~~Done~~

I'll never understand.

I'll never know.

I'll never do this.

I'll never heal.

My mind is slipping.

My soul is sliding.

My world is slowly

Shimmering in the distance.

I don't want to care.

I don't want to love.

I don't understand.

I don't know.

Help me, please.

I need someone to understand.

Help me, please.

I need someone to help.

I'm sliding passed the limits.

Passed all the reasons.

I'm sliding onward from this

Point forward.

I can't explain to you

My final broken mind.

I can't even show you

The scars this will leave.

Please forgive me.

Please understand

Why I'm turning away

For the last time.

It's not because I don't love you.

It's because I do.

It isn't fair to leave you.

But it isn't fair to stay.

You don't understand.

What is wrong with me?

What did I do wrong?

Did I do anything wrong?

I'm done with you.

I'm done with me.

I'm so very sorry.

I'm walking away.

~~I Can't Explain~~

I can't share with you my apologies.

I can't show you my rationality.

I can't send you the farewell card I made.

I can't suffer along with you.

I can't explain why I'm walking away.

I can't explain why I'm turning my back.

I can't explain why I don't seem to love you.

I can't explain that this wasn't true.

I would like it if you forgave me.

I would like it if you left.

I would like it if it didn't hurt, but....

I would like it more if this didn't have to happen.

Understand that I didn't lie.

Understand that I meant every word.

Understand that I didn't mean for this to happen.

Understand that I....I wish I could....

I wish I could change the world.

I wish I could make it easier.

I wish I could make it so you weren't hurt.

I wish I could change my twisted life.

I wish I could fix all your problems.

I wish I could undo all your pains.

I wish I could control what can't be controlled.

I wish I could escape from this spiraling maze.

I wish I could change.

But you know I can't.

I wish I could go.

But you know I can't.

I can't explain why I'm sorry.

I can't explain why I hate myself.

I can't explain why it hurts.

I can't explain why.

~~The Scribbler: Chapter Two--Planning Time~~

It’s been a week since the day after Halloween, A week of my laptop locked up in my closet, my mom and my dad fidgeting and fiddling in the library, little Alena moping in front of the TV, Andrei going out hiking constantly, and Adalrik continually trying to cheer everyone up with his niceness. As you can probably guess, not a one of us is adjusting well to everything we make coming to life, Andrei least of all.


None the less, none of us have gone over to the pumpkin city to look at what I had wrought; all of us figuring it was best to just pretend it never happened, even though there wasn’t a thing we could do to get over it. I keep thinking of Seeder, and wondering how his little city is doing; if he’s gotten his farms up and running, whether or not he’d even looked at the library, if he had tried to go swimming in the Olympic-sized swimming pool and waterslide yet, and which food group they preferred: Veggies, fruit, dairy, grain, or meat products. I didn’t even know what pumpkins ate, or if they ate anything at all, I probably should have thought of that in my writing. But, hey, can’t think of everything.


Speaking of which, I need to start thinking about something very important: The Roseweed Family Fall Freak. You see, every year my family throws twelve super big parties: The kids’ four birthdays, my parent’s parties, Christmas, Halloween, Fall Freak, Spring Spree, Summer Hummer, and my personal favorite: The Winter Wonderland. But that wasn’t gonna be until the first real snowfall, so for now my mind needed to be on the Fall Freak. There’d be an hour-long dance at the end, carnival games, a craft fair, a potluck buffet, and if we were lucky, an Art and Literature Auction. Every year, the sales from those six auctions gave us allowances, nights out, and trips every once in a while. But, because of the whole pumpkin people thing, I doubt we’ll be doing the auction this year.


As always, it fell me to work out a floor plan for the party, then get together all the necessary supplies, enlist the assistance of Alena for the murals, and also find people broke enough or stupid enough to help me clean up after. Which, let me tell you, was never, ever fun. If you think the streets of a big city are covered with dirt, grime, and trash, than think again. Because, the very instant you see how dirty the kitchens are after a party, the other options are always the best options.


Anyways, the whole floor plan wasn’t immediately important. I still had two weeks before the Set Up Day, which was actually a date marked on the calendars at the schools us Roseweeds attend, for it is a day that not a single one of us shows up, as we need to put up booths, set up game tables, buy prizes, and sometimes, if I’m a bit late in my preparations, go sprinting through town looking for people willing to run a booth for twenty bucks an hour. Actually, you’d be surprised how often people are willing to work for us, as long as their duties don’t include the awful, back breaking, sickening clean up.


And, yet it wasn’t these harrowing thoughts on how much work I needed to do that had me going, It was the thoughts of who exactly I was gonna take to the dance: Walter, Johnny, Eric, or Jake. All four had asked, and only Walter was rich, but he also was a spoiled wannabe punk rocker, so that definitely crossed him off the list of maybes. Johnny, of course, was way, way cute, way smart, way well dressed, but everyone else said I was so out of his league I couldn’t help but be impressed for his courage by asking out a girl so much higher up the totem pole than he was it was like the earth‘s molten core was asking out the sun. Eric was your average Jock popular person: No real personality, nothing going for him, just good at being a ruthless backstabber and throwing a football around, Which left Jake; Gorgeous, just right, funny, the greatest eyes I had ever seen, and when he laughs, every girl and gay guy within ear shot melts automatically. So who was I going with: The spoiled rich boy, the down-and-out-on-the-totem-pole, the Jock, or Mr. Perfect.


Personally, I’d go with Johnny because he was way fun to hang out with, but everybody would just think I was a stickler for a charity middle-class case like him. Jake, meanwhile, would rocket me in the social circle to the stars, but he also had a horrific rep of being all hands at dances, and if the rumors were true, his habits would send me dropping back to rock bottom all over again. Walter was permanently off my list because I just didn’t want to be known as a social climber, or a social climber-adjacent, which crossed off Eric as well.


So who was I more willing to be known as: A slummer, or an easy lay? Slummer could be noble if phrased correctly and to the right people, while being known as a slut could make you a favorite of the guys, but ruin you irrevocably in the eyes of the actual important people: The girls.

So it looks like I’ll be slumming it this Fall Freak.


That decision out of the way, I grab my grid paper, happy to see my mom had kept the sheets I’d used to make a basic layout of the mansion, and select my favorite pencils, rulers, and my special binder of Party Stuff. I open it to the stencils of the Fall Freak booths, decorations, and all of that, and start work on the floor plan, making sure to leave a large, empty space at the back of the house so no one goes near the Pumpkin City. When I’m about halfway through, I close up my binder, grab my stuff, and go jogging through the house to find my mom and dad.


I find them in the upper floor of the library, sitting curled up in their favorite chairs with the fire popping at their slippered feet. I give a mental groan-it’s four in the afternoon and they’re still in their pajamas- but I’m not here to criticize their life style, as it’s mine too. Instead, I’m here to ask them about the Art and Literature Auction at the Fall Freak, because I need to know whether or not I’ll need to leave a lot of room for the tables and stage. “Um, guys? Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you something.” I say, watching with a bemused expression on my face while they lift their heads with difficulty from their books.


It’s Dad who speaks first: “Yes, Alexis dear? What is it you need?”


“Are we going to be doing the Art and Literature Auction this year? You know I always like to be ahead of the preparations, and how I need to leave this massive space free for the auction every year, and besides I’m already going ix-nay on most of the grounds at the back because of the city back there, so I just need to know where I can put everything.” I say, speaking in a rush. I’m always freaked out when I talk to Dad about something he views as frivolous and unnecessary-Mr. Bigshot Heir to the Roseweed Family Fortune couldn’t care less about these parties if they didn’t raise us those valuable last few meters up the totem pole-and, anyways, I was never good about asking my parents for help. I actually almost failed grade five before my teacher finally figured out that it was me, not them, who had been signing my report cards and called home.


I can’t believe I’m related to either of them. They are so amazingly stuck up, and they couldn’t care a thing about a good book. Sure, my dad is willing to spend all of his life savings on a collector’s book, but he doesn’t know a thing about what it means to write and to read. Reading is the largest loss of control possible, and neither of them seems to be able to understand that, especially my mom. She thinks the sun rises just because she wants it to.


If I didn’t share the same long, lanky build, way long and graceful fingers, fire-red hair, brilliant green eyes, gently brown skin as the rest of my family, also my talent at many things creative, I would happily swear that I was not related to any of them. My mom, Aislyn, was named for a vision or a dream, but her parents spoiled her so much she should be named for a nightmare instead. My dad Akira was named for creativity and he’s a world-class sketcher of bowls of fruit, but he is so very set in his rich-boy ways he might as well be tracing the Mona Lisa and coloring it in-with a mustache-using crayons. Andrei, my eldest brother and the wood carver of the family, was named for bravery, but he’s practically scared of his own shadow. And Adalrik? How could I ever think anything mean about him, the sculptor named for exactly what he is: a good friend. No matter what, Adalrik has always stood beside all of us, through better or worse, and the only thing we can do to repay him is not thrash his rep for being a good guy.


Now, my only sister Alena is seven years old, and she’s the nastiest, ugliest little kid you ever did see. She’s the size of a horse and she still sucks on her thumb. All of this despite her name that actually means good and good looking. Mom and Dad, you couldn’t have been further off on that one.


And on to me. Alexis Roseweed, the author of the family, the only one whose art isn’t considered art. I was named after Alexander the Great, like Seeder mentioned, or the Protector of Man. I’m sorry, but whenever I hear that name, I just gotta think: What about the protector of women? If we weren’t here, there would be no men. So why aren’t there any protectors of women?


While I’m having this little mental monologue, my parents are formulating answers in their heads. Yes, it always takes them this long sometimes. Do you see what I have to live with?


Finally, my mom answers. “No, we’re not, sweetie. You know we need new things to sell for every auction, and after what happened a week ago, your father and I thought it would be best not to do so until we are… better informed about the situation with our art. Oh, and your writing as well, dearie, though of course your father and I are quite confused as to how typing on a keyboard can be classified as creating anything worthwhile. Oh, we hope none of you children are too terribly disappointed about the auction this year. We know how much you young people enjoy feeling that you make things worth keeping, like your parents.”


I wince, and resist the impulse to smack Mommy Dear across the face. It wouldn’t help matters much, even though it would make me feel a bit better. Instead, I thank them kindly, turn on my heel, and head back to my room to finish the floor plan. But, before I can get very far, my mom calls out for me to come back. “Oh, I just had the most-oh, how is it that you young people say? Cool?-cool idea ever! Why do we not turn this little mishap city of ours into an attraction at the Fall Freak this year? Like-like a petting zoo, or maybe a tourist attraction. Wouldn’t that be fun?”


My father applauds his wife’s idea. “Yes! Aislyn, my vision of beauty, that idea of yours is nothing but a dream! Why, it’s perfect! It solves our problems about the city; we can even charge admission and donate all of the funds to charity! After all, the only true charity cases are the rich people who can’t go to Venice for Christmas this year!” my father cries, his first-edition copy of Dean Koontz’s famous Book of Counted Sorrows falling to the ground. Once again, I wince, and force the thought of smacking them both sharply across the face from my head before I got into trouble.


And it’s not only about the way he treated that book of his that cost $750, and that’s the cheap version.


But what can I go? I can’t do anything without being punished, as I haven’t yet learned the skills of a diplomat. And there’s no way I am going to criticize my mom and dad without an escape plan, or at least a way to talk myself out of trouble.


“So, I’ll start work on the signs, and move everything around again?” I ask, impatient to get myself away from here.


“Why, yes, dearie. Make sure you get your sister Alena’s help on the signs-you know how helpless you are at drawing. And, oh, yes, dearie, don’t forget the invitations need to be in the mail by noon tomorrow at the latest so the guests can come for a five to midnight party next Friday, that‘s the fifteenth of this month, by the way; we would hate for you to get the date wrong like you did last year and have everyone come a week late.”


I nod pleasantly, and excuse myself with a little mock curtsy, taking my floor plans and temper with me.


Once I’m out of sight and earshot, I start giving a mental rant. Why, those evil, spoiled rich childish brats! How dare they insult me like that? Isn’t it me who arranges these parties, who does up the invites, the guest lists, the stupid floor plans-all the stuff they see as beneath them, but the very stuff they need to get these parties running.


This rant continues all the way to my room, with many variations on its common theme. When I climb the last creaky wooden step up to my top floor bedroom, I collapse on the bed, letting out a loud groan. I’ve just started to punch my pillows and start crying when there’s a knock on my door, and Adalrik walks in, the boy who was named for exactly what he was: A good friend. He shuts it behind him, and sits on the edge of my bed, his eyes on mine. He lifts his voice, and sings Will I, one of my favorite songs at times like these. When he gets to the second verse, I join in, and we sing it in the round until my tears stop and we’re both smiling.


“You okay, honey?” he asks, winking.

“An angel of the first degree,” I reply, laughing, winking back. Me and my family spends way too much time watching Rent. “Yeah, I guess I am. Just pissed off and confused, you know? Everyone’s relying on me to give these great parties ten times a year-it’s just too much to handle, even though I’ve been doing it for, what, three, four years now?”


He nods, and touches my cheek, wiping away the last of the tears with his thumb. “You’re a great kid, little sis. Just plain great. So, who are you gonna take to the dance this year? Do ya know yet?”


“If I tell you, you’ll just beat him up, and I’ll be left going with Mr. Perfect, or-god forbid-our very own Richie Rich.” I reply, pulling his hand away.


“Yup; that’s my job as a big brother. To beat up the middle class, and give away my sister to the rich mob waving torches and pitch forks. Or, in other words, beat up Johnny and give you to Walter instead.”


I stare at him, open mouthed. “How’d you guess?”

“What, how did I know who you were going with? Why, that’s simple, dearie: You’re my little sis, the best kid I ever did meet.”


And so we go on to lighter topics, poking fun at each other, just as if he had never walked in on me crying and beating up a pillow like it was my enemy.


We stay up there for almost an hour before I sit up with a start, and shoo him out of my room. “I gotta get the party ready, man. I need a shopping list for the materials and food, and I also need to talk to Seeder about the folks’ mad idea about a petting zoo with the pumpkins as the animals. So, shoo, man, shoo!”


He doesn’t shoo. Instead, he lays his big hands on my shoulders, and stares down at me with brilliant green eyes: “Alexis, did I ever tell you about Atlas Shrugged? Do you remember the question I asked you: If you saw Atlas, bent down under the weight of the world with a trickle of blood down his left shoulder, what would you tell him to do?”


“Shrug?” I asked, and when he nodded and gave me a look that meant clearly follow that line of thought, I groaned. “You want me to shrug? To march up to my parents, the dictators of the universe, and tell them to go screw themselves, and that this party is something they should do themselves instead of me?”

“Well, not exactly in those exact words, but generally, yes. Alexis, you’re thirteen years old. You’re three years younger than I am, and you never see me running these things. Honey, you’ve been doing these parties every year since you were nine, Holy hell, Alexis: You planned your own birthday parties for the past four years in a row. So live a little, and think for yourself. It’s the Fall Freak, for god’s sake: You should be out buying a dress instead of cheap streamers and plastic forks. All those millions of plastic forks…” he groaned, his hands over his eyes. “Remind me never to volunteer for clean-up duty ever again.”

I shake my head, and tell him, “No, sorry, man; it’s just that, even though I rant and rave about how much I hate doing these parties, they’re kinda fun to do. Even though I wouldn’t mind not having to shop for my own birthday gifts, for a change. But, hey, wait a minute there, big brother mine: Why don’t you and I go, and see if I can weasel my way out of buying my own birthday gifts?”

He brightens, and off we go to face the music.

“Absolutely not. Dearie, you know how busy your mother and I are, and how little time we have to spend keeping track of all of your little phases and wants.” My dad tells me, and Adalrik just squeezes my arm in that ‘well, we tried’ sort of way, and we leave our parents to their books.



Much later that afternoon, I’m standing two feet away from Seeder, his wife Gutsy who is also the leader of the Cult of Pies-I must have gone a bit off when I gave them the ability to create a religion-her servant Whipped, a bard, a loner, a geek, a mentally slow person, a rather crispy person with an insane fascination with fire, and a massive crowd of other people, every last one of them a pumpkin. Seeder is shaking his head, frowning. I’d just asked him whether or not he would allow us to use him and his people as an attraction, and he seems rather adamant about his decision.

But there’s no way I’m going back to my house without his approval. I mean, you saw how my folks treated me about that mistake with the date last year. Anyways, it was their fault, not mine. They’d told me it was the Friday after the day of the actual party, and by the time we realized what was happening, it was too late and everybody had missed the Fall Freak that year. So imagine how they’d treat me if I dared go back there without my task completed.

So I say: “Please, man, please. You owe me for giving your family life, so would you please help me from losing mine?

Seeder sighs, and nods. “All right, Alexis, I will. But if anything goes wrong, it’s your fault.”

Point for the non-diplomat. The score is now one-zero, and it’s time to kiss up to ease hurt feelings. “Thank you so much, Seeder. I promise, not a thing can go wrong. You have my word!” I call, already turning around to sprint back to the safety of my job-whoops, I mean home.

One more checkmark to mark down in my binder.

But, before I go, I turn back, my head flooded with a sudden tide of questions. “Seeder,” I start, quailing as I turn to face him, “Why is it that you knew my name, and the name of who created you? There’s a lot of stuff you said when we first met that I need an explanation for. I know you’ve already repaid me for bringing your family to life, but I’ll be in your debt for good if you just tell me. Oh, and how and what do you eat?”

He smiled at that last one. “We eat everything humans do, except pumpkins,” Seeder’s smile faded, his brows pursed again, “Alexis, when Andrei made me, just like all of you do, he gave me some of his memories: Language, math, all of it. Including who you were, who all of you were. Everyone is born in magic, and as people age, it passes away from them. Children recognize creatures that only exist because of magic for what they are, not what they pretend to be, because the knowledge and power of magic has not yet passed away. You and your family, however, grew up differently than others, and somehow attract magic like a lodestone. Andrei reached it sooner than you, as he is the eldest, and he also has a strong magic attraction from his parents as well. This is why you can harness it, create things simply by using your talents. Andrei, however, did not see me when he finished me; he automatically left me on display while I was still adjusting to life, without him noticing that I possessed it.”

I nod. I guess I can accept that answer. But there’s still one question: “Seeder, if Andrei created you, couldn’t he have created the others?”

The King shook his head, laughed. “Alexis, when he found out he made me, how did he react?”

Oh. Now I get it. “When I told him, he screamed and ran away. We found him an hour later in his closet, crying like a baby and hitting his head on the door. Yeah, I can guess why he couldn’t give the others life.”

Seeder nods, and asks, smiling, his fiery eyes shining, “Alexis, if you do not mind, I must prepare my people for the coming hardship.

Without further ado, I leave him be.

~~The Cold~~

You're braving it for me.

You're walking to me.

I'm amazed, but scared--

Will you find what I hide?

Will you see my darkness?

Will you see my light?

Will you realize

What I've done for you?

My love. My love...

Can't you understand

I don't believe in love?

Can't you understand?

I don't deserve this.

I don't deserve your heart.

I barely deserve you....

I do not deserve you.

You do not do so much for me...

Do not do this for me.

I don't deserve this.

Please don't make me owe you this.

I'm not enough.

You're too much.

Please understand....

I'm not enough.

Don't brave the cold for me.

Don't fight for me.

Please....Please don't.

You don't deserve my cold.

~~Slip~~

Slipping slowly in the middle.

Slipping down the path.

Sliding through the edge.

Sliding down the world.

Wait, hold on--

There's a edge to catch.

A way to stop the slide.

Do you want to stop?

It feels so good to break.

So good to shiver and slip....

But don't..don't let it.

Don't let it overtake you.

~~Shiver~~

Shiver inside.

Shiver and smile.

Break down, and grow.

You're feeling better.

It only works if it grows--

So feel it grow inside.

There's something wrong.

Just don't forget there's something right.

Believe me: There's something

Worth fighting for.

There's something worth

The false memories and pain.

Your life will grow.

Your life will improve.

You will find love.

You will find meaning.

In the simplest words,

I'll fight to tell you

That there's something here

Worth fighting for.

You will get stronger.

You will grow.

Believe in me,

My darlings.

I'll support you from afar.

From a silent and far distance,

I'll listen to you and help you grow.

Just trust me.

Trust me, and shiver.

Feel the hope

Slide up your spine.

Feel yourself grow.

Be safe, my loving doves.

Be safe for me.

I'll always

Be safe for you.

~~On the Train to Venice: Compartment Three~~

Compartment Three, Occupant One: Jared

Too tough to tumble.

Too tough to crack.

Walls built around me to withstand tragedy.

Strong enough to withstand the death of everyone I cared about?

Yeah. Strong enough.

I’m eighteen now. Old to go on the road. I’m still young by conventional standards, but when you live your entire life on the road and in the wilderness, you don’t live long.

I glance around. So far no one’s joined me. Good. 

I relax a bit, calming down a smidge. Maybe this was going to work out rather well.

Smirking out the window at the people who think they know who they are, where they belong, and the people they say they love, I settle down a bit in my seat. I wouldn’t have to deal with those people. I’d only have to deal with the ones who aren’t blind, who go around knowing that their time on the earth is short, and just wanna live it. Without responsibilities.

Without friends.

Without love.

Just like I’ve always been livin’.

I pull out a notebook, and sketch down a few lines while I wait for the train to get moving. Periodically, I glance at the door, waiting for someone to join me.

Was I dreading it, or wanting it?

I glance down, and realize what I’d written.

There is no glory without shame

There is no future without past

Cry out her name

Make the agony last

Shriek and howl

Wait for the dawn

The Devil’s gone on the prowl

The time of light has gone

Come take me down

If you must

Come take me down

If your cause is just

But what is glory without shame

What is love without her name?

A girl, who had slipped in without being noticed while I was singing to myself, applauded, along with a few other people I had also not seen.

I gave them a cool nod, and, realizing that by going catatonic and silent—like my instincts were screaming at me to—would only make me suspicious and weak-looking, and I automatically reverted to friendly socialite behavior, hiding behind a wall of cheery perfection while, inside, I sneered out at them.

If only they knew how many of their friends lied….

When the wheels screeched, signaling our arrival in Venice, I said farewell politely and left, singing the song to myself.

But what is glory without shame

What is love without her name?

Welcome to Venice.

Compartment Three, Occupant Two: Adal

I sat across from the singer, eying him carefully. He was singing softly, his eyes closed, not reading the lines rapidly sketched down on the page he held in his hands. It was a really good song. Depressing, though. It expressed a deep and profound knowledge of the agonies of this world, and also a rather good love of opposites. The final line, ‘There is no love without her name’, was strange, because earlier in the song he had sung of her name causing him agony, and when he sung the final line it made me sad, because he loved her so much. So much that he didn’t believe in love if it wasn’t for her.

When his song ended, we applauded politely, and you could see in his eyes that he was shocked by the realization that he had company, but he hid it well and automatically reverted to being very social, hiding his awkwardness and startlement with charm.

He was good at that.

Was he another one of me?

Together, we ease the quiet fears of each other and the group alike, not out of any desire to be friends with them but only out of a need to be there for them, make their days brighter.

But why did I feel that Jared’s every word was false?

Was it because of his song?

Yes, but something else as well….

Curious and hoping I could solve his mystery, I looked deeper into his eyes, and found my answer.

His eyes.

They held mockery.

He was mocking us by being kind. 

But for what reason?

Rarely have I come upon someone who…interests me as greatly as Jared. Whenever I do, however, they are either lifelong friends, people I can share the burden of the world with, or lifelong enemies, people who seek to trick me into passing my share of the load to them so they can drop it, and laugh at the look of betrayal on my face.

But I have a responsibility to not choose the people I help.

If he needed a friend, than I would be there. If I could help him in any way, shape or form, I would.

Why, you ask?

Simple.

Because, if I didn’t help the detritus of the world, who would? Whether they deserved it or not, I would help them.

Because no one had helped ME.

And I have to prove that I will be the best person I can be. No matter what I have to do, I will help them and prove to them that there is someone you can rely on. Someone who will be there for you. No matter what.

When the time comes to leave the train, I pass the enigma that is Jared my email address, knowing that, if I was to prove I was truly who I said I was, I would need to be there for him.

Sighing but happy enough to have a difficult project ahead of me—after all, I couldn’t relax anywhere when there were things to be done, not even in the City on Water—I set off to find my hotel and the friends I seek to help.

Welcome to Venice, where all you have to do to commit suicide is walk off the edge of the street.

It was going to be a long week.

Compartment Three, Occupant Three: Stephanie

To tell you the truth, I don’t feel too bad about what I did to Joel. I knew that he was probably on the train with me, somewhere—even after I had ditched him, he had a tendency to pop up unannounced and uninvited wherever me and the guys went.

By guys, I meant Adal, and his twin (but rather moody) twin brother Micah. Those two were insanely alike—they both wanted so badly to be the best friend in the world, they are insanely good at knowing what people are feeling, they both are creative, wise, and willing to give everything out of the desire to be good people.

But how they do so is how they differ.

Adal is intelligent, wise, a mover and a shaker. He is tolerant of other’s beliefs, but is swift to fight against anyone he perceives as someone doing wrong. Micah is the same, but when he is done with righteous indignation he doesn’t fly into other tasks, doesn’t apologize swiftly and give reasons before being filled with a need to help with the problems the people around him have; no, he becomes moody and unhappy, becoming tactless and angry.

I do too, sometimes. But not as often. And I, unlike him, am not as focused on doing our best to make people happy.

I like people. They interest me.

But not enough to care.

You see, I am always the most interesting person in every room. I have always thought that, and I have always known it was true.

And, it was also a defense mechanism. No one can hurt you if you keep to yourself.

And in those foster homes? Keeping your mind hidden was important. Hide from ‘em often enough, they’ll lose interest in you. I know that all too well.

But hiding from those two didn’t work. They sought me out, became my friend, blew up the wall of creativity I’d put up around myself with dynamite, and let me shine.

I don’t know if I hate ‘em or love ‘em for what they did to me.

But they were worth it.

I listen to Jared’s song, hear his sorrow and anger. It was beautiful and sad—remind you of anyone? But I ain’t beautiful. I’m just me.

I’m just me.

And, now, ‘me’ is in Venice with her three greatest friends in the world: Adal, Micah, and myself.

Welcome to Venice.

Compartment Three, Occupant Four: Micah

I hated myself for what I’d done. I knew the reasons behind ditching Joel, but he’d been a friend! He’d been someone I’d cared about, and I’d hurt him. How could I ever forgive myself?

Beside me, Adal charmed a smile from the sorrowful—but grinning—Stephanie and the strange singer Jared. I let him. Why did I care? Couldn’t they just leave me alone?

Couldn’t they just leave me alone?

I knew what Adal—that jerk!-always pointed out when I cried out that need for being alone: “Micah, didn’t you tell me a while back that you wished they hadn’t left you alone?” 

And it was true that I’d said it. When the ‘rents finally kicked out that jerk of a foster kid a while back, and Adal had come to talk to me about how he’d punched me in the face and no one’d done anything about it—not even my own brother!—I’d yelled at him about why he’d left me alone.

He’d answered, “Because every time I tried to help you’d yell at me.”

We’d parted company, ignoring each other, causing ourselves pain because we were hurting each other.

I hated the fact that we were so close. Okay, yes, Adal was a good guy, but I am just getting tired of his company. He never changes—he always wants to be good, to be the best. He loves creating, and he has a ton of hobbies that keep him busy from dawn until two a.m. on the weekends, but he’s so boring about them.

And neither of us like people very much. We find them rather annoying. Too much work.

I sighed, and listened to Jared’s song. 

Seeking to help me out of my funk, my ever-so-patient brother clasped me on the shoulder, drawing a look from the two other passengers in the compartment. One of them, the young girl, kept talking a mile a minute, the older guy in glasses and a suit talking to her quietly, his look patronizing.

I gave them a cool nod, reminding myself to smack my brother on the face when we were alone and remind him about the folly of being comforted.

But I let him be, as Stephanie leaned her golden-haired head against mine, the scent of her bouncy curls tickling my nose, their softness tickling my cheek.

Oh, man , did I ever love her.

Did I just say that?

That I loved her?

I shrugged her off, angry at her intruding on me, making me feel this way.

Love was weak.

I would not be weak.

Glaring out over her head at the world flying by, I frowned my way into Venice.

My brother and Stephanie both ignored me when I got off the train.

Why did they leave me alone?

Sighing when I remembered my brother’s words, I followed them into the City on Water.

Welcome to Venice.

Compartment Three, Occupant Five: Laura

Look at this train! It was so big! Were trains always this big?

I couldn’t believe that things could be so big….

Wow, did the big wide world have a lot in store for a kid like me!

Gray holds on to my shoulder, keeping me from bouncing in my seat as the train starts moving. He would be such an awesome guy if he only relaxed! But when was the last time that good ol’ Gray cracked a smile?

I talked to him every moment, smiling. I kept repeating how big this train was, how awesomely awesome the fact that he was taking me to Venice was, how much fun we were going to have, trying to get a big grin on his face to match mine.

I knew it was never going to work, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work on the other people on the train!

And that unhappy singer…. Man, did, he need to smile every once and a while!

Unfortunately, every time I turned to talk to them or raised my voice too much Gray’d give me a whack on the arm. We’d talked—a lot—about me being annoying, which I so wasn’t, but it was Gray and I was willing to take anything from him. And he was totally cool about it—he’d never whack me harder than he needed to, even though I thought that he didn’t need to whack me at all, because people like being happy, and I make them happy because I’m happy. Get it?

I bounce up and down in my seat, Gray giving me a casual whack to keep me calm. But he seemed fine with it; we were going to VENICE! How couldn’t I be happy?!?!

I listened to the conversations going on around me. One of the twins—the non-grouchy one—was doing his very best to make the unhappy singer smile, and he was succeeding. His friend was moping, and I kept shooting her a smile and a funny face, hoping she’d smile back, my face full of excitement. 

WE WERE GOING TO VENICE! 

I couldn’t wait to walk on the bridges, hear the laughter, the songs! And the food, Gray tells me, is AWESOME!

Gray should know about Venice. He’s been there twelve times, and he loves it! It was only this year that he finally caved and invited me along, but who cares? I was finally going! I was finally going!

When the tires screech into the station I snatch Gray’s hand, leap off the train, and sprint to find the stores.

Welcome to Venice!

Compartment Three, Occupant Six: Gray

Oh, I am so sorry, Venice. I had to bring her along, or she would kill me. I had been her foster parent for two years now, and because I had to go to Venice every two months on business, she kept begging me to bring her along, even though I knew she was likely to cause me to lose clients.

I hated her. She was so cheerful and bouncy and inanely stupid. She failed every test she took, but that didn’t affect her: She just kept running around, saying everything that popped into her head, bouncing off the walls of everywhere I took her. Oh, god, how I hated her.

But I’d made a promise to her mother on her death bed that I would look after her little Laura. And I wasn’t about to back off on that promise.

I’d adopted her without complaint—I had known the girl since she was but a baby, but in the two years after her mother died, she got happier and happier, and I knew she was hiding her pain with a mask of insane happiness. It worried me—especially because I remembered the surly little girl she’d been before—but it was her way of dealing with it, and I had to accept it. She wasn’t me. She wasn’t as strong as me. She was just…Laura. There’s no other way you can put it: She was who she was, and I couldn’t change her.

I didn’t regret taking her in. Eleanor had been my best friend, and I had promised to her that I would take care of her, and it was the best thing I could do for my friend—the last thing I could do for her except help her grief-stricken brother arrange the funeral.

Attempting to put these dark thoughts, these musings on the past, from my head, I pulled out my laptop and started work on the floor plans of the renovations I was doing in Venice. Humming to myself under my breath, I quickly got them in order—I’d been doing this job for five years now, and I could do it in seconds no matter where I was—and waited patiently for the train to stop.

I loved Venice. I truly did, with all my heart. I loved the silence, peace, tranquility, and freedom its twisting narrow streets and thousands of canals afforded me. I loved riding in a gondola, smiling and calling to the familiar faces as they drift by in the water, or winking at the couples who lay curled together in the little hidden alcoves between buildings. I just loved the city….

Feeling the whimsical love in my heart growing, I quickly stamped it down. If Laura saw me smile, she might get even worse. I remained stoic and unemotional as the train screeched its way into the best city in the world, the sound I hear so often in my dreams, no matter where I am.

Welcome to Venice.

Hopefully Laura won’t ruin it for me.