Daniel Patter. The Water Cure The rain echoed in the distance, a morose, mournful sound. As always, #life in the High North is rushed, hushed, and secretive. In New York, it's easy to keep secrets. I would know. I have a huge one myself. The car door slammed shut, and I jumped a mile. I had been reading my Kindle, and about two pages in I get easily transported to that other world i so desperately crave, the one true place I belong. "Dan, it's starting." I looked up, at the almost blue sky, and think silently to myself, "What contest in hell did I win to deserve such monotony?" Then I walk up to the school's doors, and steel myself for the senior prom. If only it had ended peacefully. The car sped off, it's back tires squealing like a pig being slaughtered mercilessly. Two male Diviners, one tall and thin, the other short, black haired and quite plump, were arguing about a Planting gone wrong. "WHAT! You blame Me for this? That is such bullshit, Vlad and you damn well know that!" Vlad swerved as a bird neared their windshield. "Christ man, drive right will ya? It's bad enough one person died already!" Vlad closed his eyes and his hair changed color from a russet brown to a coal black. This happened whenever he was angry. That wasn't often. As Vlad careened the beater around the corner, they neared their destination : quest high school, and It was their prom night. "Okay so, here's the plan; we go in, grab the kid, and run before Anton notices the real guys dead. Understand?" Vlad nodded quickly, and they morphed into a seemingly normal parental couple. Things were about to get ugly fast. They had to act quickly. As they entered the high school, all Hell had broken loose.

Proud To be Me A lesson learned today, of when I was called gay. Little did I know, the truth their words had shown. A lesson learned before, when I was crying on the floor, and a devil walked over me through my bedroom door. A lesson yet to learn, a trust still unearned, due to all the Hurt he dealt ruthlessly. All the time he said, to him I was dead, all because of who was in my head. A lesson I learned easily, a lesson loud and true, never ever again will I trust you. For I am proud to be me.

Aric Calvert: Fyre Fight Chapter one: Kiss I wake up to the near agonizing sound of someone screaming. My heart races with naked fury as one of the other kids in my foster home that shelters me has another panic attack. I groan at the sound, shoving my pillow over my head. It's been three months since my parents both died, and I still have nightmares. I still don't know how they died, just that they did. "AHHHHHHH!" The boy screamed atrociously, and writhed like person convulsing violently. This had to be the worst one yet. I've seen enough of them to be used to them, or at least i should be by now. "Going somewhere?" I grimace as the yet to love me mother of the house reamed me yet again. " I'm going to the bookstore near here, if that's perfectly fine with you." I spin around on my heels and Mother Mary scoffed. "I doubt you can READ, let alone read a whole book! You're too stupid for that" She laughed, and my heart fell a little as she stood there just heaving with ridicule and hatred. I ignored her, not willing to buy into her mean demeanor. I slip on a pair of shoes and a black jacket and walk out into the cold winter air, the door slamming behind me. ***************** As I walked to Caster's Books, I had my MP3 in my ears, and I felt someone brush into me. A guy with a thin, built frame and a goatee as well as dark skin looks back at me, and I blush a deep red. He has to be the hottest guy I've ever seen. "sorry about that. Where you headed?" His voice sounds gay, so I assumed the same. My luck never Runs out. "I'm headed towards Wisebird books. Care to tag along?" I smile widely, the chill sharp against my teeth. "why not? I'm Seth." He holds out his hand, and I take it, walking alongside him. "I'm Aric. Aric Calvert." Instantly, and without warning, I laugh quickly, since Seth tickles me rapturously. "Why the tickling?" I gasp, my breath disappearing. "Oh, I don't know, I just think you're cute!" I smile greatly, and then take his hand. " we'll walk together then." He then takes my head in his hands, and plants a kiss on my lips. "Wow."

Aric Calvert: Fyre Fight Prologue: a letter lost The letter was written over ages and ages beyond what I could perceive. The parchment felt fragile, yet the Ink was still black as coals . My fingers slowly traced the finely penned letters and the words they so delicately formed. The sunlight shone brightly through the window above me, and onto the depressing note. My name is Aric Calvert, and I am now an orphan. At fifteen I am but a year away from being able to emancipate myself. I doubt I will ever find a family. Stuff like that just doesn't happen to an oldie like me. The letter was a will and testament from my great-grandfather. It stated that once I attain adulthood, at the non-adoptable age of eighteen, that I have an estate worth money reaching far beyond what I am Willing to count. " Aric, it's time to leave." My case worker, a dull-looking grey haired woman named Jillian, with her hair tightly choked by a scrunch, and her dress a horrendous shade of boring grey, stalked downstairs, her heels clacking importantly down the deep staircase into the foyer below me. I sigh resignedly, and then reach for my satchel, and place a silver laptop and a journal that I had gotten from a previous birthday already years behind me, inside the bag. I pocket a phone, and an expensive MP3 player into my jacket pockets, taking care to wrap the headphones around it. I take one last forlorn glance at the room I was raised alone in, and tell myself softly, " No sense getting sad over a family lost." I strap the satchel around my thin frame, and walk slowly downstairs, tears already spilling over my face.

A Writer Blocked I am a writer blocked by the curses of word unfounded, and a mind quiet. I am a writer cursed without paper or pen. I try as tried people do to compose the perfect plot, to sew stories, and this ha proven impossible. I am a writer trapped within the hellish combines of his own mental hell, never to hear liberty's freeing bells. I am a writer broken.