First off, I’m excited to announce that I have a Middle Grade novel coming out in July called DIARY OF A GIRL NEXT DOOR: BETTY, published by Archie Comics as part of their new Riverdale Diaries series!

I wrote the story, which is accompanied by wonderful illustrations by Bill Galvan. It’s in the vein of Diary of a Wimpy Kid and all the other funny and charming Diary-style books that have been coming out for middle grade readers.

I had a blast with this project and I’m excited to promote it in New York this August as part of Bryant Park’s Word for Word series. More details on that as we get closer!

As far as WINTER WILDER goes, I’ve been making progress on that front as well. I was temporarily sidetracked due to a very time-intensive, full-time character design job I had for the last six months. Now that I’m back to my old schedule, I’m putting the focus back on my writing again.

My manuscript is juuuuust about ready to send out. But I don’t want to start querying until I’m 110% sure that it’s as tight as it can be. I’m still working on bringing down the word count to a more reasonable level. In the meantime, I’ve had a few beta readers read it to give me their notes. I’ve gotten some good feedback that I’m going to apply before I send it out. Fortunately, most of the notes I’ve received so far are minor, and the consensus is that my story flows well! I’ve also been working on crafting a perfect query letter, which is another behemoth all in itself!

A while back I participated in an online query letter workshop with one of my dream agents, Holly Root. She gave me some really encouraging feedback about my query. The one thing she mentioned is that I must find a way to present Winter Wilder in such a way that sets it apart from all the other paranormal that’s already out there. I know this is my most difficult challenge. While I truly believe Winter Wilder is different from any of the other paranormal novels out there, summing up why in just one paragraph is a challenge. In other words, I’m still working on my hook.

I also just took another online workshop in conjunction with the Talcott Notch Literary Agency. I was paired with agent Rachael Dugas to fine-tune my first 10 pages, since these are what most agents will be reading in addition to my query. Obviously, I want to make my opening as compelling as possible because I want the agent to request more!

I felt very positive overall because Ms.Dugas felt that my writing was very strong, as well as my voice and pacing. Her notes were fairly minor- mostly adding a little more detail here and there, as well as a couple other minor edits. But, after applying her notes, I feel like my opening is extremely solid, and I feel really excited to get querying!

You might notice that I’ve removed the sample chapters I had posted here previously. While I’m excited to share my work with the world, I was advised by Ms. Dugas to hold back. Obviously, the internet is a risky place to post anything you don’t want to be potentially plagiarized, and while I don’t believe in operating from a place of paranoia or fear, I think given how much time I’ve spent on this project, it’s prudent to hold off on sharing while I undergo the querying process. If I’m unable to sell the book to either an agent or a publisher, I will look at other options such as posting it online or as an ebook… but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it!

So that’s what’s been going on. Now that my schedule is back to normal I’ll be updating here more often, so stay tuned!

Last year I had a number of freelance projects that kept my schedule pretty full, including some more writing work for Archie, some comic scripting work for another client (can’t say who, yet!), and a little drawing gig for Marvel (Marvel Now What?! #1). A lot of fun projects!

But even though I had a lot of work to do, I am happy to report that I finally completed my second draft of Winter Wilder. It was a major re-haul of the story with a number of significant changes and additions from the first draft. In fact, there may have been TOO many additions, as my second draft clocked out at 115k words!!

That’s a LOT of pages.

Most YA is around the 70-90k range, so in order to be taken seriously by an agent, I need to make some cuts and get it down to around 90k. I’ve taken a short break from it so that I can read it again with fresh eyes and undergo the task of murdering all my darlings, but I don’t think that process will take very long, and I hope to start seriously querying agents within the month.

After working on this project for over 3 years now, I’m ready for it to become published in 2014, one way or another!

For those interested, I’ve updated the Sample Chapters 1 and 2 on this site with my latest revisions. Thanks for all those who have asked me about this project and who have been offering me their support over the years! I think I may have given up a long time ago if it weren’t for the encouragement of others!

Thank you for reading, and check back to see my progress as I start the scary process of querying!

I’m hosting a little giveaway where I’ll be giving away 5 signed, doodled copies of Sabrina volume 1. There’s many ways to earn extra entries and the contest will run for a week, so spread the word!

Good luck!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

CHAPTER 2

They’re Fenris too. Fenris like me. Suddenly, I’m not alone. Suddenly there exists a possibility, however slim, of being around people where I can be myself; without having to hide this huge secret.

At first, I’m furious that my mom didn’t divulge this information sooner, but the fury quickly gives way to curiosity and then excitement.

They’re Fenris too. Fenris like me.

I demand to know everything there is to know about my estranged family. My mom patiently describes them to me, strangers that may soon be part of my life. My paternal Grandfather, Kingston, overbearing and old-fashioned. My Grandma, Grace, distant and moody. My aunt, Abbey, my dad’s sister, who was once my mom’s good friend and who could cook up a mean lasagna. “She was the only normal one of the bunch. The only one I ever missed,” my mom adds.

She continues to list additional names that wash over me. It’s hard to keep all these faceless people straight in my mind. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll be meeting them soon.

They’re Fenris too. Fenris like me.

My mom warns not to get too excited, because they may not want anything to do with me. But I can’t help but feel hopeful. After all, we share a secret in common. Plus, whatever tension my dad may have left behind has nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even born! How could they possibly judge me for that?

They have to accept me. They just have to.

***

“Here we are!” my mom announces as we pull into the driveway of a little, nondescript gray duplex situated on a short hill overlooking the Valhalla train station. A train has just pulled in, announcing its presence with several loud blares of its horn. This, along with its screechy brakes, seems to ricochet off the neighboring houses like an industrial banshee.

“That’s not going to get annoying, or anything,” I grunt as I unfold out of the car like a piece of crumpled origami. I flap my arms and kick my legs, trying to get the blood flowing into my cramped limbs as I slowly turn three-sixty to inspect our new neighborhood. It seems quiet and suburban; several medium sized houses sit clustered close together, but with enough trees and bushes planted between them to give the illusion of privacy.

I gaze up to the top of the hill where our street ends, and the houses come to a stop. A wall of trees, mostly evergreens, rise up behind them, obscuring the sky with their branches. Having grown up in Venice Beach, the concept of forests is intriguing to me. Of course, Topanga Canyon and Griffith Park were nearby, but even among the trees there, it still felt like a desert. This feels like the kind of forest you read about in fairy tales – wild, and wet, and dark.

“So what do you think of Viking heaven?” my mom quips, referring to the town’s name of Valhalla.

Before I can reply, the sound of a door opening brings my attention back to our duplex. A middle-aged lady with crazy, wiry black hair and a broad grin emerges from the left side, waving as though we were old friends. “You’ve arrived!”

“Our landlady, Joyce,” my mom says with a wry smile.

As Joyce stomps down the stairs leading from the front porch to greet us, my smile fades and my blood runs cold. Out of the door and at her heels is an enormous German Shepherd, tail wagging. I take an involuntary step backwards, stumbling slightly. My mom casts a wide-eyed glance my way that seems to say, don’t move. As if I could, I’m practically paralyzed with fear.

Joyce is saying something, but I can’t hear a thing. Time seems to stop as the world blurs around me, bringing only the dog into sharp focus. It has caught onto my scent, has locked eyes with me from the porch.

Instantly, I’m brought back to the memory of the attack:

A flash of teeth.

Yellow eyes.

Searing pain and so much blood.

The earthy scent of matted fur and the low, guttural sound of a dog’s growl.

Abruptly, I realize the sound is real and coming from the dog, whose body has gone rigid. Its ears have flattened, and its tail held stiff as its lips curl back to reveal pink gums and sharp, terrible teeth.

“Mishka, NO!” Joyce cries as the dog lunges towards me.

I shriek in horror and crouch in place, attempting to shield my face because I know from experience that running only makes it that much worse.

I fully expect to feel the hot slice of teeth tearing at my limbs at any second, but instead I hear a pained yelp and look up to see Joyce grasping the dog’s scruff in both of her white-knuckled hands. Her face is as pale with terror as mine is, but the dog has mercifully stopped its attack and now whimpers pathetically, rolling pleading eyes towards its owner. My mom stands nearby, her hands fluttering helplessly at her sides.

Joyce quickly drags the dog toward the front door, scolding it. The dog is now a different animal, hunched and cowering, her tail tucked between her legs as Joyce leads her into the house.

The slam of the door is my signal to relax, though I’m still quaking like jelly as my mom rushes over to me. “That was scary,” she says, breathless. “Are you ok?”

“No!” I snap. Now that the threat has passed, I feel deeply embarrassed for my cowering reaction. But I can’t help it – it’s practically a reflex by now.

“You’re telling me we’re moving in next door to… to that?!” I cry, fighting tears. “You know how I am with dogs!”

“I know! I know,” my mom says evenly, holding her hands out bracingly as though I were the beast needing taming. “Honey, I chose this place because Joyce allows dogs! It’ll make things easier in the long run… you know, in case we ever need to explain the noises.”

“What!”

“I mean, we could always say we’re dog sitting,” she explains with a weak smile.

She’s not taking this seriously, and that only adds to my fury. A nauseating feeling slides over the surface of my skin, like oil on water.

I flex my fingers quickly. Fingers, fingers, fingers. You have fingers, not claws.

My mom places a cool hand on my wrist, breaking the spell, and smiles at me reassuringly.

“It’ll be ok, you’ll see. This will be good for you… it’ll help you manage your phobia.”

“It’s not a phobia!”

“Well, whatever it is, dogs can sense your fear and that’s why they act that way.”

“Mom, stop blaming me and taking their side all the time!”

It doesn’t matter whether it’s a pit bull or a Pomeranian. Dogs act weird around me, usually staring me down or barking and growling. My mom may think it’s because they can smell my fear, but I know it’s more than that.

They can smell me.

We’re still arguing when Joyce returns, red-faced and breathless. “Oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry!” she cries. “I really don’t know what came over Mishka… she never acts like that, I swear! Are you ok?”

I grunt in response and Joyce wrings her hands nervously. “Really, I’m so embarrassed.”

“It’s fine,” My mom says, stepping forward to shake Joyce’s hand. “Animals are hard to predict sometimes.”

Joyce nods, still looking troubled, but takes my mom’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Winnie. I’m sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

“It was memorable at least! This is my daughter, Winter,” my mom says, nudging me forward.

“Winter, what an unusual name! Very pretty, though! And just in time for the season!” Joyce says, with a weak chuckle.

I force a smile. I’m all too used to people commenting on my hippie name with various puns and jokes.

“You must be tired, especially after all that excitement, so I’ll let you get settled in. Let me know if you need anything.”

Compared to the vibrant and quirky Venice beach bungalow my mom and I left behind, this place feels bland… But it does have a big unfinished basement with a washer and dryer, and my mom is thrilled. “This will make a great Change room!” she says cheerfully, as though she weren’t discussing a prison to contain me during my episodes.

We also have a little fenced in grassy yard along with a back patio and a lonely little charcoal grill, waiting for summer.

Stepping out, I hear Mishka on the other side of the fence, snuffling loudly, scraping against the wood. Horrified, I quickly retreat inside.

“You’re ok,” my mom says, patting my back, the incident already well behind her. “Come on, let’s unpack the car.”

I trudge after her. She just doesn’t understand. But why would she? No one does.

***

Later that night, I lie on my inflatable air mattress and stare at the unnatural shadows cast on my wall by the orange glow of a streetlamp outside. It all feels so weird and unfamiliar… as if this is just another night in a motel. The moving truck has to yet to arrive with our stuff, so the room is bare, and cell-like. An empty canvas that doesn’t yet feel like home.

I have an east-facing window that looks out towards the end of the street where the wall of trees beckons. It’s just so different from living in Venice, where I could fling open the windows and taste the salty sea air and hear the commotion of cars, drum circles, and people skateboarding down the street. Everything here seems so… still. So devoid of life.

I’m just about to doze off when the ringing of my cell phone jolts me awake just after midnight. My heart leaps.

“I wanted to call you as soon as I got off work!” Jeff’s voice exclaims on the other end.

“Here I am going to bed, and your night’s just getting started.” I sound wistful, but in reality I can’t stop smiling. I just love hearing his voice.

“Hardly. I’m beat. Work was shitty today. It’s weird without you here.”

I’d often hang out at the café to read or do homework during Jeff’s shift. I loved watching Jeff dart around, expertly making lattes, wiping tables, and charming the old bohemian ladies who were regulars at the café. It made me proud to see him act so responsibly; so different from the way he was at school. Now and then he’d squeeze my shoulder as he passed by my table, or bring me a cappuccino, a heart shape swirled into the foam.

“I miss you so much already,” I say, blinking furiously to stop tears from forming. I don’t want to cry right now. I don’t want him to know how sad I am.

“I miss you too. I’m already saving up so I can come visit you!”

“That would be awesome! But I have to warn you… there doesn’t seem to be much to do around here.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d just want to see you. We could do nothing and I’d be happy.”

“Nothing? Are you sure about that?” I tease.

I can hear Jeff’s breathy chuckle on the other end of the line. “Well… maybe not ‘nothing’.”

I can’t stop grinning as we discuss the possibilities.

“Night, Jeff. And… I…I love…you,” I say, deliberately this time, testing it out. But unlike the first time, when it felt so natural, the words tumble awkwardly from my mouth and make me flush.

“You too!” Jeff replies, and the line goes dead.

The following silence is like a blow to my gut.

You too?

“You too” feels emptier, falser. Maybe Jeff doesn’t really love me after all. Maybe he just said it because he felt pressured to. Even saying the words “I love you” to Jeff tonight felt fake, like trying on a new outfit that isn’t me.

Doubt begins to seep into me like poison, creeping into my gut. I press my face into my pillow and beg for sleep to stamp out the uncomfortable feelings that are building inside me.

***

She visits me again that night. Each time, it feels so familiar, like I’ve done it all before, but I can never quite remember what happened the last time, and so I always approach her with renewed trust. Her red hair snakes around her face as though underwater or charged with static electricity, beautiful and horrifying all at once. She smiles bitterly at me as I cower at her feet, and I worry I’m displeasing her.

I cast a nervous glance at the enormous skeletal wolves that lurk around us, circling, panting, watching, and I press low to the ground, my ears flat against my head, hoping to escape their notice. I feel her cold fingers under my chin as she forces me to turn toward her, to look directly into her coal black eyes.

Then she sneers, nails digging into my face, and spits strange, jagged words at me that make no sense, but sound like a taunt. She is mocking me. I’m reminded of my cowardice in front of the landlady’s dog and feel deeply ashamed. Now sticks are raining down around me, pelting my skin and landing crisscrossed in angular patterns across the dirt. The shapes look familiar, almost alphabetical, but their meanings are frustratingly just out of reach.

With a bony finger, the corpse-woman points at the fallen sticks, but I can’t make sense of it. I look to her helplessly. She hisses.

The silver chain is now around my neck and I whine piteously as she yanks it, burning it into my flesh.

I wake at once, gasping and tearing at my throat, my air bed pitching unsteadily beneath me.

“Just a dream. Just a stupid, psycho dream,” I whisper to myself as I flop back onto my bed. I try to slow and steady my breathing. Instead I feel like crying. My empty room feels so strange, the trees that stand outside feel so dark, so alien. My gut twists in dread. I’m frightened to be here. But why? I can’t say.

I remember my phone call with Jeff, the “you too”, the uncertainty that followed. But even though I try to recapture the joy and hope I felt the other night, all I feel now are sorrow and homesickness.

What am I doing here? I should be home with Jeff and Dreya under the California sunshine. I’m so angry that my entire life has been upended. Angry at my mom for taking that stupid job, angry at myself for being too afraid to stay in California, even angry at Jeff because I doubt he’s missing me right now as much as I miss him. Everything was perfect. And now nothing seems right.

I begin to shake and my breathing gets more labored. I’m having a panic attack. And panic attacks usually lead to one thing.

“Fingers, fingers, fingers,” I whisper, clenching and unclenching my hands. I’ve been doing so well at holding off my Change lately, but something in my body is betraying me. Something in my body wants this Change, needs it.

“Nooo… please,” I whisper miserably, but it’s too late.

Even though I know what to expect by now, it still feels so strange. My vision distorts – the colors change, growing more intense as my head starts to spin. I feel like I’m high, like when I tried pot with Dreya. Then come the frightening noises in my head. The low whispering voices, primitive and harsh, that grow in intensity – until they explode in a guttural cacophony of sound in some ancient, beastly language I don’t understand.

Covering my ears, I hunch over as I feel my spine involuntarily arch. Pain and pleasure mingle together as my bones begin to pop and snap into place. I start tearing off my PJs, but I’m too slow, and my hands have become clumsy, formless things, studded with claws that tear at the very clothing I’m trying to save. The fabric begins to rip around my expanding form.

I stumble from my room and bang on my mom’s door.

“Maaaa–!” I try to call her name, but what comes out is just a bleat, an animal noise. Her bedroom door flies open, and she takes one horrified look at me.

“Come, quickly!” She grabs my forearm and roughly drags me through the hall, and down the stairs to the first floor.  My skin tingles like static as fur pushes through my skin, a million dots of sensation cascade along the lines of my body, needlepoints of sparkling light, and my nose elongates into a snout, my entire face pulling and stretching in an awful, luxurious way.

“Please, please try to be quiet!” she urges as I start to growl involuntarily. She slams open the basement door and we practically hurtle down the stairs into the dark. The concrete is cold against my bare feet and I hunch over as fangs push thickly through my gums, and my sense of smell explodes into a thousand fragments, both familiar and new. I smell the plaster of the walls, the mildew growing behind the washer and dryer, the flowery detergent from the last load and, most of all, my mother. Her soft skin, buttery and moist.

No, no, no!  I tell myself, averting my eyes even as I have fleeting but terrifying visions of sinking my teeth into the tender flesh between her neck and shoulder, to crunching her delicate finger bones in my maw, feeling them snap and fragment around my tongue. NO!

But I am hungry. So, hungry. My stomach clenches in fury.

“Stay here!” my mom gasps. “I’ll bring you meat. Just try not to howl or make too much noise!”

She bolts upstairs, her nightgown flying behind her, and I hear the door slam shut. I’m trapped. I pace the floor in a rage, I hate it here. I hate myself here. The walls seem to close in on me, the cement feels cold and smothering. All the artificial smells here offend me and fuel my anger. Only the promise of meat keeps me under control. Meat, meat, meat.

The wait feels like an eternity. My mind spirals into famished misery as my thoughts turn more and more to bloodshed, to violence. I am not a killer. I remind myself. I am a monster, but I am not a killer.

I start to dig at the cement, my paws scrabbling on the floor, my claws raking the surface into dust. I’m digging to distract myself from violence, digging to get away, digging to bury myself in darkness.

I’m going insane.

And then I hear the sound of a door opening. My mom creeps down the stairs, bringing with her the tantalizing scent of fresh blood. Her trembling arms hold several packages of raw meat.

Oh, the meat. I can hardly wait for it. It’s all I can do to resist pouncing on my mother to snatch it from her as my stomach clenches in desire.

She tosses the packages at me, not wanting to get too close, and I leap upon them, devouring them in hungry gulps. The chicken cutlets and raw steak are unpleasantly chill having been recently pulled from some grocery store bin. I long for something warm and still pumping with life. But this will do.

I am not a killer.

I finish the last of the meat, my lips smacking as I lick traces of blood from my maw. I feel much better now, more sane, more in control.

My mother, who left the room while I ate, has returned with a bucket of water. She seems visibly relieved to see I have been satiated. I gulp the water down thirstily as she plugs a sound-maker into the wall. Soon, soothing sounds of the ocean fill the tiny room.

“You ok?” she asks, tentatively reaching out a hand. Since I can’t speak, we’ve found other ways to communicate. If I still have an urge to bite her, I will growl and she knows to step away. But if it’s safe, I will place my nose in her palm, which is what I do now.

She slumps to the floor, pulling me onto her lap. Her hands comb through my fur, scratching me behind my ears. Her gentle touch keeps me calmer and more under control.

“Oh, Winter,” she sighs. “What happened?”

She knows the Change is almost always brought on by an emotional episode.

“You’ll learn to control this,” she assures me. “It’ll be ok.”

I close my eyes and let out a long breath as her fingers sift through my mane. As always, I’m reminded of the Tarot card for Strength, which I have tucked into my journal. It depicts a woman gently holding open a lion’s mouth. She’s fearless, even smiling a little as she tames the fearsome beast. My mother is this woman.

She’s strength.’

And I’m the beast.

© 2010-2014 Tania del Rio

CHAPTER 1

 “I love you.”

The words escape my lips before I realize what I am saying.  I hold my breath as a wave of sheer terror overcomes me. My skin ripples, my teeth ache.

Jeff and I still haven’t exchanged the big “L” word yet.  I’ve been meaning to save it for whenever we might be together in person again, or at least until he said it first.

But there it is.

The silence on the other end of my iPhone feels infinite. With each passing millisecond quicksand sinks into my chest, a sickening chasm. But then Jeff’s voice returns, almost inaudible. “I love you too, Winter.”

The sinking feeling transforms into a somersault of pure joy and elation. I can’t help but let out a nervous laugh as Jeff chuckles shyly in return. What a sense of relief. It’s finally out in the open! We may have only been dating a month, but I feel like I’ve been waiting to exchange those three magical words ever since I first laid eyes on Jeff, over 3 years ago.

It’s a dream come true.

We eventually say goodnight and hang up, but I can’t stop grinning like a fool as I pace excited circles around the motel parking lot, somewhere in mid-Ohio in mid- September. The frigid air is a far cry from the balmy Los Angeles weather I’m used to, but I don’t even feel the cold as I replay Jeff’s words in my mind over and over again.

Finally, my adrenaline rush fades, and I quietly return to the room. My mom is fast asleep, her jagged snores cutting through the dark. It doesn’t bother me. I lie on the starchy pillow and smile at the ceiling and the intermittent blink of the fire-alarm. It’s hard to drift off to sleep, but when I finally do my dreams are filled with a joyous mix of bright colors, soothing sounds, the smell of Jeff’s cinnamon breath, and the taste of his ocean skin on my tongue.

But, of course, I can’t even have that.

Because she always takes it away. Just when I start to feel good about something, just when things start to go my way, she invades my dreams to haunt me, to put me in my place.

She has a wicked smile and a lenticular face that shifts between frostlike beauty and sunken, corpselike horror. Her hair is the color of dried blood and floats around her ever-changing face in gauzy, web-like strands. As always, she is flanked by black skeletal wolves, their eyes glowing like lanterns in the purple twilight. In this dream, I’m not a girl, but a Fenris. My tail is curled between my legs, my ears flattened against my head, as I regard her with a mixture of fear and reverence. A pale, soft hand reaches out, beckoning me, and I go to her trustingly. The wolves watch with glistening eyes, poised with muscles tensed.

When I’m finally within her reach she snarls and, in a flash, a thin silver chain is around my neck, choking me, cutting into my flesh. The purple slash of her mouth opens and she shrieks words at me – sharp, angular sounds that I do not comprehend. My inability to understand seems to anger her further and, with a dreadful baying, the wolves pounce upon me in a blur of fur and fangs, smothering me in chilling blackness.

I howl in fury and fear and wake in sweat as cold as marble.

“Oh, God.” The bed sheets are twisted around me. I thrash out of the covers, my pulse thumping like a drum, blood thrumming painfully in my ears.

“Not now, not now!” I whisper, kneading my hands furiously. But it’s already starting to happen.

“Mom!” I yell, and she leaps out of her bed and to my side in an instant, one cool hand on my shoulder, the other fumbling for the bedside light.

A click, and the lamp illuminates the room. Even now, after all this time, I see fear in her eyes as she struggles to repress her horror. “Oh, Winter!” she moans. “Please, not here!”

“I’m trying, mom!” I grit my teeth and try to fight the ache in my bones, try to quell the shaking.

“Shh, shh,” my mom says gently as she takes my hands in hers, massaging my fingers. “Say it with me.”

“Fingers… fingers… fingers,” I grunt against a thickening tongue. “I have fingers, not claws. Fingers, fingers, fingers. I have hands, not paws.”

It takes everything I have, in addition to my mom’s soothing voice, her human touch, to keep me from submitting to the Change. It’s exhausting to fight it, but ultimately so much better than the alternative. I win this round.

I stagger to the bathroom to vomit.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” my mom asks, knocking lightly on the door. “Coast is clear?”

“Yes, mom,” I say, annoyed with her, despite all her help and concern. “Go back to bed. I’ll be out in a bit.”

I stand, wiping my mouth as I stare at myself in the mirror. My usually tanned face looks pale and drawn, my brown eyes are bloodshot, my shoulder-length blonde dreads stick out at weird, messy angles. I look like a hot mess. Or rather, just a mess.

I brush my teeth to get rid of the taste of bile in my mouth and marvel, as always, at how flat and herbivorous my teeth are. Someone looking at me would probably take me for your average 16-year-old Venice Beach hipster. They would never suspect that I could turn into such a beast. It doesn’t even make sense to me.

My hand drifts to the pendant at my breast, clutches it like an anchor. It’s during weird times like this, under a fluorescent light in a shitty motel bathroom, that I miss my dad the most. He would know what to do. My mom does the best she can, but she only knows so much. She’s not a Fenris.

She’s not a freak like me.

***

The night before my mom and I left L.A., my best friend, Dreya, Jeff, and I met at Dockweiler beach for a little bonfire farewell party.

My mom even let me stay out way past my curfew. Maybe she was just being generous, or maybe she felt guilty about tearing me away from everything I loved so she could pursue a new editorial job in Valhalla, New York.

I couldn’t blame her for everything though, not completely. She did say I could stay with Dreya until the end of the school year, and even through summer, if that’s what I really wanted. The offer was tempting… so tempting, because it would mean I could spend more time with my friends, with Jeff. But none of them, not even Dreya, knew about my Change, and I wasn’t about to risk their lives or sanity by telling them about it either.

The truth is, I just don’t think I can handle it without my mom at my side.

Dockweiler beach was chilly that night as we huddled around the bonfire, looking out over a swath of gray ocean and gray gulls. Dreya, known for her explosive freckles, and a temper to match, had managed to procure a flask of whiskey that she passed between us. It tasted awful, but it warmed my insides, and gave me a pleasant glowy feeling as I snuggled against Jeff.

“I wish you could have stayed at least until your birthday,” Dreya said with a sigh. My birthday fell on Halloween, and we always planned something epic to celebrate, but this year would end that tradition.

Despite it all, the uneasy truth weighed upon us… regardless of my move, goodbyes were inevitable after our senior year, when we’d set off for college, or dead-end jobs, and our separate adult lives. None of us knew what the future held. I was just the first to break away from the structure of our tightly knit group, and we all secretly feared the day when it would break apart even further until it crumbled completely.

But I didn’t want to think about that as I nestled in Jeff’s arms, warmed by the fire and wishing the night could go on forever. Eventually Dreya gave me a knowing look and got up to leave, saying she had to get home before it was too late. We exchanged sniffly goodbyes and swore to text each other every day, and visit each other soon.

And then it was just me and Jeff laying next to a fading fire. It was only 10:30; I didn’t have to be home until midnight. “I have an idea of what we can do until then,” Jeff murmured, nuzzling my neck.

We had made out plenty in the past month, trying to make up for lost time, but we stopped short of sex. Despite how desperately I loved Jeff and desired every inch of him, a part of me wasn’t ready. Everything had happened so fast… after I had announced I was moving, he kissed me for the first time, and our relationship sprung out of nowhere. We were like starving lovers, devouring each other with urgency, constantly aware of the clock that ticked over us, counting down the weeks, the days, and now the hours and minutes to my departure.

My heart ached for a slower love, one that has time to develop, one that can grow and unfurl into something beautiful and mature. I didn’t want to rush things just because I was leaving. I wanted it to be just right.

Jeff tilted me back onto the beach blanket and kissed me tenderly all over my face, my neck, the scar on my collarbone. I ran my fingers through his soft brown curls, memorizing his face by touch – his long nose and bowed lips, the faint stubble on his chin.

His hands fluttered over my body – I could smell the scent of his perspiration mingled with his desire, he still seemed nervous at times, unsure of where to touch or how long to linger in any one spot, or perhaps he was just anxious to touch everywhere all at once, desperate to feel every bit of me before it was too late. I enjoyed his eager and nervous affection, his puppydog desire to please. I too let my hands roam over his body, over his slender frame, his long torso, and cute ass. I adored him, I wanted him.  Still, once things began to get too hot and heavy, I stopped him. “Not yet,” I whispered.

“When?” he replied breathily. “This is our last chance.”

“No, it’s not,” I said firmly. “We’ll be together again. We need something to look forward to.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but drew back with a heavy sigh. I loved him even more for being so respectful.

So we just held each other under the moonlight, realizing there was nothing more either of us could say to each other – words simply weren’t enough. We shivered as the fire died and the wind misted us with fragments of the ocean and the unknown.

***

Vibrant, changing scenery blurs by our car window, but even though I’ve never seen trees so alive with color, I feel nothing but gray inside.

My mom tirelessly attempts to coax me out of my funk through the force of her enthusiastic chatter, or by blaring her favorite, mostly obnoxious music that even my iPod headphones can’t block out. I don’t want to sing along with her. I don’t want to play “I Spy”.

Finally she says, “Winter, this moping has to stop.”

Anger flares inside me and my first instinct is to snap, “You’re not the one losing everything you love!” But then I stop myself, because she did lose my dad and I know he was everything to her.

But before I can think of a less hateful thing to retort, she says, “Look, I know this is hard. But there’s something about moving to Valhalla that may cheer you up.”

My interest is piqued, but I cross my arms stubbornly. “I doubt it.”

“Alright. Never mind, then.”

“Ok, fine. What is it?”

My mom’s expression shifts from playful to uncertain. “Your father’s family… they’re from the area. At least, I assume they’re still living here.”

I bolt upright in my seat. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

I’ve never had contact with anyone from my dad’s side. I know almost nothing about them, and they’ve never reached out to me either. My dad cut ties with them after he married my mom and they moved out to L.A before I was born. I never really felt like I was missing out because my mom’s side, full of boisterous aunts, uncles, and numerous cousins, more than fulfilled the extended family quota in my life.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” my mom says apologetically.  “Your father didn’t exactly leave his folks on the best of terms, and they never really accepted me into the family either. I can’t say they’d be welcoming if we showed up on their doorstep.”

I slump back into my seat. “Well, that’s nice. Thanks for cheering me up.”

“Well, there’s more.” My mom’s voice sounds harder; so unlike her usual breezy tone. I look over to see that her body is rigid as she grips the steering wheel. She dreads telling me whatever’s coming next, and it makes my stomach twist.

“Mom? What?”

“They’re Fenris too.”

CONTINUE TO CHAPTER 2

© 2010-2014 Tania del Rio

IN PLAIN SIGHT
Part 2

The next day at Prachtig, Lucas flinched at every sound; watched every soldier with distrust, anticipating the moment he would be seized.

But nothing happened, and he wondered if Margeaux had been right about Amelia. Perhaps their secret was safe after all.

A piece of a paper, tossed by the wind, slapped against his leg.

Peeling it away, he saw it was a government flyer offering a reward for information leading to the arrest of an Abnormaal.

A bad omen.

***

Margeaux stared at the clock, her heart thumping. A tiny suitcase sat next to her.  She felt the rumble before she saw its source. From the window she could see a small caravan of military vehicles turning onto her street, her father’s car at the helm.

Her heart sank. Betrayed! “I would never hurt you,” Amelia had said. She probably felt she was protecting Margeaux.

Margeaux cursed and snatched the suitcase, hurrying downstairs. Once outside, she wanted to run, but forced herself to walk calmly, so as not to attract attention, grateful for the heavy snowfall and the crowds of people gawking at the approaching motorcade.

Her father drove right past her, unaware.

At the bridge, she peered in dismay at the frozen river below. She and Lucas couldn’t even have a lovers’ leap into death together. The water would kill him, but she would be doomed to remain alive, until she was eventually pulled free.

Alone.

She heard the peal of a scooter as Lucas pulled up. “You’re early!” she cried.

“I had a bad feeling,” he replied darkly. “Hop on.”

Margeaux clung to his body as they sped off, the falling snow concealing their tracks on the cobblestones.

***

They arrived at the bomb-shattered government building on the city’s outskirts as night fell. “Are you sure this place is safe?” Margeuax asked.

“Always hide in plain sight,” Lucas reminded her. “They’d never search their own facilities for us.”

They broke into the abandoned building. It was cold but sheltered them from the biting wind as they set up camp inside a vacant dormitory. It almost felt like a small apartment, sparsely furnished, and with a small kitchenette. Lucas used his abilities to manipulate the breaker-box, and the light-bulbs in the room sparked to life, making it feel more like home.

***

Over the next week they camped out there, falling into a comfortable routine. Lucas foraged for food and Margeaux prepared it. They played cards and told stories. At night, they slept wrapped in each other’s arms, waking when the sun glinted through frosted windows.

Margeaux knew it couldn’t last forever, but she wanted to pretend that they were a married couple, living normally. She imagined them growing old together, grandchildren visiting.

But inside, she knew this could never be.

One night she awoke, feeling uneasy. Lucas snored peacefully, his arm draped around her. Margeaux gently extracted herself and padded to the window. Nothing but a vast, snow covered field. No footprints. No tire tracks. She relaxed a bit, but went to double check the door latch.

Peering through the peephole, she jumped at the sight of a gray eye staring back at her. She pulled away in terror; then looked again. Nothing. Her mind was playing tricks.

“Expecting someone?” a familiar voice intoned behind her. Whirling, she gasped, startled to see her father standing there, his gray eyes fixed upon her.

“Daddy!” she whimpered, her blood turning to ice. “How did you get in here? How did you find us?”

He smiled as he cupped Margeaux’s chin in his palm. His grip was painful and made her whimper.

“How? Why, I’m an Abnormaal, of course.”

He laughed at her shocked expression. “There are quite a few of us out there; more than you realize… hiding in plain sight.”

THE END

© 2012 Tania del Rio

This is part one of a short YA story (1500 words total) that I submitted to one of Writer’s Digest’s short story contests. It’s about a wartime romance between a boy named Lucas and a girl named Margueux, who each harbor secrets that could have them killed. The story is inspired by a dream I had, and I plan to extend this short story into a possible novel.

IN PLAIN SIGHT
Part 1

Lucas had two reasons for working at Prachtig Auto Mechanics: one, his mother had taught him to always hide in plain sight, and secondly, working underneath a car’s hood or undercarriage concealed the strange way metal reacted to his touch.

Many off-duty soldiers came to Prachtig, and Lucas used his unique skills to repair the cars of the very men who wouldn’t hesitate to turn him in should they discover he was an Abnormaal.

Winter had arrived, bringing heavy snows, which meant more accidents, more breakdowns, and more business. It was risky for Lucas, especially during wartime, but he did his work dutifully, efficiently, never attracting notice from his boss or the other mechanics.

There was only one risk that truly worried him; only one concern that made his heart lurch.

***

Margeaux peered out the window of her apartment and watched as the snow fell. An unread book lay in her lap and a cup of tea rattled atop its saucer as Amelia vacuumed.

“Are you waiting for your father?” Amelia asked over the din.

“He’s away on official business for several days.”

On another witch hunt, no doubt, Margeaux added bitterly to herself.

Amelia clucked sympathetically. “You should invite some girlfriends over. A young lady shouldn’t be alone.”

“My studies…” Margeaux smiled vaguely, gesturing at her book.

“Ah, yes…” Amelia wanted to say more, but thought better of it. “Until next week, then?”

Margeaux nodded distractedly, returning her attention to the window.

She watched as Amelia exited the building, her small figure bracing against the wind. Once she was out of sight, Margeaux waved a handkerchief out the window. A boy emerged from behind a flickering lamppost, his dark hair and broad shoulders dusted with snow. She could see him smiling even in the dark.

***

Seated on a leather settee, they held each other tightly, relishing this rare moment together. “I want to kiss you,” Margeaux told Lucas, not for the first time. He ran calloused fingers through her dark ringlets, his eyes crinkling fondly at her.

“And I want to kiss you,” he said. “But you know that’s impossible.”

“What if it isn’t?” she returned softly, stubbornly.

“I’m not willing to risk even a small shock. You could be electrocuted.”

Should I tell him? She wondered, as she had many times before. Why was she afraid? She loved him, but her secret paralyzed her.

The fear continued to bubble inside her, growing, until it burst. She felt her voice leave her body, wavering. “I had an older brother.”

Lucas’ body stiffened, sensing the weight of her words.

“I adored him. I followed him everywhere. One day he climbed a tall tree. He had reached one of the topmost branches, but when I caught up, our combined weight was too much. The branch broke.”

Margeaux winced as she remembered the jigsaw shape of her brother’s body. “Emile died from the fall; I didn’t.”

Lucas let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and pulled Margeaux closer.

“It’s not your fault. You were young… A mistake. That’s all.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said, pulling away from him. “His body was shattered, but I landed without so much as a scratch.”

Lucas’ face paled as her words sunk in, the meaning becoming all too clear.

“You’re… an Abnormaal?”

She pursed her lips and nodded, tears stinging her eyes.

“Does your father know?”

Margeaux let out a sharp laugh. “Are you kidding? He hunts people like us for a living; forces us to become weapons. Do you think he’d spare my ‘talents’? The girl who can’t die. I’d be on the front lines.”

“He wouldn’t,” Lucas whispered, horrified. But he had his doubts.

“If he ever discovers us, it’s over,” Margeaux said grimly, pulling Lucas to her. “So kiss me.” Their lips touched and a crackle of electricity snapped between them, making their skin tingle. Margueax laughed as her static-charged hair floated about her face.

Elated and relieved, Lucas grasped her face, kissing her furiously now, desperately. Blue electricity cocooned them, arcing between them, joining them in awful brilliance.

They didn’t hear the front door open, only the sound of a pot clattering on the floor, spilling strew. The lovers flew apart and Margeaux rushed after Amelia who had fled in terror.

“Amelia, stop! Let me explain!” Margeaux cried, breathless, as she caught up with her.

“I came to bring you dinner,” Amelia sobbed. “Are you hurt? We must call your father!”

“No, I’m safe! He’s my…friend.”

“An Abnormaal.”

“Yes,” Margeaux whispered. “But I love him. Please, don’t tell my father.”

Tears welled in Amelia’s eyes, but she nodded stiffly as she gripped Margeaux’s hands. “You are like a daughter to me. I would never hurt you.”

Margeaux embraced the maid. “Thank you.”

Amelia cast one last worried glance at the door before hurrying from the building, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

“Remember our plan?” Lucas asked when Margeaux returned. “Your maid will turn us in.”

“No! I trust her.”

“I don’t.”

They glared at one another, an impasse. “I better go,” Lucas said, finally. “Will you be there tomorrow?”

A knot formed in Margeaux’s chest, but she nodded.

CONTINUE TO PART 2

© 2012 Tania del Rio

CURIOSPONDENCE THE FIRST:

Jackson and Nicoletta.

May 16^th, 1886

My Darling Nicoletta,

This is the first letter I am sending you from my journey, though truth be told, I have only been at sea for one week so there is not much yet to report. It already feels like a lifetime since you and little Jack Jr. were at the port to see me off. Ah, the folly of time! The more one longs for their beloved, the more keenly one senses the passage of mere minutes and days.

Luckily, I find myself in capable hands. The crew of the Sirena are too kind to allow a humble explorer such as myself to join them as they deliver cargos to exotic lands, though the quarters are cramped, and the food leaves much to be desired. I will not allow this to deter me from a lively spirit of adventure!

I am looking forward to our first port of call, Casablanca, Morocco, and will send more correspondence then.

Yours forever,

Jackson

***

May 23^rd, 1886

Dearest Jackson,

I do hope this letter reaches you. According to your itinerary you should be in Morocco now for some time, and I have been quite eager to try out this carrier pigeon I purchased from Flannery’s. It is the latest craze, you see; all the other ladies have one and it would be most embarrassing to be the only one without such a luxury. It was not inexpensive, but I am confident you will agree it was a savvy purchase on my part. If only I could prevent Miss Kitty from eyeing the bird so hungrily!

Jack Jr. is doing as well as can be, considering he has no male influence in his life at the moment. Of course, there is his caretaker, Jeremiah, but we all know how he is! Well, I must be off! I am meeting the ladies for croquet.

Lovingly,

Nicoletta

***

May 29^th, 1886

Dearest Nicoletta,

I confess I was rather alarmed to find this carrier pigeon beating at my window. Poor thing looks rather worse for wear. In fact, I am quite loathe to send it back in its present condition. I do hope you did not spend too much on such a sickly looking specimen.

Morocco is quite a spectacular place. You would no doubt love the markets and bazaars. All manner of silk, jewels, and pottery are to be found here. In fact, I happened upon quite an interesting trinket that I shall be shipping to you separately – a little wooden monkey head with rubies for eyes. The craftsmanship is quite impressive and I was able to convince the vendor to part with it at an astonishingly low price. In fact, he seemed almost glad to be rid of it!

Now I must be off to explore some neighboring temples and villages. You and Jack Jr. shall remain in my thoughts.

Yours forever,

Jackson

***

June 4^th, 1886

Dearest Jackson,

I am quite flattered that you would think to send me gifts from your journeys, but I can not help but question the content of your generosity – a monkey head? Darling,  I am loathe to say it, but I find the thing rather detestable. Could you not have sent a nice necklace or scarf instead?

It is not only I who finds objection with the thing – Miss Kitty has been hissing at it furiously, and there is really no place where I can display it tastefully.

So I have given it to Jack Jr., who seems quite taken with it, and he has placed it on his bed-stand with his pirate toys. I think he is old enough to know not to try and ingest it.

Perhaps next time recall that I am a delicate woman and that my favorite color is yellow.

Ah, the maid is here. I must make myself scarce by going to town.

Warm thoughts,

Nicoletta

***

June 14^th, 1886

Dearest Nicoletta,

Really, darling, I must insist you cease using this poor pigeon. I highly doubt it will survive another journey abroad. It would be most cruel to subject it to another errand! The post may be slower, but it is every bit as reliable, dear.

I am sorry to hear you did not appreciate the monkey head. In my excitement, I often forget that you do not share my penchant for mysterious oddities. I shall find a scarf on my next visit to town, but I am presently about to explore a magnificent temple in the jungle.

It was quite a trial finding a group of locals that I could convince to guide me here. They will not stop speaking of some fearsome deity of theirs, “Simchak”. They claim there is a curse set upon the temple, but naturally I do not believe in such silliness. I will let you know what I find! Is Jack Jr. doing well with his studies?

Yours forever,

Jackson

***

June 26^th, 1886

Dearest Jackson,

I would most appreciate it if you would return my pigeon to me. It is an embarrassment to have to go to the post office like a commoner.

Miss Rosenthal spied me buying stamps and she did smirk! By this time tomorrow, all the ladies will know that I am forced to perform menial tasks and that will not do! Now I must organize a fancy tea party to make up for it. I shant invite Miss Rosenthal, I don’t think. On the other hand, it may be good to include her so she might see how well off I truly am. Of course, this means I shall have to order a new dinette. Our current model is terrible out of fashion.

As for Jack Jr.’s studies, you might recall that he is only 3 years old, and therefore not at school. I will say that he has been quite sullen of late. He must miss his father.

Best,

Nicoletta.

***

July 3^rd, 1886

Dearest Nicoletta,

Alright, darling. I am returning your poor bird, but I do not have much faith that this letter shall reach you. I was hoping to find treasure in the Temple of Simchak that could perhaps afford us the opportunity to indulge in luxuries such as new furnishings, but until that happens, it may be prudent to curb our spending, yes?

I am glad to report that I did not encounter any curses whilst in the temple, though there were some booby traps leading to the central rooms. All of our crew, save one unlucky soul, were able to avoid the dastardly traps.

I did discover a broken figure of the Simchak deity in the center of the temple. It would have made for an interesting museum piece, but its head was missing, alas.

I will admit the place was rather eerie and I have no desire to return there. A shame for the poor fellow whose body we were forced to leave behind.

Love,

Jackson

P.S. Tell Jack Jr. to buck up!

***

July 13^th, 1886

Dearest Jackson,

What on earth have you done to mistreat my pigeon so? He arrived here looking like death and now he refuses to fly at all! I am not liking this turn of events, darling.

Your last correspondence sent chills down my spine and I do not wish to hear any more about temples, cursed or otherwise.

Furthermore, Jack Jr. is vexing me! He has begun to act most erratically. Just today, I caught him in the act of attempting to cut off Miss Kitty’s tail! Can you imagine? It is a most unwelcome distraction for the planning of my tea party. I ordered the dinette set before I received your response, and it is already in place, so there is no way I shall be returning it now.

Rest assured, it looks very fashionable and all the ladies will be suitably impressed.

Now I must go. There was just a frightful crash in the other room and Jeremiah has screamed… no doubt Jack Jr. is up to no good!

Yours,

Nicoletta

***

July 18^th, 1886

Dearest Nicoletta,

I pray this letter reaches you in time. I have discovered something terribly unfortunate and I fear I have made a grave error in sending you that monkey head. You must send it back at once!

It seems it is the missing head of the deity, Simchak, from the temple. We have been behest by earthquakes and the like. You recall the man we thought we left for dead in the temple? He has returned! I can barely form the words to describe –

I must go.

–Jackson

***

July 20^th, 1886

Jackson,

My party was a disaster of the highest magnitude! Currently, I am seeking refuge in the crawlspace beneath the stairs. Can you imagine – a refined lady such as myself being forced to hide from her own son?

Jack Jr. is a monster!

He tore upon our party – I swear his eyes were glowing red! The ladies scattered in horror – my best porcelain was smashed!

I think Miss Rosenthal did not make it out alive, though I can not honestly say I feel all too bad about that.

You had best come home right away and deal with your son!

– Nicoletta

P.S. The ladies adored the new dinette. But it is all torn up now, so that is that.

***

July 20^th, 1886

Nicoletta,

I am being held captive by the spirits of the Simchak Temple and they will not free me until the moneky head is reunited with the body. Please, please send help and send back that cursed head!

Come to think of it, I am not altogether sure how I am to send this letter whilst I am in captivity.

Well… drat.

I fear this may well be the end.

–Jackson

***

July 21^st, 1886

Dearest Father,

Thank you ever so much for the gift. It is the most perfect thing. I will come visit you soon and express my appreciation in person, provided you are still well. It is with regret that that I must report that mother shall not be accompanying me on my voyage. Now I must go. I hear Miss Kitty yowling. She must have emerged from her hiding spot…

Eternally,

SimJack Jr.

© 2010 Tania del Rio

SUN KISSED
Part 5

Still, a part of me feels deathly afraid as Sol activates the chute, and the old machinery chugs to life with a deafening cacophony of whirring and chugging. What if the thing breaks down halfway to the surface? What if the top has been sealed off by debris? That elevator could easily become our coffin and no one would ever, ever find us.

But I’d be with Sol in my final moments… and that gives me some comfort at least.

A sunrise.

That’s worth risking everything for. I never thought I’d ever witness one again, and it didn’t even cross my mind that I might miss it when I made the journey underground in a hurried panic with the other members of the Hive. It wasn’t until I was sealed in cold darkness that I realized I never got to say goodbye…to the sun.

Sol and I wedge into the elevator, which is actually much narrower on the inside than I expected. This is actually only meant for one person, I realize. Our bodies press tightly against each other within the canister and I can feel Sol’s heart beating as rapidly as my own. “Ready?” he asks. I nod, and though he can’t see me, he can feel the motion of my head against his chest. “Ok, then.”

He presses a button and I let out a cry as the chute zips upward with a strong magnetic force making it difficult to move. After our slow, careful progress all day, this sudden rush of speed feels frightening and reckless.

And exhilarating!

I squeeze my eyes shut as we cling to each other, fearing the worst. This could very well be the end if something goes wrong.

The trip seems endless, and I wonder if the chute will ever stop. How deep are we underground? What if there is no surface anymore, just an endless cavern that reaches to the sky? Eventually, though, the canister slows to a gradual stop and then jerks slightly as it reaches the surface. At least, I hope it’s the surface.

“Maybe we should put on our gas masks before we go out,” Sol says.

“No,” I say. “I want to experience this fully, even if it kills me.”

His arms are still wrapped around me, warm and strong. “Ok.”

He presses the button to open the door, and I hear a hiss as it slides open.

The first thing I feel is a rush of cold air, so pure, so clean, it makes my lungs gasp. “It’s so… fresh.” Sol echoes my thoughts, his voice barely above a whisper. He squeezes out of the canister and then helps me out.

“It could still be toxic,” I say, but I realize I don’t care if it is. It’s the most amazing air I’ve breathed in years. I guess all the dust from the wars has settled.

The next thing I notice is how quiet it is.

It feels like we’re the last two people on earth.

“Look, we made it just in time. The sun is rising!” Sol says, his voice boyish with glee.

I grab his hand and we run out onto the surface, giddy as children, and stop, breathless, to bask in the growing light.

We can’t see it. Like everyone else, we were blinded by the nuclear flashes, but I can feel the orange and yellow spreading across the sky, caressing my face. I can taste its caramel warmth on my tongue, smell its citrus color.

And then I feel Sol’s arms wrap around me again. “Happy birthday,” he says softly. And his then his soft lips are on mine. All my senses explode and mingle in bursts of light and happiness, and I run my fingers through the curls of his hair, like rays of sunlight through wispy clouds.

His kiss is the sunrise, my Sol, my sun, my soul.

We pull apart and I can feel his warm smile reflected in my own.

“We could just stay up here, you know.”

“The radiation would get us eventually,” I muse, and turn my face toward the white-hot, toxic sun, cradling us in its deadly light.

I stare at it with open eyes and laugh.

THE END

© 2012 Tania del Rio

SUN KISSED
Part 4

True to his warning, we walk for a long time. We stumble a little here and there, and our radars alert us to a wide chasm, which we skirt around carefully, but for the most part, the terrain is level.

Hours pass and I’m beginning to feel a little uneasy. We’re really far from the Hive now. We’ve spent many hours hunting and hiking, and it’s going to take us just as many to return home.

I have no idea what time it is, exactly, but the temperature has steadily dropped, telling me that it is now night in the outside world. Our walk also has become more and more treacherous as we encounter frequent patches of ice.

“Where exactly are we going?” I finally ask Sol. I’m starting to feel tired and now whatever surprise he has in store for me no longer seems so appealing.

“I think we’re getting close now. Hang in there.”

We continue on, doggedly. Sol is silent as he searches for whatever it is he’s trying to find, and I continue to grip his hand, though my mood is growing darker and darker.

Suddenly, he startles me with a cry “Yes! It’s over here!”

I notice a change in my radar. A strange object seems to be several yards ahead and to the left. Whatever it is, it’s tall, very tall. Perhaps a giant stalagmite?

We approach it, and I gasp as my hands touch metal. It’s some kind of large, vertical cylinder. Man-made. The surface is smooth and ice-cold, but marred with patches of rust. I can practically taste the metallic tang of it as I run my hands over the mysterious column.

“What the…what is this thing?” I ask, breathless. “Some kind of ship?”

“Close,” Sol replies, and I can hear the boyish smile in his voice. “It took me a while to figure it out when I first found it… but it’s a chute…a sort of elevator…”

He pauses for dramatic effect. “To the surface!”

My blood runs cold. “Does… does it work?” I whisper.

“I haven’t actually used it yet,” he informs me. “But I found the control panel and it still seems to function.”

When we fled underground we came down in elevators similar to this, but giant ones made for large groups of people. Afterward, they blew them up and sealed the holes so no one could ever go up to the surface again. This one seems small – as though made for only a few people.

“If it’s still working, does that mean someone is still using it?” I ask, dread creeping into my bones. What if this belongs to a non-Hive person… someone bad?

“I don’t think so,” Sol assures me. “The panel was caked in dust when I found it. I think it’s just been forgotten.”

It’s so strange to touch a portal to the outside…to the life I once had, though I know it doesn’t really exist anymore.

“So, what do you think?” Sol asks, squeezing my hand.

“It’s amazing,” I say, smiling.

“No, I mean, what do you think about going up there?”

My heart stops.

“To the surface?”

“Where else?” he teases back.

“But, the radiation. It’s dangerous!”

“It wouldn’t be for very long. And besides, we’ve all gotten tons of radiation already. The Hive says our live spans will probably be shortened because of it.”

This is true, and something we’ve all had to come to terms with. Still, it seems unnecessarily risky to expose ourselves to still more of it.

“The sun should be rising soon,” Sol says, gently. He pauses. “I thought we could share it together.”

My breath catches in my throat. And suddenly I realize that experiencing another sunrise is worth risking all the radiation in the world. “Yes,” I whisper. “Let’s do it!”

CONTINUE TO PART 5

© 2012 Tania del Rio