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“Taboo?” Erica frowned. “I know what you mean and I don’t like it.” She looked to their team leader for support. “Joren, come on, back me up here. They may have issues with women in combat and whatever else, but this isn’t some far away galaxy with issues. This is earth. We do things differently down here, we treat our women right.”

Joren’s easy smile did not match the steel in his eyes as he turned to the green-skinned ambassadors with their high collars and turned up noses. “You will find, sirs,” he inclined his head. “That my chief officer, Erica Stranden, is a very capable woman with a habit of speaking her mind, as she has just done. You will also find that I stand behind her, 100%, so if there is anything beyond this that might ruin any trading potential between our two people, I would suggest you mention it now. Perhaps it is taboo in your society–or perhaps in ours. This–mistake, as you put it–works very well for us.”

Stories.

What are stories?

The collection of blood, sweat, tears, heartache, and headache from the years before us? The speculations of years ahead of us? The reality that lies before us?

Stories.

Precious things.

Dirty, dark, torrid little things.

They exist and they die, just like every legacy ever breathed upon this earth. But still, just as we continue to live and survive, they do the same.

“Tell me a story,” we say.

And someone will answer, “Once upon a time…”

Strangely enough, the best story of all time, began with the simplest of words and settings and places, saying “In the beginning…”

Burning, twisting, dying, falling.

I’m burning. I’m on fire. It’s sparking, leaping, jumping and trying.

It’s trying to be me.

I’m burning. I’m on fire. I’m flickering, as I fly higher.

Think I’m gonna fall.

Think I’ve done it all.

Help me, please. Give me one reason to live

I’m burning and fading away, without hope for another day.

Don’t let me die so soon. Don’t let me burn right out.

Give me a wish, a dream, a hope. Give me the chance, a final note.

I’ll make you proud and I’ll stand tall.

I’ll make my own place, in history’s hall.

When I am grounded inside and out,

Given thanks for my gifts and showed them off,

My burning flame will remain true

One special memory, one last view.

I fumbled with the clasp on the worn sweater. Warmth seeped in from the slightly linty knit as I sucked in a breath and tried to keep it together. There was some little bit of whatever that wouldn’t come true and I wasn’t sure about what would come next.

She was gone.

I would miss her.

We would all miss her.

And yet, somehow, the only thing anchoring me in this moment was one of her old sweaters, with a tarnished gold clasp and a few snags in the magenta knit. It was a pretty sweater, maybe, back when it was new.

She was a pretty person, maybe, back before her heart had fallen through. But what did I know? I wasn’t really someone special to her, but I did respect her. No matter what they had all said and done, she was just like me.

Another human being.

She deserved better.

Just like the rest of us.

The vines are running, sprawling, overtaking the entire estate. It is a building of crumbling white stone, forsaken marble and cracks larger than my six feet, three inches. I do not know what I will do with this place.

Something tells me that the secrets lurking within are worth the effort and the wait, should I decide to do the unthinkable and attempt to keep this rubble. If I should decide to keep it and explore and restore, there may be treasure buried beneath it.

There may be more than treasure. There could be something else. Hard work and pure intent has never led anyone wrong. There are things I can sort in heart and head, if I have the emptiness to myself.

If.

So much.

Promise, future and life is what I seek. Should I take this up, as these vines beckon to me, there is a promise carried on the wind. A promise worth seeking.

I could find myself.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, said the mind to the heart. If you love him as much as you claim, then lie down and die.

What makes you stronger isn’t always what kills you, replied the heart to the mind. It is because I love him that I can lie down and die–in peace.

The plague listened to this age-old argument with the whisper of Death upon his lips. He halted then, unsure of whether he ought to deliver the curse he’d brought. It was one thing to succeed in offing the mind, ripping through the heart and leaving life to bleed out to nothing.

But when the heart and mind combined their efforts, there was the unmistakable power of an invincible soul.

Flat.

Like a pancake. Like my beating heart. Like the way Mark Cutter looked when Darcy Jones told him that she wouldn’t go out with a loser like him.

Perfectly flat.

Two-dimensional. Like a cracker, salted and unsalted. Two slices of bread, like the sandwich that Karen gave Miles for lunch last weekend.

Really, really, flat.

Steam-rolled all nice. Like my cake. Like Jenny Marco’s chest as those rude boys just had to point it out because she refused AnnaMarie’s initiation offer.

Flat.

What I really am, when I stand here and see everything and say absolutely…nothing.

“You really want to know?” She rolled over to her stomach and craned her head back to look at me.

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” She wrinkled her nose. “What do you want me to say?”

“Something? Something different.”

“Exactly how different?”

“Just…tell me…tell me you’re real.”

Those cherry red lips quirked into a pout and then she rolled over again, this time to lie on her back. she waved me forward, with both arms, beckoning, as she stared up at me, upside down to her view.

“What?” I tried again.

She winked, gesturing again.

I leaned down, careful not to overbalance, only to wobble dangerously when she reached up and yanked me down to her level.

Those cherry red lips really did taste like cherries–and they were soft and firm at the same time. It was a kiss to remember among kisses and when we parted, I was sure. She was definitely, very, very–real.

“Master.” She entered the room and knelt by the door, a newly polished, silverblade knife in her hands. It would seem out of place anywhere else, but atop her slender, elegant fingers.

The blacksmith turned with a half smile, one bright eye showing his approval, the eyepatch twitching as his face did. “You’ve done me proud, Ariel.” He rumbled. “You may keep the knife. You crafted it in fire and ice in a thankless time. The blade will always answer to you.”

Her head bowed, scarlet curls dancing around her cheeks, a hint of a blush present. It was the first genuine compliment he had ever gifted her in the five years since her apprenticeship. “Thank you kindly, Master.” She murmured.

“Get to work.” He grunted, turning back to the anvil.

She bowed in answer and rose to her feet. The precious knife was sheathed in the holder strapped to her left thigh, hidden by the long tunic. She’d known this knife was hers since she’d hammered it out in the morning chill so many weeks ago.

She’d known.

So had her master, apparently.

I have being placed. I never know how it’s going to turn out and when it does, it always turns out to be something of an issue.

I may not be the smartest apprentice in school, but I am the quickest. I am small, quiet an very, very, quick. You will find that my loyalty to youis as long as ou keep me. Beyond that, we are each our own.

Please make your choices carefully.

And remember, my potential lies i your hands, unless of course, I am placed again.