Emily Kinney's Blog - Posts Tagged "emily-kinney"

For all those who daydream and are not caged by reality. Together we rise above the mundane and stale, and combine forces to eradicate monotony and mediocrity. United are we who search for beyond, stand for creativity, and reject conformity. Empowered by inspiration, we march forth, hand in hand, an army of originals. Nothing can detain us, for we are driven by love, bred for imagination, and fueled by whimsy.

Emily Kinney

She opened her eyes. She couldn’t help it. Yes, she remembered the warnings; the insistance, the logic and reason and concern behind the inhibiting words. Just one glance, and all would be undone. If her lids spread open, they would never close. And in turn, she would never return. Because she wouldn’t want to. All of this echoed within the walls of her mind, but the echoes grew fainter and fainter, receding back into the hallowness that swallows up all responsible reasoning and task. Temptation swelled and prodded and stoked her, until she could bear it no more.

Her pale, velvety eyelids popped wide open, revealing the vibrant blue of her irises, magnified by the pulsating water. At first all was murky and blurry at the edges. She quailed as a trailing, thin shape appeared beside her, but she quickly recognized it as her hair. Brown and long and swirling in the water, tickling her face and along her bare arms. The next thing that came into focus was the fluttering white of her gown. They had insisted that she wear the most comfortable thing she owned, possibly something that was so light and soft that she wouldn’t even realize she was wearing it. So she has chosen her summer nightie, the one that she had bought too big by accident and had zero hope of ever gaining enough girth to fill out. When she stood, it hung loosely from satin straps on her shoulders, feathering out about her body like it could float away at any moment. And now, suspended in water, it truly looked as though it was trying, except that she anchored it.

Perhaps if she had only observed these two rather unextraordinary things and then had hastily shut her eyes, she might have been all right. No pernament damage would have been done. But, no. She strayed on. Blinking, her eyeballs cool and not smarting at all, she lifted her vision from her eddying, ethereal garment. Tilting her head back, causing her hair to balloon around her face, she looked up at the surface, not five feet above her. The last fretting echo gasped its last in the back of her mind, reminding her not to let her mouth open. If she hadn’t heard it and minded, she might have gasped.

She could see them, the lights. They were on the other side of the surface, bursting and popping and darting about, the flow of the water warping their shape. All sorts of colors, some she could never have imagined existed, exploding for miles in all directions. Their brightness permeated the water, making the depths glow all sorts of shades. On and on it went, as if they were keeping time to a tune only they could hear . . . that only they knew about. It all entranced her. She couldn’t stop staring, her limbs shifting unconsciously in the water, the tube in her arm knocking gently against her wrist. But she didn’t notice. She was unaware of anything other than the lights. Or whatever they were. Whatever was doing that.

It was beautiful; beyond that. It mesmerized her, it beckoned her while warning her to stay where she was, for she simply didn’t know; it stole her. Maybe at one point she had belonged to herself, and to her physical form and mumblings of her brain and tears of the end of rough days. But now that was no more. She now belonged to whatever was up there. A soft joy blossomed inside her, leaching into ever inch of her cells. In a last effort of purpose, she made sure her mouth was tightly sealed as she smiled. And she smiled hard. She beamed as much of her own happiness as she could up at what had given her such bliss.

And maybe they saw it, for they seemed to respond. The flashes increased in speed, as if encouraged. Their color and vibrancy enhanced, as if they were delighted by their effect on her. The bounding, dancing lights skipped across the surface of the water with something like renewed determination. Like they wanted to please her.

Languidly lifting a hand, disturbing both her hair and the tube, she waved at the lights. In reply, they exploded in a flurry of sparks. Laughter tumbled about in her chest, but could not get past her lips. Maybe she’d had a past, a beginning, and maybe she’d meant to have a future. But not anymore. It was all gone. All that was or would ever be was now. The world, the universe, everything that ever had mattered or ever would matter or had the potential to matter existed in the space between her and the spectacle above the water.

She had not listened. She had thought she would be able to, since she had spent so much of her life being a listener and an obeyer. Honestly, she had considered an order like Keep Your Eyes Shut to be very simple and easy. Something that she wouldn’t have to worry about following. But, she had been wrong. She had failed. But this fact did not matter to her.

Contentment and wonder and all things lovely filled her as she floated on her back, so close to the surface and yet so far. Somewhere in her, in the place where things still had meaning and decision, she knew that she would never reach the surface. That there was something preventing her from moving, from propelling herself in any direction. But even this wasn’t a concern to her. She didn’t mind in the least not being able to join the preternatural activity above her. All she wanted to do was watch and feel.

She could vaguely hear cries of alarm and demand, all skating across her eardrum. “Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes!” But if she didn’t focus, they became less and less distinct, until it was as if they weren’t there at all. Smiling up at the wavering lights, she let herself forget about the voices, forget about the tube and her dress and why she was there. Soon, she even forgot about her.

Emily Kinney

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Source: via Emily on Pinterest

Emily Kinney

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Source: morjers-art.de via Emily on Pinterest

The tower could be seen for miles all around. It easily cleared the crowns of all the trees and almost always had at least one lit window at night. Only rarely did it’s chimney take a break from puffing black smoke, though it was debated in whispers who stoked the fire.

I lost my head when I opened my heart. All the reasons to reverse it continuously get countered by reasons not to. Now it boils down to which reasons are more potent. They may be matched in number, but in strength?

How do you kick someone out of your heart? Especially when they didn’t even fight to be there, but you invited them in without their knowledge? How do you exspell someone who has made you so extremely happy? . . . By remembering that they have made you equally miserable.

But, for so long, I have always loved someone. Ever since I was twelve, I have been in love. Ten years with one person . . . and then they were replaced by another. One that, based on all gathered evidence, I was going to fall in love with eventually anyways. And so how can I blame myself . . . or defend myself? Yes, I know exactly where I could have stopped it. When I could have. And at the time I knew this fact with astounding clarity. I knew I was falling in love, I knew it wasn’t a good thing, and I knew it wasn’t a part of my plan. But, I let it occur anyway. I did. I made a foolish decision. I didn’t block my heart. I didn’t reinforce the shields or bar the windows. I didn’t take precausions. I didn’t harden the soft and yearning flesh of my heart, like I should have, like I’ve done for so long. Because, once upon a time ago, I used to be smart.

Oh my, but did I used to be smart. I fought against intruders, I logicked my way out of emotions and over-imaginative hoping. At least, whenever I did allow my mind to wander to all the possibilities and might-be-if-we-did-this’s, I always remembered to provide a rational unhappy ending. Some event to ensure that the outcome would be cancelling, would devastate and demolish. All before anything came anywhere near my heart. Because, it was already inhabited by one person, and I was determined that it remain that way.

As silly and unprecedented as it may seem, I am an incurable romantic. I love Love, and all that it stands for and all that it can do. What we are capable of when we are caught in it. Maybe it’s because I fell in love at such a young age. I still understood that love, the real thing, is not transitory or superficial. It is long-suffering and pierces deep. You can’t rip it out by will or trample it to death. Real Love is a surviving thing. And, boy, did I love.

A very, very unknown fact about me is that I am one of history’s greatest lovers. I am capable of loving at a level of profoundity and sincerity that most mere mortals don’t even know exist. No one can love like I can when it’s true and I let myself. But I alone hold this information. I, alone in this room, with only a kitten for company, know just how much love I am capable of giving and at what strength. Perhaps it is because nobody else knows about it that not a soul wants it.

But . . . that helps no one. Particularly not me. I am lost right now. I am moseying aimlessly, uncertain as to where I’m headed and none too enthralled with arriving there. Right now, the question that is burning brightest in my mind and spirit, the one that refuses to go away, the most pressing matter at hand is, Who am I if I’m not a person in love with another person?

Where does that leave me? For so long, long enough for it to ingrain itself into the fabric of my being, into my identity, I have been in love. But, now I love someone who has effectively flipped the middle finger at my love and said, No thank you. And so I must give up on him. I should have long ago. This won’t be the first time I’ve had to quell my feelings; to extinguish the flame that he refuses to let stay cold and dead. But it will be the worse. The other times I wasn’t in love. My heart wasn’t speeding along full-throttle, turned inside out, slashed up while simultaneously sewing itself back together. Meanwhile, my head is shaking itself, grimly wondering just how long that dang heart can keep it up, when it will ever learn. Is your heart seperate from you? Can the heart make decisions on its own, without your say so? Where are you when you don’t want to listen to your head, but at the same instant want your heart to quit? Where am I?

How can I be me if I don’t love someone? The person currently inhabiting my raw and battered heart replaced the person from before. He truly seems to have been gently, almost thoughtlessly, removed. Not even removed, but faded out. Like a forgotten piece of furniture that has been there so long that it now blends in with the walls and soon you forget it’s there entirely. And when you do remember it’s there, it’s a little hard to make out, and you no longer know what your feelings are.

So, the resident for ten long, beautiful years is gone, and the current rent-free personage doesn’t want to be there. What do I do?

The answer should be simple. I should fight for me. But who am I? I know, I have always known, that I am More. I know that I am constructed of More, and that I can offer More. I am well aware that this quality makes me singular, but it still feels so far away from the core of me. The core. The fabric. My DNA. What’s that?

How can I force myself to fall out of love when Love doens’t work like that? And even if I find a way, what will become of me afterwards? What will I be? Just a shell? Just a hollow, rattling, rocking-in-the-wind shell? . . . Would that be so bad compared to how it is now? When someone has rejected love from one of the greatest lovers in history, doesn’t that make him a moron? And is it really all that wise to be in love with a moron? Logic says, No. Reason says, No. Rationality says, No. Self-respect says, No. Pride says, No.

But . . . Love consists of none of those things. Love is foolish. Love is rediculous. Love is preposterous. . . . Yes, yes. . . . But love is also wonderful. It is capable of so much more than all those other things combined. If allowed to, that is. If not . . . admittedly, love tends to get in your way.

It is right now for me. And so, it seems, the best solution is to realign my heart with my head again. To patch up that poor, festering organ and put it to rights once more. Maybe . . . maybe it will be good for it to be empty for a little while. That, at least, is all I can hope for.

Fourth episode of The Island of Lote on Young Love Press.

The world is unique during the switch from night to day. Early morning carries with it its own look and smell and feel. She knew. She, by now, was very well aquainted with all of these.

At this point, she was quite familiar with the sensation of the blanket sliding off her body, bunched off to the side like a downy cliff, and her feet, sockless, touching down on the cool floor by her bed. The quiet brush of clothing being removed and replaced was now routine, as was the cold metal of the doorknob as her fingers and palm encircled it. At first, it had made noise when she turned it, but now she was seasoned and could exit and enter in silence.

And then, of course, there was the curtain of early morning air she encountered upon stepping out of the house. It always wrapped around her face like a mask, invading her pores, urging all her senses awake. This, she always welcomed, and even looked forward to. It provided that extra boost of alertness, and when she inhaled, it scrubbed at her lungs, refreshing her from the inside out. Whatever sleep might have lingered disappeared right then. She was free, aware of everything surrounding her and what came next.

Next, was leaving the house behind her, her naked feet alighting delicately on the dusty gravel of the front yard until reaching the dewy plushness of the lawn. Who knows why the morning weeps, scattering its tears across bent green stalks and drooping leaves. Perhaps it is in joyful anticipation for the approaching day, and all the possibilities it holds.

The lawn carried on for a good five minutes, the grass well trimmed and carpet-like, until stopping abrubtly at the long grass, just as green, but wild with growth. Black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne’s Lace stuck up throughout in lovely unobtrusiveness, and together the flowers and grass swayed harmoniously in the breeze. As she walked, yet again, while another dawn unfolded, through this medly, yet again in this direction, she had to be much more careful of where her feet landed.

It made the going slower, but by now she had mastered her timing. Sifting through the uncut fields was just one more thing incorporated into the schedule. As the early morning light stole up from the horizen and illuminated the clouds, bathing the world in a gentle array of golds and rose-colors, her skirt, white and cottony, swished against her legs. Occationally, long grass blades and stringy Queen Anne’s lace would find its way up and swat at her bare skin, but she hardly noticed.

Her eyes, and her attention, were in front of her, scanning the distance, as the land gradually rose. She was searching for what always first appeared to be a skinny line. But it grew bigger, extending both ways for miles and miles. It was a fence. The closer she got to it, the less she stared at it. Now her eyes lay partially on the fence, and partially on what lay beyond.

The fence itself was comprised of two narrow wooden slats suspended between posts. The wood was gray and splintered from exposure to the elements. Unprotected, and unable to protect itself, the world had done a number on it. Running in no longer taut lines between the slats and across the top was barbed wire, loose and rusting, its glory days forgotten.

How well she knew this fence! It had always been there, as a marker, a divider, and an indicator to “Stop Here”. This counted no matter which side of the fence it was. And she was on this side.

So, she came to a stop, a safe six inches or so away from it, afraid that going any closer would mean that she was actually there. Her back straight, mouth set, and eyes squinting, she gazed over at the other side. There, the same overgrown green grass stretched on, sloping down and down to meet the banks of a small pond. It was shaped irregularly, with patches of cattails and ferns growing in tufts by its edges, its surface sparkling with the golds and pinks of the new day. Not far away grew several oaks, a trail winding amid them.

And she waited. She waited, knowing why, picking distractedly at the weeds all around her. She waited, forcing the desperation to stay low in her chest, willing it away, to not exist. But it did. However, she could ignore that it did. She had been doing it for a while now. She was almost good at it. But not quite.

Her eyes stayed on the pond, occationally snapping to the trees, her chest rising and falling evenly, because she made it be even. If she stopped focusing on being calm, on only half believing that she was really there, then her breathing would change. She waited.

But not for long. Never for long.

He came. Seemingly out of nowhere, he came down the trail through the oaks, his strides wide and sure. His sudden appearance made her catch her breath, her hands falling still.

Their ages might have matched, maybe him overtaking her by a year, but no more. Tall and tanned like ripened wheat, with a long, narrow torso and lean, toned arms and legs. His hair was wild, dirty-blonde, and did what it pleased. He wore a holely tank top that once was white, and scraggly jean shorts, fraying badly just above his knees, the remains of scraggly jean pants. Scruffy, bare-footed, and in a hurry, he made his way over to the pond, a netted contraption in one hand and a look of absentminded consternation on his face.

From where she stood, on her side, her own bare arms hanging listlessly, she watched as he squatted beside the water. Carefully, he released the thing he was carrying into the water, keeping it attached to the land by a length of twine tied about a rock. It floated a ways before sinking. Standing up and scratching vigorously at his flat belly, he took off along the shore. After travelling almost to the other side, slipping on rocks and shoving aside rushes, he finally waded into the water. Once up to his hips, the rest of him tensing from the chill, he flexed his arms and dropped like a stone, the water swallowing his head in one large ripple. Two seconds later, he emerged, gasping loudly and letting loose one emphatic whoop. A smile tugged at her lips.

On her side of the fence, she watched, unmoving, sad, and longing. The breeze rustled her uncombed hair and thin dress. She tucked the loose strands behind her ears, swallowing hard, staring hard. Had the fence not been there, would she continue to stand there? It was the ever present question. How long could she bear to feel from afar? But she had no answers. Emily Kinney

There wasn’t any noise or movement or any other logical explanation that night for Kirsta waking up. She was a sound sleeper and far from the habit of waking randomly during Earth’s dark hours. Her bed was soft, adorned with sumptuous, one-hundred-percent cotton peacock patterened sheets, with matching down throw pillows that she claimed to her mother she had to have.

“Some things were meant to be in sets,” Kirsta had explained to her. “Like drums, or flatware.”

So, discomfort wasn’t to blame. Later, when she had the time to look back and wonder, Kirsta could not actually recall the reason why she woke up, unprompted. But she did.

Her eyelids slid back uncerimoniously, revealing enormous, dialated pupils surrounded by clover green rings. A mishapen lump sat directly in her line of vision, and when she slammed her lathargic arm down on it, it proved to be a pillow. Not one of the throws, but a respectable pillow just the same. Groaning and rubbing her porclin forehead, Kirsta rolled onto her back, annoyed at being awake. Reaching out blindly, her hand found her tiny, cheapest-they-had alarm clock and brought it to her face. 12:07.

“Ullllgg!” she grumbled, flinging it back with revolt. Twelve oh seven at night was a time for insombiacs and those saucy individuals who liked late shows. Not for her. Not when ther was school and baton and her complection to think about.

Unable to determine what had roused her, Kirsta, in turn, rolled her eyes and then her body, snuggling back down into the luscious blue and green sheets. But, before she could shut her eyes once more, a flicker alerted them to the far wall of her room. There, floating as inconspicuously as a fly in someone’s lemonade, was an oval-ish sort of light.

Kirsta blinked. It was still there. She squinted. It didn’t disappear.

“What the . . . ?” she whispered, slowly propping herself up on one elbow. Chestnut hair, straight and silky with tending, fell like drapery over her shoulders and down her back. One of her favorite assets, her collar bones, stuck out as she hunched closer to the edge of the bed, her brows wrinkling in confusion.

The light remained where it was. It did not waver. However, it did seem to glow.

How long she stared at it, reassuring herself that she was really awake and that it was really there, Kirsta did not know. Not too long, though, because her arm started to ache from holding her up.

Shoving aside the blanket, Kirsta lowered her bare, bird-boned feet to the floor, her gaze never leaving the light. Standing up slowly, as if she were afraid she’d spook it, she tentatively walked towards it. It didn’t move. Stretching an arm, she brushed the spot with her fingers, but felt only wall. Sheetrock and interior paint. The glowing oval did light up her hand, though, making the typically pale skin a warm yellow, almost honey like.

Still frowning, only now with curiosity, Kirsta looked behind her to see where the light might be coming from, and saw her window. Her window overlooked the edge of a woods. She used to play there when she was younger, and full of free-spirited emotions and musings, but those were days long passed. It had been quite some time since it had even touched her thoughts.

Quickly, yet being careful not to make any noise and alert her fellow house-dwellers, Kirsta glided to the window, her eyes darting back and forth between it and the light on her wall. Looking past the glass and into the inkiness of the night, Kirsta’s breath froze in her throat. There, in the midst of the bark and tree trunks, was another light. Well, probably the same one, only travelling through the foliage, it’s source somewhere amid the trees.

Kirsta stared, mesmerized. What was it? Not a flashlight. It would have jiggled or something by now. Not a camp fire. Not a lanturn. Surely, there wasn’t anything that could make it shine so far and strong, especially with so many obstacles in the way. What on Earth was it?

Curiosity and a long-burried sense of adventure now overrode Kirsta’s reasoning. She could have gone back to bed, yes, but the light still would have been there on her wall, teasing her, haunting her. She couldn’t stare at a mystery all night. She’d go crazy.

Thoughts of tomorrow and what the consequences might be for sneaking out evaporated from her mind, a rush of adrenaline washing away her weariness. Tiptoeing to her beauru, she pulled out some socks and a bra, since wandering through the woods at night just screamed bra to her. After all, she really wasn’t a kid anymore. Slipping on a pair of sneakers and a zip up hoodie, she crept to the door, double checking that the glowing, golden light was still hovering there. It was.

Getting out of the house proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Being so far on the outskirts of town did occationally have it’s advantages. Such as, her father hadn’t invested in the pricey, automated alarm system that all the other fathers had. A deadbolt was good enough for him, particularly since he was a man who considered the best kind of security to be an oak baseball bat. This almost crossed Kirsta’s mind as she slid back the deadbolt, but only almost. Thankfully, everyone was sound asleep. Once on the outside, the night air surprisingly warm and inviting, Kirsta eased the front door shut again and took off around the house.

Scurrying up to the woods, she eagerly looked around for the light, and saw it. Gaze locked on it, Kirsta took slow, measured steps towards the treeline, suddenly well aware of what she was doing, and perhaps maybe she should try for a little caution. Not that anything too unsavory lived in this wood, the worst just an occational groundhog. But, still.

It almost felt like the woods swallowed her when she entered, but after a quick look over her shoulder at her house, sitting there in the dark, familiar, welcoming, always going to be there if she wanted to go back, Kirsta shook off the feeling and began walking.

She followed the light through brush and dips in the ground and all kinds of trees. Birches and maples and pines, all looming way up over her head, and yet not intimidating at all. Kirsta didn’t feel scared. The trees seemed friendly, almost as if they were happy to see her. It was so warm out, the air alive with the sound of crickets and peepers, that Kirsta couldn’t help but feel perfectly safe. And besides, the light kept her company.

For a while she journeyed, huffing just a little as she trundled through undergrowth and gradually becoming aware that she, Kirsta Sevaan, was roving through a forest in the middle of the night, instead of being tucked in bed, resting up for the next day. Further more, she was chasing after a light that probably was just some nut trying to contact the aliens. What exactly was she thinking?

However, before her common sense could return and force her to go back the way she had come, something else caught her eye. Up ahead, the trees came to an abrupt halt, because there was a clearing. The light was also getting brighter. Larger.

Her mental chalkboard wiped once more, Kirsta headed for the clearing, green eyes wide. As she emerged from the cover of the treetops, her mouth bobbed in awe. There, in the middle of the carpet of soft, long grass, was a tent.

Of course, ‘tent’ might be too commonplace a word for it. ‘Tent’ is typically used to describe the canvas-walled lean-to things people camp in, or the huge, hold-a-city striped forts erected at the circus. Kirsta didn’t know who had put this one up, but they were certainly not camping or from the circus. It was small and circular, its plush sides purple, orange, and blue swirls, as was its pointed roof. Gold, tasselly trimming hung all around where the walls and roof met, with various object dangling from thin chains every yard or so. And then, crowning it like the star on a Christmas tree, was the source of Kirsta’s excursion: A vibrant, dewy, raindrop-shaped lanturn that sat atop the point on a rod. As she approached, Kirsta could make out ornate designs adorning the lanturn, which might have been the size of a street light.

Of all the explanations Kirsta had conjured in her head, this didn’t even come close. As stunned as she was, somehow she managed to keep walking, though her footsteps were much smaller now. She circled around the mysterious, incredibly out-0f-place tent, giving it wide berth. The oxygen around her was quiet now; all the insect life and swifty sounds made by the breezes through the leaves had died away.

The intricate lanturn up above illuminated the tent enough for Kirsta to make out and appreciate the details in its fabric, as well as its ornaments. Baffled, not just at its majestic appearence, but at the fact it was standing there at all, Kirsta paused just to gape at it. Who had put it there? And why there, of all places? In the center of a nondescript forest that was only still around because developers hadn’t taken notice of it yet. Just what was so important about here? And of course, the final, most crucial question: What was inside?

Both causion and curiosity burning within her intensely, Kirsta continued surveying the tent at a distance, until she finally arrived at the opening; the mouth, as it’s been called by some. It’s door was nothing more than a flap of the luxurious fabric, and it been drawn back and tied with a coil of satin. Though the unguarded entrance radiated – nay, insisted welcome, the inside of the tent was pitch black, and Kirsta couldn’t see anything. It might not have been her brains that were getting her places in life, but she still knew better than to go barging into a strange, unlit confined space.

Disappointment dousing the wonder and mystique, Kirsta prepared to turn away. She had followed the light and found its source, precisely what she had set out to do. Now what else was there? She couldn’t go in; so, there was no going on, only going back. And she would have gone back, too. . . .

But just as she began to avert her gaze, a soung broke the pocket of stillness surrounding the tent.

“Ki – irst – ahh.”

It was a voice.

“Kir – irst- ahhhhhh.”

It was coming from in the tent.

Kirsta froze, all of her, except for her heart, which beat with an intense iciness. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, the same way you know you didn’t imagine five icecubes falling into your glass instead of three.

“Kirsta. Come in, dear. Don’t linger on the doorstep, where the wind blows fiercest.”

The voice, unlike other disembodied voices Kirsta had experience with, such as in horror films or ghosts on a haunt, didn’t sound eerie or threatening. It was clear and solid, without a hint of malice. In fact, it almost sounded pleasant. However, something about it was off. Almost as if the person speaking were . . . very weak.

Facing a paramount moment of indesicion for the second time that night, Kirsta, against the advice of speaker, did take the liberty of lingering before the door, frightened and unsure. The bizarre quality of this excursion was increasing dramatically, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Whatever was inside that tent, whoever it was that wished her to enter, she didn’t know if she could handle finding out the what and who. But . . . could she possibly walk away now? When the tent knew her name?

She didn’t. Again, she fought her flight mode and stepped forward.

Walking into the tent felt akin to walking through foamed milk. Kirsta had taken a large step, because she couldn’t see where she was going and wanted to first feel around for anything that might trip her. Instead, she passed over the threshold in one fell swoop, the blackness of the door way feeling like the above mentioned foam milk, and suddenly found herself in a tiny, brightly illuminated room.

However, she had no time to marvel at how this difference was accomplished, or at the various mysterious looking objects that littered the area, matching the mysterious-ness of the exterior. As soon as her eyes readjusted to the light, they fell upon the middle of the tarp floor, and the man laying there. He almost gave her a heartattack, which, based on his appearance, was a possibility he had just recently suffered as well.

Outfitted in an overly big, flowy navy robe, the man was extremly skinny, knobbly, and wrinkled. Every inch of his coffee brown skin sagged with age, great black pools beneath his eyes, and a scraggly white beard hugged his chin. He was bald, though a floppy, elaborate beret lay about a foot away, too far for him to reach. Truthfully, he looked as though someone had pushed him over onto his back and he hadn’t the strength to get back up, so he simply had been lying there, for a while it seemed like.

If Kirsta’s reaction to this stranger’s existence was total shock, his was the polar opposite. When his sunken, blood-shot eyes alighted on her, standing in pajamas and sneakers, considerably paler than usual, a delighted smile split his face.

“Ah,” he gasped, stretching a claw-like hand in her direction. “You made it. I am ever so grateful. There’s not much time left.”

Kirsta, wrapped up as she was in the world of high school batonning and the mall, had never seen a dying man before. Yet, there could be no mistake. Right away, she knew this man, whoever he was, was not long for this planet.

“Please,” he wheezed, gesturing for her to draw near. “Please.”

It might have been pity, it might have been fascination, or it might have been out of obligation, but for some reason Kirsta found herself edging closer. And closer. She knealt beside him, suddenly a thousand questions popping into her brain, washing away her astonishment.

“Who are you?” she inquired, a tremble in her voice. “How do you know who I am? Why are you here? Did you want me to come here? Did – ?”

He raised his aged palm for patience, a cough guttering deep in his throat.

“Peace,” he whispered. “I know you must be confused. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry about so many, many things, and that you will stay confused for some time joins them. For there is no time for a proper explanation. How I wish there were, but there isn’t.”

Pausing, he hacked miserably and then took her hand. “Kirsta,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that fate is an unavoidable thing. I believe that it tries to chase you down and bang you over the head, but if you are clever enough you can, in fact, evade it.”

Briefly, is watery blue eyes met hers and he smiled sadly. “Ah, but, my dear, you never were very clever, were you?”

With a hand that shook visciously, he reached into the right pocket of his robe and pulled something out. Turning over her hand, so that her palm faced up, he lifed his other hand, quavering, and placed an object in hers, curling her fingers around it. Drawing back with an exhausted gasp, he lay back down on the ground, his face drained of all color. Weakly, he regarded her with tranquil eyes and a slight, final shake of his head.

“Such cruelty to be thrust into a position of ignorance,” he whispered. “May it not last long. I leave you all that you see, though what will help you most is what you now hold. Humorous, isn’t it, that the purpose and the plan be one and the same?”

”What?” Kirsta managed to choke out, her heart hammering. “I – I don’t under- understand . . .”

But already the man was staring beyond her, his chest falling still and the windows to his sould glazing over dully. The man, whoever he had been, whyever he had stopped, was gone now.

Stunned, Kirsta could feel her own breath hitching, her own eyes smarting for the loss of a human she didn’t know and now never would. Wiping away a straying tear, she looked down and unfurled her had to see what she had been given.

There, hard and cold against her taut, white skin was a glass vile about six inches long, an ornate pewter stopper at one end, shaped like a face swallowing a flower, a star, and a bird.Emily Kinney

THERE ARE TWO very different types of people in the world: Individuals and followers. Individuals are their own person, and are exactly who they want to be. Followers try to take on the image of the individuals, and do things exactly like them. Individuals don't follow the crowd, unlike the followers, but create their own image and don't care what people think of it. Some of the individuals and the followers are rather rebellious. Some choose to be that way, while others simply ended up that way, due to pressure. While most rebellions aren't very much appreciated, there are times when they can be quite useful. They can help keep people out of trouble, or help teach them to stand for what they believe in, which you don't see all that often.

One very good-rebellious person in the world was sitting on a car seat one warm afternoon, hugging her knees, and was staring out a window. This person was a fourteen year-old girl, named Milo Hestler. And she was distraught. At least her stomach was. Speaking of which, the distraught feeling in Milo Hestler's stomach increased to an almost unbearable amount as she gazed out the window of her parent's car. They were driving through a neighborhood called Shady Ally. Though it seemed to Milo that it was more like a city than a neighborhood, but her parents delclared it a neighborhood, so it remained that. She also didn't know why it wasn't spelled with an 'e'.

The reason it seemed more like a city was because there were no houses. The only living quarters in Shady Ally were apartment buildings. Dozens of them, all lined up next to each other on each side of the road. That road was the only road there, stretching leisurely onward, making it look more like an actual alleyway. Each apartment building was about thirty to fifty stories high, and they took up most of the sky view. The sun was rarely ever directly over head, but always more to the side, casting shadows from the buildings into the street. So in a way, it really was like a shady alleyway.Why the good people who inhabited the place wanted to use "ally" instead of "alley" was a mystery. An ally is supposed to be someone you trust and rely on. If your ally is shady, it probably isn't a wise idea to continue the relationship.

But that was a very small reason why Milo was feeling nervous. Like any kid moving into a new home, she was worried about adjusting and making friends. The first home she lived in had burned down when she was little, forcing her family to move. She had many friends and relations there and was heartbroken to leave them, especially when she moved into their new house and found that nobody wanted to be friends with her. She moved three times after that, and each time she never made any more friends. She also lost contact with her friends and relations from her first residence.

Continuously finding herself alone, Milo began to fear that she would never have another friend again. She was wrong about that, of course, but for the time being, she begrudgingly sat scrunched in the back seat of a 2002 Camry.

"We're here!" her mother's voice sang out as they braked in front of 711 Shady Ally.

"Ooooh! Goodie!" Milo snapped. "Let's hope we all don't puke with joy!"

Milo occasionally got creative with her words. Her father turned around in his seat and glared at her.

"Sorry!" she said, lowering her eyes. "It's just that, how do we know that this time we're actually 'here'?"

"Oh, Milo," her mother groaned, grinding the heel of her hand into her forehead. "Can't you just try to be a little happy? I mean, we've been driving around all day, all yesterday, and all of last week. We didn't drive all that way not to be 'here'."

It was Milo's turn to groan.

"Fine!" she mumbled. "I'm a little happy. At least we can get out of this car." She opened her door and got out.

"That's the spirit, hon!" her father said heartily, swinging his door all the way open.

Whenever Milo's father wasn't mad at her, he called her "hon".

"You'll see," he continued. "Things will be different here. You'll make plenty of friends and get used to living here like that." He snapped his fingers. "It'd be impossible not to. You don't even need to leave the building for anything! Your mom and I will have to leave for work of course, but you won't ever have any reason to go outside again, hon!"

Milo stopped in her steps, which were leading to the trunk of the car.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her stomach not settling any. Both her parents grinned at her.

"We wanted to surprise you," her mother said. "The building we are going to live in, 711, is one of the neighborhood buildings in Shady Ally."

"It's an entire system of living inside one place, hon," her father said. He pulled two suitcases out of the trunk and handed both of them to Milo's mother.

"It's huge!" she exclaimed, obviously sold on the idea long ago. "The building I mean. The idea of an entire neighborhood inside one place isn't very popular at the moment. I don't know why, it seems wonderfully convenient to me. But, as I was saying, the building is gigantic. It has everything you need inside it. First and foremost, a school -"

"A school!" Milo broke in, her eyebrows up. "Right in an apartment building?"

"Yes," her mother said. "Not only that, but also a Wal-Mart and a miniature mall. That's all in the basement. The school is the entire thirty-eighth floor. There are restaurants too, like Burger King and the Olive Garden!"

Milo scrunched up her nose. Despite the fact that she couldn't believe that all this was crammed into one building, she had to sneer at the thought of any restaurant. The family had been on the road for two weeks, eating nothing but fast food. Therefore, just the thought of Burger King made her want to throw-up. She didn't really mind the Olive Garden, but it was still a restaurant and restaurants weren't something that Milo approved of.

Milo preferred to make her own food. She had been interested in cooking ever since she first saw an oven. She kept a large notebook filled with recipes that she had copied from cookbooks. Every time she would find a recipe that she liked, she would copy on a blank page of the notebook, slowly compiling a complete cookbook.

She took this notebook everywhere with her, along with the two other most important things in her life. All three were in the backpack her mother handed to her. The other two were a diary, in which she was writing down her life, and her little radio and headphones.

Without these things, Milo figured she'd die or suffer from some sudden madness. She would write in her diary whenever something interesting in her life happened, such as her house burning down or moving three times. And she would listen to her radio often, in order to relax and momentarily forget about her troubles. She kept extra pens and batteries with her in case one or the other ran out or got lost just when she desperately needed them.

Turning away from the car, with her backpack on her shoulder and a suitcase in each hand, Milo stared up at the building in front of her. Tilting her head back, she could just make out the roof of the building, and much to her surprise, she saw the crowns of trees sticking up from it.

"Uh, Mom," Milo said. "What's that?" She pointed her left suit - case at the roof. Her mother peered upward.

"Oh, right!" she said absently. "There's a garden on the roof."

"Really?" Milo said, perking up. "That sounds cool. It's been a while since I've been able to be alone with nature. This place might not be that bad after all!"

"Not bad?" her father said, striding towards the doors, laden with luggage. "It's the most fantastic place in the world, hon! And the rent's not bad, either. What more could you ask for?"

"Friends?" Milo asked shyly. Her parents grinned at her. Her mother put her arm around her shoulder and guided her to the doors, her father holding one open with some difficulty.

"You'll see," her mother said confidently. "Things will be dif - ferent here."

Of course things weren't going to be, but Milo didn't know that. Almost smiling, she and her parents strolled into the lobby, which was decorated with tinsel.

Milo's mother walked up to the tinsel strewn desk and found the bell. Three rings brought a woman in from another room, tottering on heels far too high.

"Hello?" she said, looking around as if blind. She then reached into a skirt pocket and pulled out a pair of eye-glasses. She slid them on and jumped back in surprise, not helping her precarious balance.

"Oh! My! I mean, hello." She smiled broadly. Milo's mother smiled too.

"Hi there," she said. "We are the new tenants. You must be the Lobby Secretary?"

Personally, Milo had never heard of a "lobby secretary" before, but the woman immediately said, "Oh. Yes. I mean yes! Of course I am! I'm Miz Ricca, and you must be the . . ."

Not waiting for a reply, she made her wobbly way past them to the desk, where she began to flip through a registry book.

"Hestlers?" she finished, squinting at a spot on a page.

"That's right!" Milo's father replied robustly, grinning.

"Well, welcome to 711 Shady Ally!" Miz Ricca said, bringing out a set of keys and handing them to him. "Here are your keys, you can make as many copies as you want, and I look forward to getting to know each one of you!"

"Well, thank you!" Milo's mother said sweetly. "Let's start right now, shall we? I'm Sherrill-Jean Hestler, and this is my husband, Earnest, and our daughter, Milolantalita."

"Actually, it's just Milo," Milo piped up, not knowing where on Earth her mother had come up with "Milolantalita".

It most certainly was not on her birth certificate. She had heard the story often enough of how, at her birth, they had wanted to name her Mila, but her father's hand writing had caused the 'a' to look like an 'o', and it got recorded that way. Though they both claimed that they liked it better that way, Milo always had a feeling that her mother was rather miffed that her daughter had a boy's name.

Her mother nudged her hard and said, "Now tell us your name. Surely there's more to it than 'Miz Ricca'."

"Oh! No! I mean, no. I'm sorry, dear," Miz Ricca said apolo geti - cally, seemingly startled. "I'm not allowed to tell you or let you use my first name. It's a Lobby Secretary thing, and if I make an exception for you than I'll have to make an exception for everybody! And believe me, there's a fair number of young men in this place who would love to call me Reba! Now then, if you need anything I'll be here, and if you get lost, there are maps all over the building."

"Reba Ricca?" Milo muttered to herself.

"And if you have any questions," she added, "don't hesitate to ask."

"Yeah," Milo said, jumping at the opportunity. "Why is Shady Ally spelled without the 'e'?"

Miz Ricca's lips became a line. "What do you mean?" she said casually.

"I mean," Milo said clearly. "A - l - l - y spells al-i. Alley is spelled a - l - l - e - y."

"Oh," Miz Ricca said, looking away. "That. Well, it does read alley, only they thought it would look nicer without the 'e'. It's still the same thing."

"But," Milo insisted. "It says al-i. Not alley."

"Yes, it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does!"

"Thank you, Miz Ricca!" her father said abruptly, well aware of his daughter's legendary stubbornness, and wanting to actually reach their apartment some time that day. "You've been very helpful. By the way, I like what you have done with the lobby."

Miz Reba Ricca glanced around, distracted and pleased. "Really? You do? Well, thanks. It's one of my own designs."

Milo, deciding to let the issue go, took in her surroundings and couldn't quite see where the word "design" came in. Tinsel was strewn all over the carpeting, all over the furniture, and was glued onto the walls. Milo looked up and saw it dangling from the ceiling in great clusters. The only thing it didn't seem to be covering were the lights, which shone down on it all, making the room look very bright and glittery.

"I think it perks the room up a little," Miz Ricca said.

"A little?" Milo thought.

"The elevators are over there," Miz Ricca said, pointing to a hallway on the left side of the desk. "I can see that you have quite a lot of luggage, and elevators are always better than the stairs. Nobody in the building ever really uses the stairs, so we had to install extra elevators. We might have removed the stairs entirely, except for those pesky building codes. Escaping fire and such. I'd help you with your luggage, but I'm afraid of hurting my back. I've not much practice with large, heavy objects; the most I've carried around is papers, pens, keys, and tinsel."

"That's quite alright, Miz Ricca," Milo's father said, hoisting several bags onto his shoulders. "We'll manage to manage just fine!"

He began to lead the way to the elevators. Milo followed with her mother, but something inside of her told her that it'd be better for her health to take the stairs.

That thing inside her was her conscience, and she was so often arguing with it, that she had personified it and called it Bob the Conscience. That particular day, the argument inside Milo's head, went something like this:

"You know, it'd be better for your health if you took the stairs," Bob the Conscience said.

"I know, but our apartment is on the forty-sixth floor. It'd be too tiring to go all that way with all this luggage," Milo replied as she stepped into the elevator. Sometimes, Milo was so into the conversation that she spoke out loud. But she was careful not to when she was around other people.

"You can handle your luggage," Bob the Conscience retorted. "It'll just make it more challenging. Besides, after being cramped in that car all that time, your legs could use some stretching. It will make you feel energized and happier, too. You should take the stairs."

"No," Milo insisted. "By the time I got to the forty-sixth floor, my parents would have already moved in and started dinner. The elevator is faster; look, we're already on the thirty-sixth floor! And you wanted me to take the stairs! Ha!"

She heard Bob the Conscience sigh.

"Yes, Milo," he said, patiently. "It is faster, and it is useful, if we are on a schedule. But if you keep on riding elevators, you will start to get fat!"

Milo chuckled. "That would do me a world of good," she remarked. She looked into a mirror at herself, which was an easy thing to do because enormous ones lined the walls of the elevator.

She didn't like what she saw.

She could name the things she didn't like about herself from head to toe, starting with her hair. It was a rich, dark brown that hung down past her shoulders. But Milo thought it was too dark and, like all the girls of today, she wanted highlights but didn't have any.

Moving downward, her next complaint was her body. She was very skinny for her age and it showed. Two full weeks of eating fast food, without any exercise, hadn't made her an inch rounder. Milo's arms were spindly and long, and she didn't think she had much muscle on them. Nevertheless, whenever she needed to push bullies away, she always found the strength she needed.

Her legs didn't really matter much to her, but she still found them far too slender for her liking. Indeed, she often referred to them as "tooth picks". Not that anybody could tell, for she often wore baggy jean cargo pants.

Her face didn't contribute much because it was always sur - rounded by her hair. It was thin, but not pinched. Sure, it wasn't filled with chubby cheeks, but at least she didn't look like she was starving. That wasn't the reason it was normally hidden by hair. The reason was that Milo couldn't find a way to keep her hair at bay. Usually, she would have it up in a ponytail to keep it out of her face, but her mother hated that look, and would always tell her to let it down. Therefore, Milo usually couldn't quite see what was on either side of her.

"It gives you a shy look," her mother had told her when Milo tried to complain about it. She had tried to explain to her mother that the look didn't suit her, because she wasn't a shy person, but her mother wouldn't listen. Milo found that happened a lot.

"It would do me a world of good," Milo repeated softly.

"What's that, dear?" her mother asked.

"Nothing," Milo said quickly.

"No," her mother said. "I'm sure I heard -"

"Here's our floor!" Milo's father sang out as the elevator stopped with a ding. "Our new lives start the minute we walk out of this elevator, ladies."

Of course, for Milo that wasn't true, but she thought it was, as she followed her parents out into the hallway and up to a door that said "B-1107". She didn't know that it would merely be a push in to her real new life.
The Island of Lote

HAVE YOU EVER heard of the saying, "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back"? That saying is merely implying that sometimes when people, or cats, become so curious that they stick their human nose, or kitty nose, into something they shouldn't, and end up getting in trouble. However, they can get out of that trouble by having whoever they are in trouble with change their minds. That last part does not happen very often, though, and the "cats" usually stay "killed". This is why people usually just say, "Curiosity killed the cat." We have long forgotten about the part, "But satisfaction brought it back."

That saying can be interpreted another way; that's the way it was for Milo. Each time that she let her curiosity overthrow her common sense, she felt a little bit of herself getting killed. Occasion ally she did find the satisfaction to bring back those little bits of herself, but it was never much satisfaction.

For instance, when she first stepped into her apartment, a tiny bit of her died when she saw that one of her bedroom windows had a hole in it, like some vengeful individual threw a rock through it. Oddly enough, nothing else in the apartment was harmed. Milo found a little satisfaction though; it was the beginning of June and very hot at night, so the hole in the window was appreciated rather than shunned.

When Milo finally worked up enough curiosity to walk into the school for her first day, a small part of her died when she saw that all the children in her class, and the whole school in fact, wore a snarl and XXL pants. Milo felt like a piece of angel hair spaghetti in a pot of killer meatballs, but she was somewhat satisfied to be back in school. All of the teachers were very nice, the total reverse of their irate pupils, and, also oddly enough, were just about as thin as Milo was.

The reason for this, Milo discovered, was that the entire twentyseventh floor was a gym. All of the grown-ups in the building visited it regularly and were extremely fit. But children under the age of twenty weren't allowed to go there, it apparently being a safe haven for the adult population, and even if they could Milo had a feeling that they wouldn't.

When Milo's curiosity got the better of her and she travelled to the fourteenth floor, where the restaurants were located, a little bit of her spluttered out when she saw almost every single kid in her class at B.K. She didn't dare go in, especially when a boy with sinister eyebrows close to the entrance growled at her. She did, however, find some satisfaction when she went to O.G. and saw that their prices were half of what they were outside.

And finally, she got soooo curious, and bored, that she went down to the basement. Once there, an itty-bitty chunk of her died when she saw nearly all the kids in the building hanging out at the miniature mall, which she quickly learned they did basically every day. The way they glared at her made her so uncomfortable that she couldn't bring herself to enter. But she achieved some satisfaction when she went into the Wal-Mart and saw that very few other kids were there. She was also delighted to find a grocery store attached to it.

She bought ingredients for one of her favorite pasta recipes, and went straight up to her apartment to make it. When she arrived, though, a little bit of her died harshly when she realized they had not installed the oven yet. Frustrated, she put her ingredients in the refrigerator, which thankfully had been install, and grabbed her diary and little radio, deciding to go up to the garden. But when she got into the elevator, she saw that there was no button to take her to the roof. Milo, on the verge of utter exasperation, abandoned the elevator and took the stairs, which were rusty and noticeably neglected.

"She was right when she said that nobody uses these anymore," Milo muttered, referring to Miz Ricca. Every couple of steps or so, she had to wipe flecks of rust and dust off her hand on her jeans.

After stepping out onto the roof, quite a bit of her died woefully as she took in the garden. It was extremely overgrown and a haphazard mess, as if nobody had gardened there in decades.

There were weeds everywhere; in the path, in the flower beds, which had perhaps once held pretty, vibrant flowers, and they took over the grass. The bushes and shrubs looked like someone had stopped pruning them a long time ago. Vines grew all over and constricted the two lovely fountains, which were both cracked and dirt encrusted. The leaves from years of roof top autumns had not been raked, making a thick carpet of matted crumbling, brown leaves and coarse weeds on the ground. A tree that had grown so old and rotted that it had fallen in a swoon had not been removed, or trimmed down, and vines and lichen had claimed it for their own.

Milo, who had always been a lover of nature and well-kept gardens, wanted to cry as she gazed around at everything. There were benches that had barely any paint left on them, the wood shrunken and splitting. Way off in a corner, there was a section of the garden that appeared big enough for a small game of soccer, but was at the second stage of becoming a swamp.

"Great!" Milo muttered dismally, sitting down on one of the benches.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Bob the Conscience said, but he was too late. The bench creaked then cracked, sending Milo crashing through it.

"Ow!" she whined, groping for the iron arm of the bench.

"Thanks a lot, Bob!"

Despite a garden full of weeds, which was undoubtedly full of all kinds of insect life, and unstable benches, Milo found satisfaction in the fact that no one else was up there with her. She was at last completely alone. She found a moss covered rock under a tree and sat down. She slipped on her headphones, turned the radio on, and tuned into a good hip-hop station, since that was the music she liked best. She spent about two hours in the garden, scribbling ferociously in her diary. At about 4:45, she decided to go back.

As she stood up, she happened to brush off some moss from the rock and an engraving materialized. Curious, she took a closer look, scraping off more moss with her fingernails. It read:

"This garden is dedicated to the mayor of Shady Ally. Let us hope that when we get one, he will come here."

"Okay?"Milo said, confused. "That's nice, I guess. But . . . heck, if it's in this bad a condition, they probably never did get one!"

She straightened up and trudged back to door to the stairwell, but instead of going to B-1107, she rode the elevator down to the lobby. Once there, she carefully picked her way through the tinsel, finally making it to the desk. Miz Ricca being nowhere in sight, she located the bell and rang it three times. Miz Ricca came hurrying in from the hallway on the right side of the desk.

"Hello?" she said, puzzled, then put on her glasses. "Oh. Hi!" she exclaimed after seeing Milo. Milo gave a little wave.

"Good afternoon," Miz Ricca said cordially, her brow furrowing.

"I'm so sorry, but . . . who - I mean, what is your name . . .?"

"Milo," Milo said.

"Oh. Yes,"Miz Ricca said, chuckling pleasantly. "Of course, how could I have forgotten? Well, Mila, what can I do for you?"

"Actually it's MILO, trust me, and I was just wondering about the garden on the roof."

"Yes, what about it?" Miz Ricca asked, teetering towards a chair that didn't seem to have enough tinsel on it.

"Well,"Milo said slowly, watching her. "It seems a little, let's see, how shall I put it? Un-taken care of."

"You've been up there?" Miz Ricca cried, whisking around in alarm, her ankles almost giving way.

"Yes," Milo said, feeling uneasy. "Why? Is it off limits or something?"

"Oh. No," Miz Ricca admitted, patting gently at her hair, as if worried her sudden movement had disturbed it. "It's just that - well, the reason for it being so unruly is because we haven't really bothered to hire a gardener to keep it well groomed."

"Why not?" Milo asked, hoping she knew that they were talking about a garden and not a dog.

"Because, nobody goes up there," Miz Ricca said carelessly, flicking some tinsel off her sweater. "So it's not worth it. The new elevators don't even have a button that leads up there. I heard that it was once a very popular place in the building. You know; a place where the kids could go and get exercise. But then its splendor wore off, and people didn't care for it anymore. And besides, they were sick of paying the bills for it; so many other worthwhile things to have bills for. It was completely forgotten when the mall and restaurants came. But that's only what I heard."

"Oh," Milo said softly. She felt discouraged. "But it's okay if I go up there, right?"

"Hmm? Oh. Sure. But if I were you, I wouldn't. As you probably guessed, as Lobby Secretary I hear a lot of rumors, and one that I am always hearing is that the garden is full of lice!"

Milo's eyes widened. "Lice?" she croaked.

Miz Ricca nodded amiably. "Yep. Uh-huh. Just chock full."

Milo stiffened and began to walk backwards down the left hallway.

"Um, thanks, Miz Ricca," she said. Miz Ricca smiled and waved. "No problem, dear. Take care. See you later!"

"Yeah," Milo muttered, turning around. "Sure you will." She pressed the button for an elevator then checked to see that she was alone.

"Bob!" she hissed. "Bob! Answer me! I know you're there! You can't be anywhere else!" "Actually," Bob the Conscience whispered ruefully, "I was in the membrane preparing my dinner. Oh, Milo! I'm sorry. How was I supposed to know that it was a lice garden?"

"I don't know!" she hissed back. "You knew that bench was crap and you told me!"

"Well, that one was obvious!"

"And a weed-filled garden isn't?"

Bob the Conscience, for once in his life, was speechless. That's not a good thing for a conscience to be. Bob the Conscience was aware of that, so he spoke anyway.

"Okay! So I didn't see it. But you didn't either. I thought you had more sense than that."

"I do!" she shouted by accident. "I do," she hissed, glancing around hastily, seeing if anyone had heard. The elevator opened and she stepped in. "It's just that you are my conscience and now thanks to you lice may be partying all over me! Now look, boi! If you don't perk up and pull your act together, I'm going to find a new conscience!"

Bob the Conscience gasped in horror. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, yes I would! Get it?"

Bob the Conscience groaned. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Milo said tartly, as the elevator stopped at a floor different from the one she had punched in. Somebody else had called it there, and as the doors parted she saw who. Five kids from her class stalked into the elevator and began their habitual glaring.

"Well," one of the boys said loudly as the doors closed. "Look who it is! Otis!"

Milo gulped. "That's Milo," she said, quaking.

The boy growled low in his throat. "Right," he said. "Milo, the little shrimp who decided to die!"

"Actually, no," Milo replied, her voice getting higher. "I don't. Not that it wasn't nice of you to offer!" she added quickly. "It's just that I would prefer not to die. Not that I believe that you would actually kill me!"

She chuckled weakly, clutching her diary to her chest, her eyes shifting from one face to another.

The boy leaned forward, leering, and said, "What makes you so sure?"

"She's such a snob!" a girl piped up. "Always eating at the Olive Garden alone and not talking to anyone in class!"

Milo wanted to explain why she was doing such things, but thought it better not to. Right then, accusing them of anything didn't seem like the best way to get out of the situation.

"Well," the boy said, grinning evilly. "We know what to do with snobs!"

"I told you, you should have taken the stairs," Bob the Conscience said grimly.

. . . . . .

"You could have called for help," Milo's mother said to her some time later back at B-1107.

"I was in an elevator!" Milo cried. She was sitting on a counter, holding an ice pack to her head, while at the same time nursing both a nose-bleed and split lip. Her parents hadn't exactly been thrilled to come home to find their daughter in such a battered state. This was far from the first time, and quite frankly they were getting quite tired of it.

"That's not the point, Milo!" her father said. He had a tone in his voice that was purposely not comforting her. He had taken a wide stance in front of her, arms crossed. "I am sick of you always getting into fights! It seems to happen everywhere we go!"

"Hey, it's not my fault this fight happened!" she said defensively.

"Why do you always do this?" her father asked, ignoring what she said. "Is it because you want attention? I always thought you liked to be alone; to be by yourself. Not that I think it's good for you to always be alone. I would prefer it if you were active in a group or something. You don't get into groups by picking fights. You only get into gangs that way and you certainly are not joining a gang! You also don't make friends this way. I thought you wanted to make friends?"

"I do!" Milo said, fuming. "I told you, this wasn't my fault! I didn't cause it! I don't go around picking fights. They come to me!"

"Nonsense!" her father said dismissively. He raised his chin and looked down his nose at her. "I don't believe you. You know what I heard from your teacher? That you don't 'interact' with the other students! Look, Milo, I am not raising a stuck-up child! For some reason I always thought that you were a shy, sweet little girl. My little girl. My little baby girl! Now what's a father to think when his little baby girl is always coming home with black eyes and broken bones?"

"First of all,"Milo said, wincing as she moved her lip. "I only got a black eye once, and I've never had any broken bones!"

"That's not the point," her father shouted at her, his temper flaring up. "The point is that instead of shaking hand, you use yours to make a fist."

"Second of all," Milo continued through her teeth, forcing herself to ignore him. "I was never your shy, sweet little girl. I am not shy or sweet, and you have never considered me your 'baby girl'. I've always been 'hon'! You never have been there to comfort me. It seems like you just blame me to make parenting easier for you!"

"That's enough, Milo!" her mother said sharply. "You have no right to talk to your father that way! I am very disappointed in you!"

"As am I!" her father agreed. "How dare you say such a thing? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! The utter ingratitude! We bring you to this wondrous place, supplied with everything you would ever need. Friends included, but for some reason you seem to think that every person on the planet is against you."

"No," Milo objected, shifting the ice pack on her forehead. "Only anyone who gives me the stink eye."

"Is that so? And exactly what evidence have you seen that proves that any child in this building is a bully?"

"Have you seen the kids in this building?!" Milo asked in astonishment.

"That's not nice, Milo!" her mother said. "Just because the chil - dren here are slightly obese, doesn't give you the right to talk so."

"Slightly?" Milo said dubiously, even though she had meant their irate attitudes.

"Milo!"

"Enough!" her father shouted. He ran his fingers through his hair, thoroughly worked up. "Milo, I am disgusted with you! And what's more, you are grounded for a week!"

"What?!" she cried, almost toppling off the counter. "That's not fair. . . . At all!"

"Provoking kids with cruel remarks is what's not fair. When you say things like that to them, of course they are going to release their hurt inappropriately."

"I didn't . . . I - I would never do something like that!"

"No? Then how come you came home absolutely injured?" her mother inquired smartly.

"Because!" Milo cried out desperately. "They're all bullies! They growl at me whenever I'm around them for Pete's sake! Like pit bulls! I don't know why they did this to me! Who knows? Maybe they're jealous of me or something. Jealous of how I look."

"Jealous of how you look?" her father said incredulously.

"Well, why not?" her mother asked, briefly siding with her daughter. "I can imagine why they would be. She is a lovely girl."

"That's not what I mean," Milo said, gingerly touching the bump on her lip.

"That still wouldn't be enough to provoke them," her father insisted skeptically.

"Why not?" Milo spat, though she didn't mean to and used her ice pack to wipe it off the counter top. "I always told you, Mom, that some day my looks would get me into trouble! And I guarantee you that this won't be the last time!"

Although Milo didn't actually know this, it was quite true.

"Unbelievable!" her father exclaimed, rubbing one temple and starting to pace. "The excuses you come up with! The ungratefulness! Everything you would want; everything you would need! One place! Nothing but trouble, always!"

"Not everything I need is here," Milo interjected, pointing to the empty corner in the kitchen.

"The oven isn't installed." Her father glanced at the desolate corner, then back at her.

"There are well priced restaurants on one of the floors. You don't need an oven," he stated.

"I need an oven," she insisted.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine!" he said. "If you need one that badly, then you can buy one at the mall in the basement."

"I don't have money for something like that!" Milo cried in protest, sliding off the counter onto her feet.

"Well," her father said, at last looking pleased. "Isn't that your problem?"

"For your needed information," Milo snarled, "cooking happens to be my most favorite thing in the world! But of course you wouldn't know that, because you continuously find short-cuts around parenting!"

"ENOUGH!" both her parents yelled at once.

"Go to your room!" her mother shouted, face flushed from either shame or rage, or both.

"You mean my naturally air-conditioned room?!" Milo asked savagely.

"Yes!" her father snapped. "And you are still grounded for a week!"

Milo grabbed her ice pack, then stormed into her room and slammed the door. This is a very loud and rude gesture, but after all that had occurred, slamming her door made Milo feel quite good.

"Well, look on the bright side," Bob the Conscience said brightly.

"What bright side?" Milo moaned, flopping onto her bed, her head aching for two different reasons.

"You probably gave them all lice!"

And that made Milo feel very good.
The Island of Lote