your goddamn moist carrot cake.

Intertextual Poem

The mourning-dove mercilessly

coos my sentence in the woods.

They are the hangmen

pronouncing my sentence

in the suitable language of love.

And I'm missing you.

With silver bells and cockle shells,

the big ship sank to the bottom of the sea.

The gravel and stone will be washed away,

and the silver and gold will be stolen away.

I found them indeed,

but it made my heart bleed.

Punish me for my irresistible beauty.

Punish me for my desecration.

Foolish men sought me out

to earn their reputations.

The old gold of the stunted cedars,

the horizons,

the chilly gullies with their red willow

whips, intoxicate me

and confirm belief

in what I have done.

To look upon me was to turn to stone,

for no mortal can withstand the direct gaze of divinity.

Iron and steel will bend

and break.

I am the thorn in her side.

I am her reverse reflection.

Your back was a firm line of eastern coast.

I'm just missing you...

Rogue Fairy

Preceeds Titania's lines in Act 4, Scene 1 (page 125)

Enter Matchbush, Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Moth.

Matchbush: Gentle fairies, gather 'round

for the noble king ye hath crown'd,

mine eye spotted hoisting with utmost joy,

an addled Indian changeling boy.

My father thought him wholly shrewd,

but in truth his duties were eschew'd.

Thus have I resolved against my stay

and wish instead to join Titania's fray.

My guardians hold opposing views,

yet have granted me the honour to chuse.

Tired of my listless ways,

they ended my namikle¹ days.

Mayhap here I shall find direction

and fleetingly, true love's affection.

Peaseblossom: Didst thou expect their feud

to last as long as thee dost conclude?

Come hither, if thou wilt, discover

they are each a lover,

yet my fairy queen hath taken another.

Matchbush: What ho! This neither man nor beast,

nor e'en a fairy, at least!

Thou belovèd queen hath had her brains

stolen, for but a spoonful remains.

Thou art as foolish as she

if thou believes Titania loves he.

Cobweb: Fie! out cur! knave!

Flee now if thee wish not an early grave!

Thou churlish, dallying lout!

Thou art vile, but a pig-snout!

Moth: For thy discourtesies

we represent thine enemies.

Thee, we shalt banish

unless thee quickly vanish.

Matchbush: N'er did I desire

to turn myself a liar.

Nor was labour but an irk;

I n'er did wish to work.

King Oberon, I prefer,

hath plenty more sense than her,

but, i'faith, I desire neither.

My land of birth

nonpariel upon this earth,

filled with bare blanched limestone,

mountain reaching, age ripened trees,

mindless, buzzing humblebees,

serving golden liquid from honeycombs-

ay, this paradise is my home.

I shall transgress my parent's requests
for life with king or queen holds no success.

I was told I have a lovely voice,

and thus, this is my choice-

I could pass as an Athenian eunuch,

and in time, live by the Aegean Sea.

I could live off of an olive tree,

and though it may be unwise wishing,

I might eat plentifully by fishing.

I shall bring books to read,

and at last, be finally feeling freed.

Moth: Then return whence thou came,

return to the land of the shiftless laggards,

and insult our fair queen no more.

Peaseblossom: As thou wilt, Matchbush.

I bid thee luck on thy travels.

Cobweb: Avaunt! Get thee gone!

Hie, aroint thee!

Moth: Fare thee well,

Matchbush.

Matchbush: God save ye!       [Exit.]

¹=adj: lacking motivation; not caring; shielding self from responsibility 

Dawning Remembrance

In an L-shaped room

a familiar man directs me to the second-floor.

My path is covered in glass,

and the bodyguard at the base of the stairs says,

"Now I have no escape."

I tiptoe past the shards

to the upper unwalled floor.

I speak to a short girl,

blonde ringlets framing her porcelain features,

wearing a Victorian-style dress—

Ozma.

She opens her fairytale

and we begin to read.

Breakfast for Naiads

The pond's still,

shallow surface

curtained by branched

               intertwined ballroom dancers

shelters a nymph

with glowing hair

and skin stretched thin

from her last meal.

Speckled flowers

pale greens soft pinks

               markers travelers follow

where she can feed

from their greed,

drink from their vanity,

consume their sins.

The unassuming paradise

               a specious graveyard of vice

Through the Eyes of an Introvert

“Isabella, not Isabelle,” she snaps at me. She's wearing a velvet skirt and her dark hair is cut to her jaw. “What?” she snarls, stepping closer to me. I don’t respond. I never do. Instead, I retreat to the corner where three kids squeeze Play-Doh. We avoid eye contact with each other and roll the clay into long snakes before squashing them with our fingers. We don’t mix the colours.

I complain to Liam that people tended to mock my surname. "It sounds like the word 'lake,' " he says. I tell the teacher that Liam made fun of my last name, Laycock. Her eyes go wide and she raises her eyebrows, pushing her neat, auburn wig higher on her head. She scolds Liam and asks him where he learned 'the word'. "Lake?" he says. "No, the other word—." She purses her lips, looks at both of us, and returns to her desk.

Mrs. Hamilton explains to us that our small reading group is made up of the advanced kids. Our classmates prefer the term 'nerds'. In our teacher’s mini office, we read a book about a girl who misses her favourite treat of salty duck eggs. The rest of the students read books with morals back in the classroom. Mrs. Hamilton gives our group a piece of gum each and makes us promise not to tell the other kids.

Michael, the class clown, stumbles into the classroom. Madame rolls her eyes at him and orders everyone to sit down. The third grader girls giggle and ogle the older boys in our split class. Madame points at the plastic stoplight, which shines a bright yellow. If the noise increases enough, it rises to red, and we have to stay in five minutes after class. Michael cracks a joke and the class erupts in laughter. Madame pops two Advil into her mouth, letting the angry red of the stoplight display her decision.

In the game Around the World, we use math flashcards to stimulate quick thinking, test multiplication skills and increase the heart rate. My hands sweat and pulse quickening as my turn approaches. I stand. The answer catches in my throat: it's twenty-four! Twenty-four! Six times four equals twenty-four! My opponent beats me, pointing his finger at our teacher's face as he screams the answer. He receives a quick chastising, but moves on. I sit down and wipe my palms off on my pants. I watch as my classmates count with their fingers behind their backs, hiding their crude math methods. 

Why X is Better Than Y

Why Winter is better than Summer

1. Cuddling by the crackling fire with a hot cup of cocoa, tiny marshmallows floating within

2. Trekking through fresh snow and leaving footprints

3. Pinkened cheeks and warm toques

4. Making snow angels and snowmen with stick hands that the dog likes to steal

5. Baking gingerbread and cinnamon cookies in an appealingly steamy kitchen

6. Receiving an "I love you" as your sweetheart gives you their sweater in minus forty degree weather.

Why Summer is better than Winter

1. Pleasant breezes and soft grass between your toes

2. Refreshing dips in the warm lake where the dog can splash

4. Camp nights to stare at the stars and fall asleep to the chirping of a cricket

5. Strawberry ice cream scoops, pink lemonade, chocolate popsicles that drip of the chin.

6. FREEDOM FOR ALL STUDENTS

Why Fall is better than Spring

1. Warm colours decorating the trees

2. Strolling down the trail, Springer Spaniel trotting by the side

3. Long sleeves, short sleeves, cute dresses, high boots, a bit of fur.

4. Jumping in leaf piles

5. Fall back (hello, extra time to share with my bed)

6. Pumpkin carving, apple picking, Thanksgiving pie, candy corn, butternut squash

Why Spring is better than Fall

1. Blossoming flowers, returning greens, sweet smells

2. Buzzing, fluffy bumblebees making rounds in pink tulips, pollen clinging to their little hairs

3. Birds singing love songs, fluffy ducklings

4. Dew droplets clinging to spider webs

5. Rain dinging off the skylight, snuggled inside reading

6. Cute umbrellas, rain boots, puppies playing in puddles

Barbara Millicent Roberts' Rebuttal

I have a need to address

society's constant worry

over how I should dress

to make my curves less.

See, I'm pretty old, but

I haven't any lines,

nor wrinkles or sags,

on this body I've been assigned

from the factory.

Is there some kind of official

to judge my appearance?

Why am I being assessed

based on the skin which I was blessed?

What about my job as a vet?

I know how to take care of pets—

babies and children, too,

but apparently it was wrong

for me to be a mom

(while looking so young).

All those years in med school,

to be a surgeon, all that time in uni,

to be blasted into space, from education

to politics in our nation, I have so

many qualifications, why don't

you take a look at my resumé

before you take a look at me?

Can't a girl be smart

and pretty, too? 

Whales, Dolphins, Sharks

When the seas are as red

as God's calamity on Egypt,

when the liquid once giving life

stains the shore's rocks,

when lifeless corpses weigh down your boat,

why continue the massacre?

We should not be those

to decide the fate of another.

The blood filling the oceans

blossom like our sins.

Hogwarts Date

            Like Murphy said, if something can go wrong, it will. It wasn't my ideal date (what was wrong with a nice walk at daytime?) but Brad had insisted. His daredevil attitude played a small part in his charm. If it had been anybody other than the boy that I had been pining after for the whole of my first four years at Hogwarts, then I would have refused, so as to not risk sacrificing my golden record and flawless grades. But only an insane girl—or prettier one—would have said no to Bradley Brookshire!

            As the clock struck twelve, I stumbled out of the dormitory. None of the girls batted an eye at my leaving, as we all had our secret meetings from time to time. I scrambled out of our entrance barrel and enjoyed the cool air that banished my sweat. Sweat? I held my hands up to my face and cursed, my palms gleaming brightly in the torchlight. There was no time to change though, so I dashed into the kitchen where a few house elves happily stuffed my pockets with treats. After wiping my wet hands on my robes—fantastic, greasy hand marks—I continued my journey outside. I soon reached the entrance hall without meeting anybody and my confidence grew stronger. Which should have been a signal that something was about to go wrong.

            "Student out of bed, eh?" Filch's all too familiar voice barked. His footsteps grew closer. I shielded my face from his view, protecting my identity from him. I needed to run far away from the decrepit old man, so I started sprinting—and ran straight into a wall. He cackled as I fell. I was too tired to get up.

            "FILCH!" Bradley's voice bellowed. I raised my eyes to find Bradley standing outside the main doors. It was a valiant effort, but Filch wouldn't chase Brad while he had me within arms' length. Those were my thoughts until I saw a yowling Mrs Norris clenched in Brad's hand. Filch tore after him as fast as he could, which was in fact quite slow. I took my opportunity and raced out the main doors, Brad not too far behind me. I dashed around the back of the school, hoping dearly that Brad was nearby, and willing the painful stitch in my side to disappear.

            "Argus? What're you doing out here?" The teacher, whoever she was, calmed Filch down, giving Brad and I enough time to gather our bearings. I finally looked him in the eye and allowed a small grin to pass over my face. We were standing in a forest, completely safe from Filch.

            "You've got a cut on your head," Brad said softly, brushing my forehead. I was grateful for the darkness, as it hid the sight of my bright red cheeks.

            "You've got scratches on your cheek," I replied, lightly touching the marks. They were no doubt from handling the ancient Mrs Norris. Brad slowly leaned in towards me and my heart responded by beating rapidly. I closed my eyes and—was he growling? My eyes snapped open in time to find a set of glowing eyes and bared teeth. I tackled Brad to the ground just as the creature leapt at us. The werewolf smashed into a tree and yelped. I helped Brad up and we sprinted through the forest, zigzagging and occasionally splitting up to confuse the werewolf. Once we reached a clearing and the panting grew louder, we knew that we were caught. One couldn't outrun a werewolf.

            "Bri," Brad choked out, his hand taking mine as the creature circled up in a taunting manner, "I need to tell you that—"

            A white blur whizzed by and Brad stopped talking as we watched a pure white wolf attack our predator. It was at this point that I came to my senses. "YOUR WAND!" I bellowed, "YOUR WAND!" It was difficult to aim properly, as we were afraid of hurting the wolf as he battled it out with his opponent, but we took our chances when we saw our ally weakening.

            With combined efforts, we managed to bind the werewolf in ropes. We stood triumphantly and nodded to the wolf. He snarled back, so we took that as notice to get the hell out. We exited the Forbidden Forest without encountering anymore dangerous monsters, but the danger had ruined our date. Far away galaxies twinkled at us, as if mocking my failure. Brad would never want to see me again. "Hey, what were you going to say to me earlier?"

            Brad shot me a goofy smile that made my knees weak (or was that from all the running?) and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Uh, that I think you're really cute and I wanted to know if... if you wanted to be like, boyfriend and girlfriend? Like, officially dating, I guess?"

            I ducked my head to hide my smirk at his clumsy words but uttered out my equally lame response of, "Yeah, I think I'd like that." Brad held my hand and we walked back towards the castle, picking out constellations from above. I handed him a Butterbeer that I had extracted from my pocket and took a glug out of my own, savouring the blessed taste.

            Unfortunately, the pleasant part of our outing didn't last long. Professor Longbottom was standing with his arms crossed at the front doors shaking his head at us. "I'm surprised at you, Miss Pearson. You're top of my class! And you there—Mr. Brookshire—you're of Ravenclaw house, aren't you?" Brad nodded. "Oh dear, you two are both covered in cuts. We'd best send you off to Madame Pomfrey, and then deal with your punishments afterwards."

            We trailed behind Professor Longbottom reluctantly. "Jam doughnut?" I offered.

            "Thanks," Professor Longbottom and Brad said simultaneously, each taking a few.

            "Next time," I whispered to Brad, "We go out in the day."

            "Agreed," Brad replied, and he sealed the deal with a kiss. I could taste the strawberry jam on his lips.

Afterword

After two solid hours

of flipping, turning, and scanning,

my emotions have been sautéed

in a pan of spicy conflicts

and sweet romances.

The pages are dotted with tears

of both laughter and sadness,

and there's one streak of blood

from my paper cut.

The nice guy was killed off,

the ditzy blonde got pregnant,

the quiet ginger was sent to jail,

and the protagonist lived happily ever after.

Until the sequel comes out, that is.