I think you should be punished for tormenting me for so long.--- Don’t be afraid, he said. Art is full of agony and beauty. The pen itself a sword of pleasure and pain, isn’t it, my poet?---I’ve been waiting for you. His voice sizzled with hunger.How could I respond? I’ve been thinking about you non-stop like a sex-crazed harlot since I left?I’m here.---Remind me who you are, he said in a gentler tone, almost a please. How we know each other.Okay, she began. I’m Savannah Evans, a grad student and teaching assistant who teaches English at a college in Cambridge. I applied to the colony to work on my poetry and arrived six weeks ago. We’ve spoken many times. You’ve praised my work, which I find a great honor as I’m a fan of your art.---A cross between two species. Doomed with the thirst of the undead for human blood, yet tormented by the gargoyle drive to protect them.---She ceased to breathe. When he leaned forward and his lips fluttered against hers, her footing became unsteady and she stumbled. He placed a hand on her lower back to steady her and pulled her close. Her breasts met his hard torso and she became aware at how frantically her heart beat. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lost herself in the kiss as their lips met. They explored each other with a sort of fascination, mouth and tongues claiming each other in their hunger. Delicately at first, as if not sure this was real or just a fantasy and then strong and unyielding. Demanding this moment to never end.---I bought new lingerie today I wanted to show you, but I didn’t get a chance with all that happened.You’ll have to return tomorrow night then…. Maybe we’ll order an entire catalog. His smile and the glint of mischievousness in his eyes reflected lascivious thoughts. You can model all the outfits you’d like for me.---
Lisa Carlisle
So what now? he said. What do you mean?What do we do now? We can't just be roommates.You said you didn't like me.I don't like you. I don't like how your hair smells and how I can't stop thinking about waking up and seeing your face. I hate how my bed felt empty when you left. I don't like how good you were with my family, especially Harper and how I wanted to see you with then again, but not just as a guest. As a member. You're right. I don't like you at all.When did you change your mind?My mind never changed. I've wanted you since the moment you opened the door and had that stunned look on your face. It just took me a while to admit it. Why deny it now? It is what it is and it's not going to change.Oh.This doesn't mean I am going to be nice. I am still going to be an ass. I'll just be an ass who apologizes and brings you flowers to say he's been a dick.Chocolate, I said. What?I'd rather have chocolate when you apologize.Chocolate it is. He smiled. So does that mean what I think it means?No. It just means that you get to bring me chocolate when you've been an ass. I am going to weigh three hundred pounds. I focused my attention back on the peppers. I couldn't think about Hunter's declaration of... whatever it was. Footsteps didn't make me look up. Taylor, look at me. Please. Damn. If only he didn't say please. I can't promise to not make you mad. I can't promise that I won't hurt you. All I can promise is that I want you in my life and I'll do anything to keep you there.
Chelsea M. Cameron
Amy turned to Nellie. Can you create a diversion to draw the clerk outside?The au pair was wary. What kind of diversion?You could pretend to be lost, Dan proposed. The guy comes out to give you directions and we slip inside.That's the most sexist idea I've ever heard, Nellie said harshly. I am female, so I have to be clueless. He's male, so he's got a great sense of direction.Maybe you're from out of town, Dan suggested. Wait–you are from out of town.Nellie stashed their bags under a bench and set Saladin on the seat with a stern You're the watchcat. Anybody touches those bags, unleash your inner tiger.The Egyptian Mau surveyed the street uncertainly. Mrrp. Nellie sighed. Lucky for us there's no one around. Okay, I am going in there. Be ready.The clerk said something to her–probably May I help you? She smiled apologetically. I don't speak Italian.Ah–you are American. His accent was heavy, but he seemed eager to please. I will assist you. He took in her black nail polish and nose ring. Punk, perhaps, is your enjoyment?More like a punk/reggae fusion, Nellie replied thoughtfully. With a country feel. And operatic vocals.The clerk stared in perplexity.Nellie began to tour the aisles, pulling out CDs left and right. Ah–Artic Monkeys–that's what I am talking about. And some Bad Brains–from the eighties. Foo Fighters–I'll need a couple from those guys. And don't forget Linkin Park...He watched in awe as she stacked up an enormous armload of music. There, she finished, slapping Frank Zappa's Greatest Hits on top of the pile. That should do for a start.You are a music lover, said the wide-eyed cashier.No, I am a kleptomaniac. And she dashed out the door.
Gordon Korman
Close your eyes and stare into the dark. My father's advice when I couldn't sleep as a little girl. He wouldn't want me to do that now but I've set my mind to the task regardless. I am staring beyond my closed eyelids. Though I lie still on the ground, I feel perched at the highest point I could possibly be; clutching at a star in the night sky with my legs dangling above cold black nothingness. I take one last look at my fingers wrapped around the light and let go. Down I go, falling, then floating and, falling again, I wait for the land of my life. I know now, as I knew as that little girl fighting sleep, that behind her gauzed screen of shut-eye, lies colour. It taunts me, dares me to open my eyes and lose sleep. Flashes of red and amber, yellow and white speckle my darkness. I refuse to open them. I rebel and I squeeze my eyelids together tighter to block out the grains of light, mere distractions that keep us awake but a sign that there's life beyond.But there's no life in me. None that I can feel, from where I lie at the bottom of the staircase. My heart beats quicker now, the lone fighter left standing in the ring, a red boxing glove pumping victoriously into the air, refusing to give up. It's the only part of me that cares, the only part that ever cared. It fights to pump the blood around to heal, to replace what I am losing. But it's all leaving my body as quickly as it's sent; forming a deep black ocean of its own around me where I've fallen.Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Never have enough time here, always trying to make our way there. Need to have left here five minutes ago, need to be there now. The phone rings again and I acknowledge the irony. I could have taken my time and answered it now. Now, not then. I could have taken all the time in the world on each of those steps. But we're always rushing. All, but my heart. That slows now. I don't mind so much. I place my hand on my belly. If my child is gone and I suspect this is so, I'll join it there. There.....where? Wherever. It; a heartless word. He or she so young; who it was to become, still a question. But there, I will mother it. There, not here. I'll tell it; I am sorry, sweetheart, I am sorry I ruined your chances - our chances of a life together.But close your eyes and stare into the darkness now, like Mummy is doing and we'll find our way together. There's a noise in the room and I feel a presence. 'Oh God, Joyce, oh God. Can you hear me, love? Oh God. Oh God, please no, Hold on love, I am here. Dad is here.'I don't want to hold on and I feel like telling him so. I hear myself groan, an animal-like whimper and it shocks me, scares me. I have a plan, I want to tell him. I want to go, only then can I be with my baby. Then, not now. He's stopped me from falling but I haven't landed yet. Instead he helps me balance on nothing, hover while I am forced to make the decision. I want to keep falling but he's calling the ambulance and he's gripping my hand with such ferocity it's as though I am all he has. He's brushing the hair from my forehead and weeping loudly. I've never heard him weep. Not even when Mum died. He clings to my hand with all of his strength I never knew his old body had and I remember that I am all he has and that he, once again just like before, is my whole world. The blood continues to rush through me. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Maybe I am rushing again. Maybe it's not my time to go. I feel the rough skin of old hands squeezing mine and their intensity and their familiarity force me to open my eyes. Lights fills them and I glimpse his face, a look I never want to see again. He clings to his baby. I know I lost mind; I can't let him lose his. In making my decision I already begin to grieve. I've landed now, the land of my life. And still my heart pumps on. Even when broken it still works.
Cecelia Ahern