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Refined Ink Pearland H.S. Writing Club

February, 2020

Volume 16

Cover Art by Skylar Alley

By Emily Cudd

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Table of Contents Poems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Comics / Art . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Stories / Essays . . . . . . . . . 19

By DabDragon

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I Look Up by Victortis McTurtle

I look up and see an abundance of twinkling stars, Glimmering alongside each other in the moonlight. They look like millions of broken crystal shards Scattered throughout the blackened night sky. The cool winter air is blowing softly It whispers to me and gently caresses my face It weaves through my hair and flows through my jacket Then disappears into the darkness without a trace. The soft lo-fi music pours out of my phone As I sit on the patio, concrete and cold. But around me is the night, still and calm So I willingly embrace it in a welcoming hug.

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Saccharine by Anonymous I’m just a saccharine mistake, Just a Primadonna's fate. Please tell me we’ll be okay, So, I can keep living this way. Every saccharine kiss, I don’t know why I’m like this! Every small moment’s bliss... Oh, why must I reminisce? Over-temperamental! Over-judgmental! All these responsibilities! All these stupid memories! Just shut me up! Wrap me in wire... Open my mouth, And feed me your desires. Like a jester in the night, I take away all your fright. Forgetfulness, willingness, To make everything just right! And just like that, I dramatize, Over-analyze. And soon enough, I’ll suffer a sweet and sugary... Saccharine demise.

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Swing Set by Anonymous Everyday, I see your face, How am I supposed to feel? Push me around, I’m feeling down, Are we even real? You say you love me, Call me ugly, All my tears you steal. We play on a swing set, Are you bored yet? But to me you’re ideal.

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They Drop Like Flies by Sophie Adams All the places, people, playthings, They burn like papers under a magnifying glass, Fall like toilet paper towers, Fly away like balloons, The pieces of my childhood Strewn around like midday toys. One-by-one, they're gone, Fleeting like a bubble's lifespan, Running from me like lizards in the lawn, Dying like the lights at nine at night, The relics of my childhood Extinguished like the fireplace once spring arrives. The places, people, playthings, Are dead flies, Left to be consumed by their kin As they rot away so gruesomely, Being a witness to such cruelty Merely the rite of passage to adulthood.

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Seductive Ego by Ayia Hassan Whispering trees that speak the winds will, bathing under a slowly dazing sun’s shy kiss. Wandering eyes picking apart the details of her surroundings, Quiet and focused, worrying the social butterflies. But she cannot escape her eyes’ will, it be that her eyes desire to reveal an illusion and it cowers her temptations to conform to the pretty flutterers. Her targeted illusion many casually fly past without second thoughts or subconscious hesitations, she is insightful for stopping to sniff this flower. Yes, and now she feels the caresses of a sweet honeyed ego, and it seduces her into a deeper ocean of loneliness, as it becomes a world of her own making, where all revel in the same beautiful things, and lust to think and compare their own insights though parallel and blended by its own but she has forgotten that she lays in a vast garden filled with various flowers, and a painful scratch that insight entails but it encourages her to sniff more flowers, each scent ambiguous and requiring a detailed session of piercing insights. She thinks much. She writes much. She boasts much, aye, she cannot resist the avarice of confidence, concealed in her mask’s modesty. To no surprise, her friend the ego is a fake one, he dresses himself a wise and educated gentlemen in a luxurious suit, but he is not made of praise and head rubs alone. Within this gentlemen’s well-appointed gloves conceals sharpened monstrous nails that hide an envious poison; it is a merciless kick to a man already down followed by a malevolent laugh that denounces even the walls, in satisfying his twisted sadistic pleasure.

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A Puppet With A Cracked Mask by J. Evan Hamilton A painted background A makeshift stage A man of whittled bark A cracked mask of cheap plastic The strings of the puppet move In ways that he does not wish to follow But must, as he may not live Otherwise Confrontation and intervention Things that strike minds With fear of the unknown becoming Known to themselves Take a small breath and notice the cracks Can you see the misfortune and misery? Can you see the red, hot anger and nonexistent tears? The puppet sways, seemingly calling To its viewers. Its friends. He asks for them to break this mask To elevate the troubles and woes He carries on his small shoulders Tell me: Will you break the mask? Or will you watch and giggle at the Show he continues to put on, Pretending as if this mystery won’t be solved? The choice is all that’s left. Now when will you notice that it’s yours to make?

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Admiration by J. Evan Hamilton Their smile is warm and touching Their hair is sharp and styled Their confidence oozes aplenty I wish to stay transfixed upon them I want to hold them and be held by them To share their burdens as they share mine To trust them To love them Thoroughly But would I be good enough? Will I be good enough? They are a person so easy to love, But I do not believe myself to be like that Bon voyage, my love And may we meet again Within a time I am able to love you As you rightfully deserve

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Change And The Human Race by J. Evan Hamilton The leaves change color every autumn And they die every winter And return in the spring It’s predictable, easy, and simple People are not leaves Change is not a predictable cycle We must adapt Overcome We cannot pretend things are normal When they aren’t We must identify the differences And deal with them For if we don’t Hearts will be broken Ties will be cut People will be hurt All because we cannot handle a little change For things will change Inevitably, and unpredictably If we don’t address the changes Our very worlds will crumble Under our feet

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Dark Sea by J. Evan Hamilton The waters splash as they always do But, the night coats in the dark Disguised as an abyss Its wonders are hidden to the untrained ear and eye If you were to fall, you’d merely be kissed By the waters as you swim back to shore Gaze into the endless sea and find peace Or find peace in the comfort of my hand For, abyss or sea, I will keep you safe Forever, and always, I will The waves won’t crash as long as I’m with you

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The Petty Loser Club by J. Evan Hamilton There’s this room I know Room 4827 In this room, there is a horde Of those who need to vent About the frustrations in their lives If you need directions, I’d be happy to oblige This spiteful waltz is slowly rotting my mind My passions and loves are becoming Things I’ve begun to despise the business of. What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I do this right? Is the way I move? The way I look? They say I’m talented, but I can’t get- Sorry, we aren’t in the room yet. Let me open the door, tale a step through. Welcome to the Petty Loser Club. Now let’s close the door and yell, shall we?

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Be My Valentine? by Cindilyn You there, blue shirt, walking this way, Be my date for Valentine’s Day! Hey dude! Don’t be rude! I just want to take you out for some food. Why? Well . . . you’re wearing blue. And I am too! Plus I’m small, and you’re tall. Opposites attract and all. No strings attached, But I think we’re a match. I like to bake. I’ll even make you a cake. It’s fate, so don’t hate. C’mon. Be my Valentine’s date. YES?!? Aww, you’ll be glad you came! So – uh – what’s your name?

By Juges

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By DabDragon

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By DabDragon

By DabDragon

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By Skylar Alley

By Skylar Alley

By Skylar Alley

By Skylar Alley

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By Fan-Artzy

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Headlights by Kobe Silva

“Like a deer in headlights.” What an interesting saying. To be honest, I never truly knew what

that phrase really meant until that night. It was 1987. My father had just recently come home after a

long work trip. He was excited to be home, and he had big plans for just me and him. “A road trip!” he

exclaimed. “All the way to Victoria and back home to Bedlam.” I had never seen the crystal lakes of

Victoria, so I was extremely impatient to get on the road. Finally, some quality time with my father.

That night we headed out. At first it was awkward, very awkward. It was the first time I had

been alone with him in months, and he brought up uncomfortable topics. Asking me if I had a girlfriend

or experienced any changes with my “growing self.” I was only eleven and had never talked with him

about that kind of stuff before, so I was very flustered and quiet. Soon, though, the tension dispersed,

and we were back to acting like it was old times: laughing at stupid things, playing car games, and just

being general goofballs.

“We’re coming up on the forest now,” Dad said happily, his smile wide. He was so genuinely

glad to be with me.

“The forest?” I ask confused, “I thought we were heading to Victoria.” My father side- eyed

me; I could tell by his smirk that he found my lack of knowledge of my surroundings amusing.

“First we’ve got to get through Timberland.”

“Timberland?” I asked, again confused.

My father released a tiny chuckle that only lasted for about a minute. “Victoria is about five

hours away! What are they teaching you in that school?”

“Stuff,” I replied.

My father shook his head. “This isn't like the other ‘road trips’ you’ve been on. We have to

make stops along the way to our destination. So we’re going to make a stop in Timberland to get gas,

food, maybe use the restroom, stuff like that.”

“Oh! That makes sense!”

For a while we just sat, singing along to some of the rock n’ roll tapes my dad had with him,

until we came to a road sign. “Welcome to the Somber Pines National Forest! Please do not litter or

feed the animals, and please report any suspicious activity! Be safe!” Underneath the welcome sign

was a road sign noting that the small town of Timberland was just ten miles away. “This is the forest,”

my father said smugly. I looked through my window to observe. The forest lived up to its name; there

really was a somberness resonating from all of those tall pines.

Soon the mood changed. My dad was much quieter, no more dumb or inappropriate jokes fell

off his lips. I too seemed to change. Maybe it was the absence of the sun in the sky that was the cause

of our silence, but something was definitely off. I continued to stare through my dirty window,

solemnly watching the pine trees zoom by one after one. It was beautiful, relaxing, numbing. But

strangely I felt at home. I felt more at home than I ever had. I wanted to walk into the forest and

commune with its woodland creatures, but I knew that was insane. Why would any person want to get

lost in the woods? Finally, though, that urge subsided as I began to ignore the gorgeous pine trees and

stare instead with blurry eyes at the street before us.

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“Strange isn't it?” my dad asked. “This place is just so mesmerizing once you actually feel it!” I

looked at him and smiled. It seemed like he knew so much about the world from all of those trucking

trips he went on. And just like that, my father seemed to have read my mind. “It’s not easy James,

being on these roads day after day, night after night.” I nodded respectfully. “I know it's hard for you

and your momma, not having me there with you all the time, and I know she hates me for it.” Suddenly

my father's face was stern, and he was angry, really angry. “But what does she want from me, huh?

Does she want me to quit my job? Is she really that stupid!?” He was shouting now, his face red and

bulging with purple veins. “Everything I do is for you two, every second of my life is used to put

money in your pockets! And what does she do when I get home after months of us not seeing each

other, not touching each other? SHE GIVES ME THE COLD SHOULDER!” The pine trees

surrounding the car began to zoom by faster and faster, and the engine started to groan louder and

louder.

“I do so much for you two,” my father mumbled softly. Tears began to trickle down his stubbly

chin. “I do so much for her approval. I got this job just so she could have that house you two live in

now!” He was sobbing. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to tell him, It’s your house too, Dad, but I

just watched from the passenger seat, helpless.

The tears suddenly came to a halt, and his eyebrows arched down in frustration and fury. “She

never even gave me a second thought. I was only supposed to be temporary! I was supposed to numb

the pain of the last plaything she had! But you came along, James, yes YOU! I was happy. So happy. I

thought, well maybe this will keep us together, because I was in love James! I didn’t want her to leave,

and you worked. Yes, you worked fine and dandy, James, cause’ we’re still together! And she's still

stuck with me!” The engines groans transformed into a roar, and the pine trees merged together into a

formless mess of green and brown as they raced by.

Dad! I wanted to say, Slow down, you're driving too fast! But the words were locked inside. I

felt like I was stuck in the audience. Stuck in a prison with no bars. I was the bystander that I had

always been, forced to witness the nuke that was my father. Then he looked over at me, sweat rolling

down his face, skin red, eyes furious. Dad, please stop!

But then his face softened, and the recognition of my fear reflected in his eyes. “Oh my god...”

He whispered, “Oh my god, what am I doing!” Again, my father was back to sobbing. “I’m scaring

you... My god, I'm probably traumatizing you!” And truthfully, he was. “We have to get out of here

James, we have to get out.” My father slammed his foot down on the gas as hard as he could, causing

us to jerk back into the seats as he accelerated even faster.

So we sat together in the dark with only the headlights illuminating the dirt road ahead while

we sped through the forest, fueled by my dad’s anger and sadness. He was calmer, but I was still

worried. I could tell his thoughts were still spiraling faster than this old red pickup truck. I was trying

to ignore what had just happened. And then we passed a sign.

It was a deer crossing sign. So when two little beads of light shone out in the middle of the

road, we knew what they meant. A deer! I thought to myself. Slow down Dad, you’re going to hit it!

But my lips were locked shut, even as the creature came into full view. A doe. It was a doe. It looked so

young, and it was captivated by the lights. Dad must surely see it. And he did. He saw it, but still he

raced on. Dad? I thought to myself, Slow down, but he didn’t. He didn’t slow down. DAD?!?

I was alarmed. My father was heading straight toward the doe. I wanted to make him slow

down. I wanted to scream, “Stop!” but I couldn’t. “It’s going to be okay James. It’s okay,” Dad said,

but it clearly wasn’t okay.

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“Free me...” my father whispered. I turned to him in bewilderment. He was wearing a mask.

An animal mask. It was made of clay, or maybe Papier-mâché? I stared at him in confusion and fear.

Where did the mask come from? Was it a dream? Was any of this even real?

He hit the deer, which let out a human-like scream. The entire truck buckled, and I was flung

into the air. The deer was dead. All because my dad wouldn’t stop. All because it had frozen in place,

mesmerized by the shine of our headlights.

Everything went blank. Then it was light, and I was alone on the side of the road. I felt dazed,

like a thick layer of fog had invaded my mind. I walked down the road for a bit, questioning reality,

trying to remember all that had happened.

Soon a Mountie pulled up beside me. “You lost?” he asked.

“I think so,” I replied. I was shocked to hear my own voice, and then I remembered how I had

failed to speak the night before.

“What’s your name kid?” the Mountie asked. I noticed how his blue eyes contrasted with his

red uniform, and I got lost in my thoughts only to be brought back again by his voice. “Name?”

“Oh,” I said with surprise. “Uh, James. James Denbrough.” The Mountie looked puzzled; he

didn’t recognize my name.

“Where are you from James?”

“Bedlam Cove,” I answered. Again, the man was visibly puzzled.

“Bedlam?” he asked, “What are you doing all the way in Timberland?” Timberland. I was in

Timberland. The name struck me like a match, and my memories erupted like a bonfire. I grabbed the

Mountie’s arm tightly and told him everything, certain he wouldn’t believe me, but with each word

that escaped my mouth, more empathy radiated from the man.

“Let’s get you home James,” was his only response. And then I was in the passenger seat of his

car. Being back in the passenger seat again made me feel queasy. I used to get so excited when my dad

let me sit next to him in the truck, because my mom always made me sit in the back seat which was

safer. But the back of the Mountie’s car was filled with papers, stacks and stacks of what I later

realized were missing persons reports.

Something still felt off when we arrived at my house. Where was my dad? The Mountie gave

me a sad look. He felt sorry for me. “I’m gonna’ talk to the folks at the station here in town. Tell ‘em

what you told me. You go inside and tell your mom everything.”

“But she won't believe me,” I stated. Which turned out to be true; she really didn’t believe me,

at least not at first.

The Mountie looked at me, his expression grave. “Then make her believe you.” His voice had

a distinct sound of desperation to it. “And James, don’t you ever go into that forest ever again. Ever.”

I was confused. What was wrong with the forest? “Why?” I asked.

He shook his head and muttered, “Just don’t James. Don’t. Now you go inside.”

And I did. I went inside and told my mom everything. My dad was reported missing. He’s

never been found. I took the Mountie’s advice and never returned to The Somber Pines. Though it was

years ago, I’m still haunted by that night - by my dad, by that deer caught in the headlights, and by the

deep feeling of helplessness as I watched it all happen.

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All the Ways You Want to Break Me by Anonymous

It has been postulated that a person encounters hundreds of thousands of people in their life;

however, I cannot see the importance of such an estimate, for how do momentary, inconsequential

connections matter in the grand scheme of one’s life? I suppose when one considers how few- perhaps

three or four, not much more- result in true, unbending friendships like impermeable stone, the odds of

such a fateful encounter are comparable to winning the lottery and other such clichés. I recall in fifth

grade I encountered one such person, and we stuck up for each other, shared secrets, indulged in

pastimes, and laughed along at each other’s silliness and oddball humor, as would any friends with a

relationship of a strong constitution.

See, it has also been argued by many a generation that the memories one finds most vivid are

the ones saturated in darkness and pain, things in which I unwillingly indulged for an unnecessary

amount of time. I could continually rave about sunny days and cardboard crafts and long calls and the

joyousness of a friendship, but luxuries of the sort pale in comparison to the moments which hurt like

fire to the soul.

There comes a time when people must part, whether it be temporary, forever, or at death, yes,

and I’d regard the transition to high school as one of the former kinds of departures. It hurts to say

goodbye to the haven of junior high and enter the land of myths and fables denoting the creation of

depressed, mundane adults. It hurts to say goodbye to the friends with whom you have shared some of

the most fundamental and formative moments of your life, but you know that time will elapse and you

will see them a few months later at the dawn of the next school year.

Vibrantly in my mind resides the memory of my final day of eighth grade. Students piled into

the building like hay, wearing smiles in anticipation of the onset of summer and carrying merely a few

colored pens and a yearbook in their arms. In most ways, it was intended to be a fun day, one shared

with cherished friends in bright memories and games and movies, all the things of which childhood is

created. Of course, there were the partings and such, but in the age of technology, the distance of miles

shrunk to nothing and a little rendezvous was inconsequential.

I trailed the beaming students inside the building, face grim. I have always been the sentimental

type, and it showed on such days more prominently than usual, like the sun illuminating the crevices of

a relief sculpture for all to see. As soon as I saw my friends in my first class, though, my face lit up, as

was my obligation of being a supposed bubbly personality. I didn’t care much to see them. They

weren’t particularly great friends of mine, and some were sneaky enough to have stolen my work for

the class and frame it as their own. I held my bag with me the entire period, chatting gleefully enough,

signing yearbooks, and receiving notions of luck about my talent show performance scheduled for that

day.

The period passed quickly enough, and I dreaded the next period. I walked in while the teacher

was cleaning out a peanut butter jar with a plethora of other snacks residing on her desk, as per usual. I

didn’t sit down. I walked up to my best friend and bid her a hello, happily, yes, bit with a hint of

solemnity and bitterness seeping its way through like tree sap out the bark of a gum tree, only less

sweet and more stickily irritating. She repeated the same back, coldly, before getting up to talk to her

shiny popular friends, something to which I had become accustomed in months prior. I stopped her

before she got far and asked if she would sign my yearbook.

“Yes,” she replied, as cold as arctic ice.

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I didn’t mind the icy stab. Really, in a way I almost enjoyed it, knowing at least I had her

attention. Then, I opened the pages of the fresh-smelling book, leaving the blank cover open for her to

sign. She whipped out a metallic marker and signed begrudgingly. Then I asked her where her own book

was.

“Don’t have one.”

I figured that would be the case, of course: she was a bit of a cheapskate in her own, perhaps

illegal, way. I sighed, but I made sure she didn’t stall too long, for her patience towards me was like a

child’s on Christmas when Santa visited. I then slipped out a drawing of the sun on the horizon of

summer, the horizon beyond which it disappears forever and into a new chapter, and I handed it to her.

The happiness the words on the bottom meant to bestow remained in sharp contrast to the fierceness

between us. She merely bid me thanks and exited stage right. I was left alone. There was a cold, hard

silence in my world as I waited the period out.

I saw her again in the fourth period, but I do not recall her speaking a single word to me as she

played monkey-in-the-middle with my friends after stealing my pencil bag, hitting me when I tried to

get it back later after playfully taking one of her own books. Neither did she speak to me in the sixth

period, stealing the spotlight of the class, and before long, I was sweating backstage in a full costume,

bare feet chilled on the tile. My soles were covered in brown dirt, leaves, boogers, soot, and whatever

else was on the junior high floor, as I couldn’t comfortably perform with shoes on. I kept practicing

tricks and kicks in the back, staying a safe distance from the other acts for safety reasons and to avoid

futile conversation, as if doing so would make me any less nervous.

Most of the show passed in a blur until my feet went pitter-patter across the wood of the stage,

and I entered to perform. It seemed as soon I had made my way onto the stage I had been off, and some

part of my consciousness hoped that the faraway cheers in my mind also consisted of my best friend’s

voice. However, I knew she was backstage as well, preparing for perhaps one of the most anticipated

stages, a dance act. I moved to the section of seats reserved for the performers and twiddled my thumbs

through most of the other acts. I was fairly certain everyone had deemed them mostly boring and

unwatchable and that anyone still awake had an iron resolve or was suffering from a case of the jitters

like myself.

I didn’t care to look up until I heard a familiar beat, signaling the start of the finale. My friend

entered. I simply watched her in awe the whole time, intently but not harshly like a hawk. Perhaps it was

a stare of fondness. Maybe a stare of longing and pain? I’m not entirely sure.

Soon enough, the performance was over and, almost entirely entranced as they all bowed in a

line, I sped backstage once more to greet the star of my own spectacle of the show. The dancers soon

piled behind the curtains and stepped down the creaky ramps, my friend lagging behind.

“Hey, that was absolutely amazing. You guys were fantastic!” I spoke cheerfully, lacing my

fingers together and smiling happily.

“Thanks,” she replied and tried walking past me.

Stubborn as I could be, I held my arms out, begging for the slightest bit of mercy or pity so that

she would oblige my request. She appeared offended at first like I had asked her something too personal

or crude, but she then smiled brightly yet reluctantly, finally giving in and holding her arms out. Before

she could take another breath, I darted in and embraced her waist. I held on tightly, burying my head in

the junction between her shoulder and neck. She felt soft in my hold, and she smelled of a familiar scent,

the kind that becomes obvious when you’ve been around someone so long that they become

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distinguishable to you in every sense.

I was hugging a rock, a sharp stalagmite, at least emotionally, yet it felt so comfortable, so safe

and homey. It was like things should have been, how they would have been, perhaps. Hurting on the

inside, I felt so giddy yet soothed in her presence. Her arms were gentle around me, a pane of glass,

careful not to break me by squeezing me too hard. I, instead, gripped her roughly, for her hardened self

wouldn’t break as easily as I would, and willed my tears to not stain my face as my vision blurred.

It was a moment that felt much longer than it really was, and soon I moved away while she

sauntered right past me.

A few minutes later, I was outside, saying goodbye to all my friends for the summer as tears

finally spilled out of my eyes like waterfalls across a pinkish canvas. I embraced the harbingers of my

memories of the past four years lightly.

At some point, I swiveled around and, silhouetted by sunlight, my best friend stood beside the

driveway, ponytail blowing in the wind. She looked so sturdy, strong while I looked like a cracking

mess. If the angle of the light had been more favorable, she would have looked beautiful, angelic even.

My cheeks reddened and not from crying that time. I turned my head to say goodbye to another friend,

intending to walk over to my best friend last. By the time I turned around once more, though, she was

gone, like sand on the beach, as if the wind had carried her off to a distant place to spread her joy.

Maybe she had been carried straight into me on her way off, smashing into me and cracking the

glass pane of my existence. I sobbed loudly.

My tears fell, the sky crying, too, and the wind blew my long hair, scattering the strands like

pollen grains. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, she was still gone.

That was the last time I ever saw her.

“Thank you for everything,” read my yearbook when I opened it.

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Nothing Like A Little Normal by Skylar Alley

Excerpt from Chapter One: So, It’s About Time I Meet People Like Me

Trigger Warnings: Anxious thoughts, Self loathing/intrusive thinking, sensory overload, feelings of

pain

Okay, so this is my first audio blog or journal or whatever. Um, Doc said that doing these

would help my anxiety or something like that...so. Uh, okay, my name is Virgil Reilly. I'm 22 years old,

and I-I just moved into this new apartment, I guess. I mean, not 'I guess', I know I-God, this is stupid!

Back to the apartment, it's, uh, nice. I mean it's big, and my room's bigger here than at Doc's,

so that's an improvement. I've been living here for about a week now, and I finally managed to unpack

all of my sh*t. Oh, sh*t. I promised Doc to work on my language. I don't know how to edit that out.

Oh well.

Uh, what else? Oh, yeah. This apartment is a shared rent type deal, so I've got roommates.

They're all nice, I guess. I mean, they're all certainly weird, but they're nice.

Let's see. There's Logan. He, uh, kinda reminds me of Mr. Bell back in high school. He uses

these really big words all the time, and he words things in the most advanced way possible. Like,

instead of asking me 'what's wrong', he says, 'is there something troubling you that I may provide

assistance for.' I mean, it's different, but...whatever. He also is either reading, or doing experiments in

his room, or other smart stuff like that. I don't really know what else to say about him...

Next is Patton. He immediately became the dad of the apartment. He's also the embodiment of

sunshine and rainbows. He's always smiling, and he speaks in dad jokes. He's also the only one of the

three that really tries to talk to and include me. It's, uh, pretty sweet. I think him and Doc would

become best friends in the matter of like three seconds.

Last and certainly least is Roman. He, uh, is something else. He kinda is my opposite, I guess.

He's confident, egotistical, and loud. God, he's so so so loud. He's either singing, reciting Disney, or

talking so loud it's like he wants the entire apartment complex to know he's speaking. We also, kinda,

immediately started butting heads. I don't know why...maybe it's because our personalities are so

strong, yet sooo different.

It's a shame. He's kinda cute.

Wait-sh*t. Edit tha-

Crap. Never mind.

I never said that.

Umm, okay. It's late, so I'm gonna stop here. Goodnight.

Chapter One

Virgil switched off the recorder and plopped himself down onto his bed. He ran a hand over his

face tiredly and sighed, trying to force his body to relax. After a long day of cleaning and helping Pat

to unpack, he hasn't wanted sleep this much since he moved here.

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He half heartedly pulled the covers over himself and buried his face into his pillow. He felt his

eyelids droop and welcomed sleep with open arms.

At least he tried to.

A sudden chill ran through Virgil, shocking him out of his sleepy daze. A sense of vertigo

struck, and Virgil knew exactly what was happening before he even heard the crying woman's voice.

"Help me!"

Please, no.

"Someone! Please!"

I just want to sleep.

Virgil felt his body push himself out of bed, completely on its own accord. His room began to

swirl and blur into a vertex. His awareness started to slip as his feet forced him closer to the door.

As his hand turned the door knob, everything went black.

Virgil came back to himself as quickly and abruptly as a gunshot. His knees buckled, and he

collapsed onto the ground, entire body aching. His head swam, colors and sounds fading in and out.

He tried to control his panting, but each breath felt like it was coming through a straw.

After a few moments laying there, trying almost desperately to pull himself together, the

confusion and dizziness faded. Virgil's body felt like lead, but he slowly managed to pull himself up. It

was finally then that his brain could grasp where he was.

He was outside, standing in a wooded area. Trees and flowers were scattered everywhere, and

the sounds of birds singing filled the air. There was a slight warm breeze that ran through the trees.

Sunlight came down through the branches in rays. Virgil would've considered the sight beautiful if he

hadn't been filled with a pit of confusion and anxiety.

Where am I? Does Greensdale even have a forest? How far away am I from home? How can I

get back? I don't have my wallet, so a bus is out of the question. God! Why does this keep happening

to me?! These powers are the worst motherfu-

A sudden realization hit Virgil, stopping all of his previous thoughts.

There's sunlight.

It's day time.

Sh*t.

Virgil, ignoring his heavy limbs protests, began to bolt through the woods, unaware of where

he was going but extremely aware that the others would be up by now. His bare feet screamed at him

every time he stepped on a rock or branch, but he didn't care. He didn't care about the woman. (Given

that he didn't see her, her ghost probably crossed over all on her own, anyway.) He didn't care about

his bleeding and raw feet. He didn't care that he was ruining his favorite black and purple pajamas

with the twigs snagging onto them. He just wanted to get back to the apartment.

As he ran more and more, he began to hear the sweet sounds of civilization: cars honking, tires

screeching, people chatting. Virgil started to somehow sprint even faster, wanting nothing more to just

27

get the hell out of there and hide under his covers until the sun burns out of the freaking sky.

Virgil knew it was only a matter of time before his powers would screw him over, but to

happen this soon? What the h*ll? He had no idea how to explain to the others how he ended up in the

middle of the d*mn forest. Every lie he could think of (and he wasn't going to lie because

he despised it) made absolutely zero sense, but the truth wasn't any better. He can't handle people

finding out again. Not after what happened...

After what felt like an eternity, Virgil finally escaped the wooded area. He leaned over panting

heavily, lungs burning. He looked up to see the front of a large, fancy neighborhood. He begrudgingly

forced his aching feet to move, trying to catch the name of the neighborhood on the hedge covered

sign.

It read: Brook's Edge.

AKA the neighborhood that's on the complete opposite side of town from his apartment.

Sh*t.

***

Roman was awoken by a terrible mix of the deafening beeps of Logan's alarm clock and the

potent stench of burnt waffles. He pried his eyes open, groaning in annoyance at the blinding light

coming from his lamp. He angrily jerked his silky red sheets off of himself, frustrated by the fact that

the expensive blankets now felt like sandpaper to his overwhelmed senses.

His movements felt labored as he forced himself out of bed. Roman suddenly covered his nose

as a foul smell of rose lavender perfume seemed to whirl around his face. He let out a gag, mentally

cursing Mrs. Heldings three stories up for applying so much of that wretched perfume.

On days like this, Roman would often need to go out on a flight to give a way for his beast

instincts to calm down and adjust. His back itched in longing for the feeling of letting his wings out to

fly, but the banging on his skull quickly shut that feeling down. He knew he couldn't go outside and

just let his wings out; this wasn't his home. This was a random apartment he moved to in order to

relieve his mother from the stress she's been under for taking care of him. His old routine was thrown

out the window, and now, he needs to learn how to live with this.

Roman swiftly caught sight of himself in the mirror: his hair was an uncool mess, and his face

was bright red. He also noticed his pupils had taken a cat like slit shape, and the hazel of his irises had

been replaced with a shimmering gold.

D*mmit. I guess sunglasses are apart of the wardrobe today, then. Not my ideal depiction of

fashion, but it's not like I have much of a choice.

Roman managed to pull his hand off of his nose, pushing past the nausea he felt when he did,

and strained a smile onto his face. He stood up straighter, squared his shoulders, and somehow only

managed a slight flinch at the abrupt blaring of a car horn four blocks away.

My name is Roman Night. And I will not let some stupid dragon senses deter me from being my

fabulous self.

With that in mind, he ignored his pounding headache, confidently snatched his red glittery

sunglasses, and stepped out to face his roommates.

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***

Patton practically leaped out of bed, rearing to start the day. He slipped on his light blue puppy

slippers and placed his glasses onto his smiling face. Now that unpacking was officially done, Patton

couldn't wait to finally spend some time with the others and get to know them.

He skipped happily to the kitchen and began making breakfast for the others. Virgil had already

told him that he didn't need to do this, that he should sleep in, and that they can make their own food.

But it was a routine for him. Growing up, his parents were often too busy caring for the other woodland

creatures to have a proper morning meal. So, Patton started to wake up before them so he could practice

making them food. He honed his cooking skills for about a year before he really started to get the hang

of it. It wasn't long before he started to make them gourmet breakfast every morning, and he loved

doing it. Even after moving to the mortal world, he always made breakfast for others; he would hand

them out to the homeless, his friends, and even to some of the kids at the day care he used to work at.

Patton started to make waffles, happily humming along to an old folk song his parents taught

him. He stirred the mix and poured it into the waffle iron. While that was cooking, he began to make

coffee for Logan and Roman. Virgil had informed him that coffee made him even more anxious than he

already was, and Patton preferred drinking tea.

Out of the blue, however, he was interrupted by a stabbing pain to both of his shoulder blades.

The pain was unrelenting, and Patton immediately dropped to his knees, gasping in shock. He gripped

his back in an attempt to provide some sort of relief. Fortunately, as quickly as it came, the pain dulled,

leaving nothing but a sore ache. Patton sighed in relief and stood up on his shaky knees.

So soon? Well, I'm fairy certain that I'll need to go out for a flight soon.

Patton snickered at his own joke, before being cut off by the smoke coming from the waffle

iron.

"Gah!" Patton exclaimed in surprise, unplugging the iron. He lifted up the top, coughing and

waving the smoke out of his face. Instead of his beautiful, golden, crisp waffles in front of him, there

was a literal crisp of burnt black batter.

Welp, there goes breakfast.

***

Logan's alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., waking him up. He'd had an adequate amount of sleep,

having gone to bed at approximately 10:00 p.m. He got out of bed, ready to check his frankly

underappreciated schedule that he constructed for the four of them when all of a sudden, a sneeze hit

him.

A shot of an icy blue energy emitted from him, striking the back wall. Logan looked up to see

his grey wall quickly become overrun by ice. He frantically whipped his eyes around his room as the

frost kept spreading like a virus. He finally found what he was looking for, his chestnut brown walking

staff, and grabbed it. He pointed the staff towards the now completely glazed over wall and focused.

The ice luckily obeyed him, steadily retreating back to the center point of it all before vanishing

completely.

Logan released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He gazed down with a type of

remorse towards his old, rough wooden staff, shaming himself.

I should've predicted this. I haven't been utilizing my abilities enough since I arrived here, and

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now my abilities have built up inside me.

An abrupt knock from his door startled him out of his thoughts, and in surprise, the air

surrounding him rapidly dropped in temperature. Tightening the grip on his cane, the temperature rose

back up, but the room still held a slight chill. Figuring that it wasn't that detectable-and he honestly

didn't trust that he could make it any higher-he responded.

"Who is it?"

"It's Roman. You okay in there?"

"Yes. I'm feeling quite suitable," Logan replied, regarding his appearance in the mirror and

quietly scowling at his Snow White hair. He ruffled it with his hand and focused, transforming the

pristine white to a stark black. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, uh," he faltered, "I, uh, was just trying to be a good flat mate! You haven't come out and I

heard a noise, so, me being the great person that I am, decided to check on you!" he exclaimed with an

almost forced bravado.

"Right," he said, concentrating on his abnormally light blue eyes, altering the color to a dark

navy.

Logan could hear Roman shifting somewhat awkwardly, before coughing and saying, "well, if

you don't need anything, I'll be going to the kitchen." And with that, Roman's shadow from underneath

the door retreated.

Logan subconsciously tightened his hold on the one thing keeping his powers on a metaphorical

leash as he thought about joining the others for breakfast.

I'll make it quick. Say pleasant greetings, eat something small but substantial, then find

someplace a great distance away to release my abilities and stop the overload.

Logan straightened his white long sleeve and patted down his dark blue pajama pants. He checked his hair and eye color one more time, being thorough in his search for a speck of white or that

ethereal blue. Once he was certain his appearance was acceptable, he left his room, making his way to the kitchen with his cane in hand.