rewriting essay sentences

*Sally jumped from activity to activity with my brothers, keeping them endlessly entertained and paying as little attention to me as though I were invisible.*
9: Sally entertained my brothers as though I were invisible.
7: Sally entertained brothers and I was invisible.
5: Brothers entertained, I was invisible.
3: Invisible, brothers entertained.
1: Invisible.

*But it is to say that I made each and every babysitter prove themselves, not directly, but until they gained my trust and respect they had no purchase to my obedience.*
9: I made every babysitter prove themselves for my respect.
7: Every babysitter proved themselves for my respect.
5: Babysitters proved for my respect.
3: Respectful of tested.
1: Test.

*One of my greatest weaknesses is how closely I protect my affection for people; and how incredibly backward it is.*
9: My backward weakness is protecting my affection of people.
7: Weakness of protecting my affection of people.
5: I protect my people affection.
3: Protecting my affection.
1. Backward.

poems

Death

We scurry under the black hand
Some are crushed and break
Others look up and smile, unafraid
Those who live are rarely fake

Our high thoughts are pressed
Restrained, hidden, fallen, gone
In lowness we flourish, laugh and cry
Some fear the night, others die at dawn

What say we when our names are called?
Promises hang like chains, they bind
The dark we gave, the light we took
Now just a mark where the sun shined

Invisible

I’m invisible but don’t lose me

I’m not sure of the way back

I’m falling but don’t let me go

I’ll search for the things I lack

I’m invisible but don’t hurt me

With one false move I could fall

I’m crying so close in your arms

So big I’ve never felt so small

I’m invisible but don’t push me under

I’m almost out of breathe

Tied to a fate so inescapable

I’m feeling the rough lines of death

I’m invisible can’t you tell?

My color fades as the tears flow

You’ve given me the rope to hold on to

I only fear I’ve slipped too low

Essay Reflection

My essay illustrates the concept of making relationships more complicated than need be and losing at your own games. More specifically it resembles friendship when the dynamics change with age difference or position of power (such as a babysitter and child) and failing in completing the construction of your own fabricated game.

It was harder than I had originally anticipated to write about my experiences with the junior on my volleyball team last year because it forced me to realize how immaturely I handled the situation. After writing that section of my essay I actually went back and apologized to the girl.

If I could make changes to my essay it would most likely be revising some word choices to make them more interesting or appealing. I might also remove the small paragraph in the middle of my "Sally Greenwald" memory where it was my pondering over whether she would check on me again that night to see me angelically asleep mainly because I don't feel like it was my strongest writing or essential to the essay as a whole.
It was unexpected and a little fun to pour out the babysitter memory mainly because it is still vivid in my mind. But I was really surprised how easily I was able to format and write it because usually I'd struggle with processes like that.

The Tribute

Though Mirabelle hid in silence, crammed in the dark unpleasant tent, the tears could not be helped. They poured from her green eyes in waves of renewed anguish. She wept for the mess she’d somehow managed to create, all the damage that would never be repaired, the people she hurt. Chase’s face burst into her head, the expression he had worn when they’d heard the wind whispering, Mirabelle Rosaline Winters over and over again.
There was no way out. Her name had been called; no one survives when their name is called from the millions. It’s the risk one must take if they wish to pursue magic. And now Mirabelle knew it was no longer a random occurrence when a name was chosen, she had caused too much trouble for The Order to be allowed to live.
Moreover, she was sure it would not be quick. Sick images swirled menacingly in her head, all the ways they would enjoy finishing her off. She would suffer, Mirabelle took that as fact.
And again the rush of emotion took her. Tears fell until her face, hands, hair, and heart all were soaked. But they didn’t stop, salty droplets rolled from her cheeks and each time they dropped it was a small reminder that Mirabelle was still alive, still breathing, not quite dead just yet. And that’s when the idea hit her. Born from the increasing, dominating darkness settling in her mind, it called to her like the sweetest song she’d ever heard.
As though in a daze, Mirabelle searched the small tent for something, anything that might work. Her bleary eyes found the meat knife Fredrick had sliced the disgusting burnt salmon last night. It shone, piercing a deeper part of Mirabelle as she squatted, staring at it in the semi-darkness.
Her eyes closed, and she choked back rising bile, feeling around the cold dirt for the knife’s handle. A sharp pain and spreading warmth told her she’d found the blade, but as her hand closed around the smooth handle, she realized with a slight jolt that her minor injury in her right hand would mean absolutely nothing in a couple minutes.
Rather than being overwhelmingly emotional, Mirabelle felt almost nothing as she traced the dirty, but dangerously jagged knife lightly over her chest, searching for her heart. Dramatic though she knew it was, Mirabelle decided it was the best place to puncture, quick and lethal enough that if Chase or Fredrick did manage to find her shortly after, she’d be beyond saving.
But what she did not anticipate was the ripping sound that filled her ears as she’d pulled the blade away from her body, preparing to plunge it deep. The tent flap was whipping in the wind and another sound presented itself in Mirabelle’s left ear.
“You’re a coward.”
A much larger hand had grabbed the knife from her shaking hand, tearing it from her grip and throwing it to the side.
“I thought you were stronger than this, Mira.”

I stopped smiling at passengers I’d say about two or three hundreds years into the job. At first I’d made an unspoken promise to myself that I’d be cheery and maybe even pretend to take an interest in people’s lives and stories of their deaths. But that got boring pretty quickly. Even though I’ve only been the Ferryman a couple thousand years, I feel as though I’ve heard it all. Car crashes, heart attacks, weapon wounds, diseases of names I can never remember, and so many other ways but believe me they’ve all been told by one soul or another.

I usually wait a full year before I take a load across; it’s just more convenient that way. But you’d be surprised at how impatient and so incredibly self-absorbed some people can be. They die, Death carries them to me, and I tell them they have to wait thirty days or so and suddenly it’s the end of the world.

“Why can’t you take me now!?”

“I have to wait? Absolutely ridiculous!”

“Who put you in charge? I’ll steer the goddamn boat across myself!”

That last request is highly amusing to me. One day I’d like to see someone try and ferry this boat across, try fifteen years of training and thousands of practice and then come talk to me.

Although over my time I’ve gained a heavy dislike of humans, I still find it interesting how easily I can tell you someone’s personality in life just from the expression on their face when they realize where they are. I could tell you who was brave, who was cowardly, I could spot an intellect from his calculating gaze, and I could tell you who had no brains from their blank bewilderment.

I may seem unkind to your eyes but really I’m just jaded. Imagine a simple, mindless task and then imagine repeating it year after year for thousands and in the time in-between, suffering from the ceaseless complaints and threats from noisy, annoying souls.

I couldn’t tell you what the date was mainly because I don’t keep track of the living world anymore but also because I’ve never had a mind for small details. But I could tell you that today was a fine day because tomorrow would mark the start of a new year, on my calendar of course, down here where no one can tell me differently. It’s much less complicated to argue and reassure whiny souls when I have a deadline as close and solid as that. I considered leaving today just because I didn’t think I could stand the constant tetchy voices any longer, all with some bone to pick with me. There are times when I can’t believe the injustice of it all, if they’re not happy with where they are now, they should blame Death, not the Ferryman.

But on the whole I decided on my original departure of the boat. Not that it did much good anyway. Death only had gotten around to carrying one soul down to me that day. My first impression was that she was very lucky indeed; Death had cut it a little close for her.

At sunset and when everyone was loaded and packed upon the boat, I announced the departure and untied the thick ropes. As I glided us away from the black waters of the port, I spotted the young girl who’d arrived only today leaning heavily over the side of the boat, a strange expression on her translucent face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If you fall in there you’ll never come out again.”

She whipped around to the sound of my voice and asked me for my name. I hadn’t been expecting that but I decided to answer her anyway. I was caught up immediately.

“I…I can’t remember.” Suddenly I felt like weeping, an action that felt completely foreign to me. What was my name? I’d never had a need for it before because no one had asked.

“Mine is…Courtney. Courtney Emily Rosales.” In her pause I was scared she’d forgotten her own as well.

“You forget things quickly down here.” I warned her. “Eventually you will vanish into the many.” Why was I telling her these things? Why was I even talking to her?

But she only nodded seriously and glanced out over the dark water. Then abruptly she smiled. There are only two kinds of people who smile down here. Those who still aren’t aware that they’re dead, and the insane. I looked closer at her face to make my judgment and was sad to realize that she was so much younger than most of the souls I carry across. She can’t have even hit adulthood yet.

“How did you die?” I asked to see if she knew of her death yet, and was surprised to find myself genuinely curious for her answer.

She didn’t respond for the longest time. Usually departed souls won’t stop talking but I was impatient for her to start.

“I don’t know.” She drew out each word carefully with guarded eyes.

“You’re a liar.”

“Aren’t we all?”

I didn’t answer. Instead I looked out at all my passengers and they’re hopeless, intolerant faces.

“Where does this boat go?” I met her questioning eyes. “I mean, where are you taking us?” Usually I always answer this question, just to shut them up. But for her,

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Aren’t we all?” I muttered under my breath, “Aren’t we all?”

Now it was her turn for silence. She twisted her head to the front of the crowded boat, where I stood with the wheel. It was rather depressing to watch. I could see she still expected a breeze to blow her hair about and maybe even sunlight to warm her skin.

But the air down here is cold, still, and tasteless. It carries no emotion and soon those who linger long enough down here find themselves fading into impassive, dull creatures.

But I think it was even sadder to see a soul who still expects to feel the sensations of the living world. She was still breathing for godsake. No one needs to breathe when they’re dead but it was such a natural thing for her that she hadn’t stopped yet.

Her wide-set eyes never left the black water gently skimming under the boat and again the queerest expression seemed glued to her young, pretty face.

I finally understood.

“You drowned, didn’t you?”

She tore her eyes away from the water and twirled her hips to answer me.

“This is all a dream isn’t it? Isn’t it?!” She was almost yelling now, a few people turned to stare at her and then at me. “In a few moments I’ll wake up in my bed and go to school and forget all about this stupid dream in a few stupid hours of a stupid life.

“Tell me this is all a dream, man who can’t even remember his own name!”

And at that moment I wanted to scream back at her and cover my ears like a child and tell her how she was acting like every other complaining, selfish soul that I carry across. But as I opened my mouth to speak, her shoulders drooped slightly and the short-lived smile vanished wholly. I thought her I heard her mutter “I want my life back. I want it all back…” I caught her blue eyes again and saw them flooded with memories and searing emotions, a sharp pain pressed my chest in response. I also saw easily that she knew exactly where she was and what was happening, but further that she was asking me to lie to her.

“This can be a dream, little one.” I took a deep breath. I didn’t need it of course but watching her continue to inhale and exhale made me forget that and I murmured calmly. “In a few hours you among the billions before you will disperse out of conscientious thought and time, no more pain, no more happiness, no more life. But here, and right now, this can be a dream.”

false memory

I remember seeing his car parked in front of the house, his mother’s large, unwavering smile. My brother’s merciless teasing for hanging with a boy in the full-blown cooties age of time (3rd grade). The car ride over was quite an event, Zach talked non-stop about the lake, giving me details and assuring me that he would show me the awesome water slide.
I remember the tall wooden cupboards in his large and pretty house on a hill, full of tasty snacks and I remember being offered frosted flake cereal and refusing out of politeness though I was actually dying for some. I remember changing into my blue and green bathing suit when he left the room.
I can see the lake clearly in my head. It was wide and gigantic with a small section roped off in which I later suffered as the “training” section where they determined if you could handle
the deep parts of the lake. I remember Zach arguing with the lifeguards, saying I didn’t need to tread water for five minutes and that I was a perfectly competent swimmer. They let me go before my five minutes were up and he immediately took me out far in the lake to the huge
water slide.
I remember the staircase up was metal and hot from the sun and when we got to the top I remember being terrified for the first time of my life. Zach noticed my hesitance and told me he
promised to go down with me and save me if I drowned if I gave him a kiss. So I kissed him lightly, blushing furiously. And then we went down the high and ridiculously fast water slide.

questions for wolff

When you begin to write a story, do you write the entire thing in that period of time or do you come back and complete it later?

Do you ever feel your stories come to life in aspects or situations of your own life?

Are some of the characters in your stories based directly off of people you know?

messing with time

And when Frank returned home late at night from his trip that had lasted just a little over a year, he reached out to give a one armed hug to Laura who all but jumped into his arms, returned Peter's brief nod in his direction and slowly turned to meet eyes with Marisse. It was in that simple moment that she knew, she just knew.

Frank pushed the front door open, lugging his large suitcase over the front step. His green eyes darted around to the kitchen where Marisse stud, stalk-still, like a deer caught in the headlights, and a spasm of guilt ran through his travel-worn body. Laura's hazel curls appeared from somewhere in the kitchen as she rushed to embrace him. Frank wrapped the arm that wasn't clutching the handle of his suitcase for dear life and hugged her back, catching Peter's wary gaze and nodding very so slightly in return. Disentangling himself from Laura, Frank licked his lower lip with a quick moist tongue and flicked his bright eyes up to Marisse's dark ones, feeling curiously ill to his stomach.

The front door seemed so far away and yet much closer than Frank cared it to be, as his adrenaline-spiked arm reached to turn the handle. The door handle felt cold and unfamiliar to Frank who was feeling more trepidation with every jagged breath he drew from the chilly night. A gush of warm air hit Frank's tight face and his muscles strained slightly to pull his suitcase over the front step. The tiny wheels rolled then smacked the block of wood, moving only when Frank screwed up his face and pulled the dead-weight up and into the warm and yet freezing house. He dragged his suitcase over the patterned carpet, refusing to relinquish his hold on the black handle. His green irises slid from the right to the left in quick procession taking in the little Frank could see of the kitchen which was Marisse oddly frozen, still wearing a white cooking apron and Peter standing a little behind her, his chin pulled down to one side, staring at the floor. A girl with bouncy hazel curls whipped around the kitchen door frame, rushing at her father. Laura. Frank received her affection, hating the feel of guilty sweat rising on the back of his neck and the fresh waft of perfume he smelled. When did Laura grow up and begin to do things like wear perfume? A twinge of regret added to Frank's discomfort as he wondered with an aching heart what else he had missed in his children's lives. It was not even a full second later that he met eyes with his other child, who's head moved downward and upward in an awkward motion that Frank attempted to copy. Marisse stared at her husband's hunted face, feeling rather prey-like at the moment as well, vulnerability seemed to radiate from her every pour. Slowly Frank drew his eyes to a complete stop into hers and Marisse saw them travel far away to another country and another woman and to another life. Marisse saw his guilt reflect across each minute he'd been gone, and that reflection was her confirmation, and that confirmation was the end.

Wolff

"They had been separated for over a year." (354, The Benefit of Doubt, Tobias Wolff) Marisse suspected him of being unfaithful but didn't have the heart to cause an uproar. It wasn't out of worry for her children that she failed to confront her husband, it was because the invisible band that used to connect them tightly had loosened or broken, Marisse did not know but she felt no desire to retrieve what might already be lost. Marisse was no novice to loss; when she was twelve her alcoholic father had died when his liver gave out, but that was no sad event to the budding teenager. If she had one bruise, she had twenty where he'd struck her.

In a just a few more years, Marisse's life took another major turn. An American man, visiting France at the time, took her by surprise in a fury of charm and worldly experience that left her speechless except for the small "yes" she managed when he asked her to return to America with him.

In the years to come, Marisse Sheeline and Frank Murphy would trade cultures, share newly founded memories and before long Marisse found herself sporting a large diamond ring on her left hand and a small baby at her hip, Peter, her first child. They lived happily for a while, Frank's work took him all over the world but he always came back, bearing a little toy for Peter and a large kiss for baby Laura. Whether it was real or not, Marisse convinced herself that they were in love, like any married couple should be.

Age had barely touch Frank; his green eyes shone just as brightly and his smile was still youthful. On the other side of the scale, bearing and raising two children had robbed Marisse of her once lustrous dark curls and her large dark eyes seemed duller than they had been in her first years with Frank. Every year Peter and Laura grew up, Frank's business trips became more frequent and longer.

And when Frank returned home, late at night from his trip that had lasted just a little over a year, he reached out to give a one armed hug to Laura who all but jumped into his arms, returned Peter's brief nod in his direction and slowly turned to meet eyes with Marisse. It was in that simple moment that she knew, she just knew.

my take on a text without a single author

"My name is Hixstra. My parents chose this name for me because I was born during the full moon..." I thought this particular story flowed surprisingly well despite having many writers work to complete it. I really liked the phrase, "Not many people find their mirrosias in only 15 years of life." Mirrosias are spiritual partners or essentially soul mates, so it's interesting how the main character finds the equivalent of a lover at such a young tender age.

The lines I though were a bit awkward were: "...is completely about luck.", "I was lost in my thoughts and was soon lost in a new place.", and "And as the knife entered my body...". All of those sentences were grammatically correct but they didn't sound entirely right or weren't in rhythm with the surrounding writing. I would change them to: "...is based completely on luck.", "I was lost in my thoughts and in a matter of seconds became lost in the physical world as well.", and finally, "And as the knife pierced through my chest."

I agree with three out of four of the morals written for this story.
1. I think it's entirely true that even though you may think you're connected to someone, there is always that possibility that you are in fact, not at all.
2. Sad but true that anybody could be wielding the knife that pierces your back. You never know.
3. And the very famous line "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer" is extremely valid.
4 "Trust nobody" Although that is so cynical, it's fun to say, I think it's very unrealistic. You need to place your trust in some people; it is fair to encourage people to think carefully about where they're putting their trust but to get by life retaining all of your sanity you need true and trustworthy friends.

Subtlety and Lies

If you've ever read Harry Potter, you'll understand it when I say I'm good at "Legilimency". I can almost always tell when someone is lying to me but that's little to brag about considering how easily I delude myself into believing the things I want to hear.

I tend to cringe away from established religions; although I feel there is validity in a lot of the things they do and preach, I personally think it's all one intricate lie. But it works. People want a community, people want structure in their lives, and probably most of all, people want to believe that they do more than rot in the ground when they've died and that's there's a divine god or gods watching over them.

Even though I am deeply skeptical of religion in general, I have fallen prey to many other deceptions in my time. These are the cases in which I had successfully lied to myself to ensure the existence of pretty "truths" in my false reality. It's a little pathetic because I can tell the second a lie leaves someone's mouth, whether it grumbled or glided, but sometimes I just choose to believe. I'm very human this way. I think it's in human nature to want your world to fit neatly, never to be boring though because I'm pretty sure that everyone is some way or another likes challenge or adventure.

Me, I'm more prone to believe the little lies or white lies because I'd like to think that the sweater I'm wearing actually matches my skirt or that no one really did see me fall on my butt when of course the whole quad did. It's the bigger things, like religion or society, that you'll have a harder time of convincing me to convince myself of. This is a hard statement to make because I'm sure that I'm still currently under the impression that some lie my parents told me when I was young is true, however as a general rule I am less prone to fall for the more extreme or important lies.

I confess that I have lied on multiple occasions; the odd thing is that I am very rarely caught or busted for them. I do remember quite vividly possibly the largest lie I've ever told and all the consequences it caused. With something this dramatic and intense it's only fitting that I was in second grade when it all happened. For some reason I've labeled it "Strawberry" in my head when though it had absolutely nothing to do with strawberries whatsoever.

Well...I had this friend in the year below me who shared my name and she was seriously allergic to peanut butter, even the smell could set her off so she had to carry a needle with her always. And one day my science class did the classic experiment where you drop a padded egg from a height and hope it doesn't break but one kid in the class, his name was Gabe, used a can of peanut butter to protect his egg. I think it actually worked too but as soon as it was over the teacher scooped up the can and promptly threw it away. He told us briefly about my allergic friend and forbade us to mention to her the can full of peanut butter sitting in the trash can under the staircase on the concrete. And so of course the first thing I do as soon as I'm dismissed for recess is find her and explain all about the peanut butter can contaminating the place where she usually plays.

I clearly remember how her eyes had gotten very wide as she asked whether there was really that amount of peanut butter on the play structure. I'm pretty sure my eyes got a little wide too, I'd forgotten that she played on the play structure not the patio. But that completely took the fun out of my warning and I shamefully admit that I, without hesitation, nodded in earnest.

That split-second decision turned into a week of pure guilt as teachers and parents became involved in the situation and the entire play structure was scrubbed down in what was the many hours of a couple of high schooler's free time. I kept up the lie for that week, and at one point I even tried to convince myself that the crackers a third-grader had eaten on the structure at lunch had contained peanut butter in the middle, justifying the entire thing to be cleaned.

On the constant verge of tears, it was only after I actually threw up from my guilt and the stress my lie had created did I confess. I remember after much consideration, sprinting into my parent's bedroom after eight o'clock at night (which was wayyy past my bedtime back then), crawling under the covers and with my face hidden, and explaining what I had done. They had pulled back the covers and after saying that they had started to suspect my dishonesty though they hadn't been sure, they comforted me, praising my honesty about my dishonesty.

Even just thinking about that story causes me physical pain, I'd like to think that I learned a pretty hard lesson that week. It so happens that whenever I'm about to tell a lie now a days the word "Strawberry" floats into my head and something very much like the truth seems to spill from my mouth instead.

The Fictional and yet Cynical Story

It's just way too easy to get caught up in this perverse game we call high school. But you take two steps backwards and quite suddenly you're seeing an entirely different story, the kind that makes you freeze in place and stare shamelessly.

And what I am doing here, you ask? Well, I'd like to tell that I'm at MHS watching the game from the sidelines, drawing from a wisdom beyond my years, and yet here I really am, just another piece on the board moving and playing until I've reached the goal, which is...?

I'm sitting on the quad with fake grass, about to lug my backpack to Spanish class, pretending I like the girl hovering next to me who's chattering about-how would I know, I wasn't listening.

The walk to the actual classroom is short, very short, but at the same time it is so, so long. It feels like every person I pass forces me into a new state of being; I stare just a moment too long at some people, smile at friends, and avoid eye-contact with the people I don't know so as to reduce any potential amount of awkwardness. At first this whole process can be very exhausting, but like any sport, the more you practice the better you get. And I've had tons of practice.

The teacher walks in five minutes late, sets his blue water bottle down and asks us to take out our binders and homework. I pull my bag towards me slowly, turning my head to look at the clock. I'm facing another 54 minutes and 28 seconds of class. I will the clock hands to tick faster, even just a little faster, for me, please? Oh yeah, but I'm just messing with you, if you're in high school now you know that nothing, nothing is on your side, even a stupid clock.

But don't get the wrong idea now, I'm not one to be blindly cynical, I'm just one who likes to evade severe emotional pain. Confused? OK, fine, he's in this class. No, this is not like the ex-boyfriend who a girl gracelessly dumps hiding behind a cowardly e-mail, and now she can't even look him in the eyes anymore. Nah, this just happens to be the boy sitting three seats to my left whom I didn't let myself in love with last year.

We meet eyes for the split of a second, so fast that an onlooker would have missed the exchange completely. And yet in that half of a moment I'm met with two conflicting desires; one, to hear him whisper my name just one more time, and two, to puke, violently, and then walk out of the classroom without cleaning anything up, flipping him off. I suppose the description was a little pointless, that feeling comes in a pretty little package of a word, teenager.

Why do some people speak of love as though it is the divine food of the gods, an everlasting beauty that elevates the mundane human to a point in the beyond? I'll tell you why, they've never actually been in love, they've been in denial. "Love" is like a poison that churns slowly in your veins, draining you until you are a pale ghost of your former self, weak and drawn to the one with the honeyed promises. Let me clarify one thing however, love in itself isn't harmful, love for a brother or child, or even friend can make one stronger, love for a lover, however, is pure, intoxicating, glorious poison.

Can you blame me for the sleepless nights I spent fighting nature, and myself in a grueling effort not to fall almost all of last year? And here I am now, a normal day at MHS, and I'm still playing high school's cruel game, trying to win when they're are no winners, only losers and survivors. But even more embarrassing than having not figured that out yet is that despite everything, when I see him from across the quad every morning, I'm right back to where I started.

Call me Evelyn

Call me Evelyn. It's not the name my parents gave me, but it came around and choose me anyway. I won't lie to you and yet everything I'm about to say is complete and utter rubbish.

I didn't understand the first time I was told. But maybe it's like one of those times when your whole world is flipped and it's just easier not to understand and not to believe.

They came for me when I was about five, I didn't know at the time how they knew and singled me out, but looking back now I guess setting an entire house on fire without any visible means of doing so might have done the trick. They also told me it was out of impulsive anger. But I didn't need them to tell me that, I remember now.

I remember the look on my mother's face as she scolded me for acting up, and I can even recall the tone she used when declaring I return to my room without the ice cream bar I'd been craving all day. After that it was a bit of a blur. I do remember the flames and how they made my face feel hot and sweaty. But from then on it was just snip-its of fleeting memory...

a hand closing around mine...my face pressed tightly against my mother's orange sweater as she rocked me back and forth on our front lawn...the sounds of loud hoses and people yelling...

Seeing as it was that very night that they visited me for the first time I probably should have put it together but I was young and tired from my day's adventure.

You're probably by now wondering who "they" are. Well that's a hard question to answer. There are a lot of "theys" out there, but they go by different names. If this clears it up, at midnight on the night in question, a couple elves and a sprite woke me up with some interesting news.

Like I said before though, I just didn't get it the first time. How could I be a Taylazcu, or one of the magical folk (I later found out it was elfish slang for "one who possesses magic") when both of my middle-class, very conventional parents were perfectly normal. But I also found out that faeries don't have "parents", they're born from the things that go unnoticed in life. After examining me for a minute or two, the elf with the dark eyes told me I was born from a tear drop that fell from a small boy when he scrapped his knee in gym class and no one saw it fall. That's comforting.

Oh yeah, did I mention I was a faerie? Yep, apparently I get all sorts of cool powers but not wings. Those are fairies that get wings, the tiny flashy little critters, personally I find them quite annoying, but that's just me.

Actually, as it is, I look sort of human. Well, I could get away with it at five, now, I think anyone could tell I'm not normal. I've never seen a full human with violet, cat-like eyes, jet-black hair that falls in unchanging curls to their waist, and skin without a dot of color anywhere, perfectly white. But maybe I haven't looked hard enough.

Anyway, I'm getting off topic. After that first enlightening visit, they moved me from my "parents" house to a hidden and small forest surrounded by tall mountains where a sweet old dwarf and his wife looked after young Taylazcues. They left me there for many years, until I grew up enough to be on my own. I never saw the elves or the sprite again but they did leave me with the main and most important rule of being a Taylazcu, that was to never ever reveal oneself to a human, and to forever hide the secret that allows our two worlds to coexist in peace.

But there was one question I never asked them before they introduced me to the dwarfs and took off. And that brings me back to why you're to call me Evelyn.

I asked the kindly dwarf couple many questions about the new world I was beginning to accept and they answered those easily enough. But when I asked why I'd been raised by the humans I thought were my parents for five whole years (something I discovered was almost unheard of), they couldn't tell me because they really had no idea.

But what they could tell me was that my name was actually Evelyn. I denied this. I told them I was called May. May Rosalie Sartian. They told me that was the name the humans gave me and it wasn't my true name. Then the dwarfs proceeded to explain how everyone, even humans had a true name that embodies their enduring soul. I didn't really get any of that at age seven, or however old I was when I was told, but all I know was from then on I made everyone call me Evelyn.