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This collection of works is the result of several semesters of writing, the time for which has been allowed by my participation in the Dean's Three Year's Honors Program. Now that I am nearing the end of the program and my time at Pepperdine University, I am pleased to present this portfolio for my final Honors project.

Though not every work that I have written over these past three years has been included in the portfolio, I have chosen those short stories and poems that I think best show the development of my skills as a writer, and the extent of my interests. I had the opportunity to experiment in several different genres for my short fiction-- horror, slice-of-life, contemporary, and fantasy-- within different formats. My poetry also covers a wide extent of techniques-- the sonnet and haiku, as well as free verse or open form, and syllabic verse.

I would like to thank Dean Wilson for the opportunity to participate, and most of all, Dr. Michael Gose for his dedication and hard work to his group of students over the last three years.

Carla Y. Eason

26 March 1997

Phil saw her on campus the first week of the fall semester, but it was November before he mustered up the courage to approach her. She was tall and lithe, with wavy brown hair worn loose about her shoulders and delicate, artist's fingers. It surprised him that he noticed her, because usually the curvy blondes were the ones to catch his attention. But this girl... she had something about her that made him stare. She always sat on the brick wall along the communications building when he came out of mass com, dressed in jeans and frayed madras blouses, scribbling in a small black-bound notebook. She never looked up, and it soon became Phil's goal in higher education to see what color her eyes were.

He was about to walk by her for the fiftieth time, when he suddenly stopped, directly in front of her. "I've seen you writing in that book every day for two months now... I just have to know what you're doing."

The girl looked up, startled, and Phil at last took in a pair of gray eyes. She stared blankly at him for a second, then clapped her book closed. "Nothing that fascinating," she murmured, taking up her backpack and jumping off the wall. "Sorry." She strode off.

Phil hurried and caught up with her. "I didn't mean to pry," he said, "I was just wondering. My name is Phil." He stuck out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, she shook it. "And your name is--" he prompted.

"Listen, I really don't have time to talk right now," she said, finally meeting his gaze directly. "What is it that you want?"

Phil was flustered, and the girl, realizing her abruptness, flushed as well. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude," she said. For a moment, she seemed to stall, her gray eyes studying him closely. Finally, she broke her gaze and dug in her bag for her notebook, hurriedly scrawling something across the back page. With a swift motion, she tore it out of the book and held it out to him. "If you have time."

Phil looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand as she hurried away. "24509 Los Caballos," it read. "About 9 p.m.. Come as you aren't." He opened his mouth to ask her about the cryptic message, but she had already vanished. With a frown, he folded the paper and stuck it securely in his back pocket.

Phil was checking over his appearance that evening in front of his bathroom mirror when his roommate Randy walked in and whistled. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not really sure, actually." He dug out the scrap of paper and handed it over. "What do you make of it?" "Los Caballos?"

Randy let out a guffaw. "Dude, I've heard about these. They call them masquerades." Glancing at his roommate's outfit, he added, "I wouldn't go like that."

"Masquerade? What's that supposed to mean?"

Randy hopped up and settled himself on the counter top. "It's something really popular on the fringe. You know, the Goths, the punks, they're all real into this. And they usually hold them at this old house up the coast." He looked at Phil skeptically and said, "You wouldn't catch me there dead, man. Who knows what kind of weird stuff they're into."

The girl hadn't looked Gothic to Phil, though she did dress a bit unusually. He glanced at his button-down denim shirt and neatly creased khakis and decided to change into something less conservative, just in case.

Los Caballos actually encompassed a secluded community a couple of miles up Pacific Coast Highway, consisting of large, old manors. Number 24509 was set back into the trees and only a mailbox with the painted number indicated the concealed drive. Phil turned down the private lane and noticed with a pang of apprehension that several cars were already parked in the circular driveway.

He had finally settled on an outfit he thought looked kind of Gothic, or at least severely depressed. Black jeans, plain black t-shirt, Doc Martens, and a large silver cross. Randy had suggested the cross just in case they were all vampires. Phil had laughed, then idly wondered if that really worked.

The front door of the sprawling manor was open, and he stepped inside cautiously. The windows were draped in heavy maroon curtains that blotted out all outside light. Brown cloths draped over the lamps dimmed the room and gave it a pale orange aura. He immediately smelled a heady scent that he thought was marijuana, but which turned out to be patchouli burning in a balsa wood holder.

In the front parlor and living rooms, people in various modes of dress were grouped in twos and threes, talking over the background music, some weird wavering Tibetan chant. Phil stood in the entryway, not sure what to do. From the corner, a dark shape detached itself from a group and strode over to him.

It was the girl, clad in a blood-red velvet dress laced over a white blouse, with her hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. She smiled a welcome that made his heart jump and then crash nervously into his stomach.

"Good, you came! I'm Julia. You are--?"

"Phil."

"Where are you from, Phil?"

"Well, around here. I go to the University, of course, but you knew that because that's where we met--"

Julia's face changed and she said haughtily, "I'm afraid you must have mistaken me for someone else. I certainly did not meet you at Northwestern before I graduated."

Phil caught on immediately; the title "masquerade" suddenly spoke volumes. "My mistake," he said quickly. "But you do look remarkably like a girl I met here in California right before I left for China."

Julia's expression relaxed. "I've been told that I have one of those faces," she said. "Come, let me introduce you around."

Over the next hour, he met a slew of people: artists, architects, ballet dancers, writers, advertising executives. Or rather, people pretending to be those things. Phil wasn't sure how to make up for his embarrassing faux pas, but he quickly constructed himself an identity in keeping with the professional company. "I'm a photojournalist," he said to one young woman, who claimed to own a bed-and-breakfast in San Francisco. "Have you seen my photo essays in Time recently?"

These people weren't really weird, he concluded at the end of the evening. Just creative escapists. He thanked Julia with a cosmopolitan air and asked that she might think of him the next time she threw a little soiree. She smiled and said, "Certainly. Thank you for coming."

He realized on the way home that he knew little of Julia but the character she played-- and that was only that she was the hostess, had attended Northwestern University, and now lived in Southern California.

It was several days before Phil saw Julia around campus again. She hadn't been in her usual spot on the brick wall since the previous Friday. He spotted her by the fountain in the quad and sat down next to her.

"Hey, Julia, how are you?"

She raised her eyes from the black notebook and glanced at him listlessly. "I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?"

"I just asked how things were going," he said.

She began shoving things into her backpack. "Fine," she mumbled. "I should go."

Phil watched her go, completely bewildered. "So you got shot down too?" came a familiar voice from behind.

"You know her, Randy?" Phil was surprised to see his roommate; even more surprised that he knew the girl.

"Yeah. Amy's in my creative writing class. She's a weird chick. Good writer, but she's really morbid. Had her main character decapitated in her last story."

The last information was nearly lost on Phil, so surprised was he at the name. "Her name's not Julia?"

Randy gave him a strange look. "Where'd you get that name? That was the decapitated girl. Anyway, that's a trippy chick you're after, man. Good luck."

"Thanks," said Phil absently, his mind working rapidly.

He got a handwritten notecard in his campus mailbox the next day with the words, "Friday, 10 p.m." scrawled across the inside. He flipped it closed and studied the reproduced painting on the outside: The Scream. He shoved it back into his backpack, reflecting that he'd never really liked Munch.

The second masquerade that Phil attended was much less intimidating. The people he had met the previous Friday greeted him warmly, and inquired after his photography. He made polite excuses and glanced around for the hostess. Julia was nowhere in sight. He finally found her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and drinking a glass of Chianti. She was wearing a flowing white dress that looked like a shroud.

"How are you tonight?" He kissed her on either cheek. She stared back and took a sip of her wine with a shaky hand. A stream of liquid cascaded over the rim, several drops splashing the snowy white of her dress.

"Okay." She held her glass up to the light and studied the way the red shadows danced across the white of her dress.

Phil didn't know what to say in the face of her unresponsiveness, so he asked her how her week had been. She shrugged. He noticed her eyes were red-rimmed, and he felt a little pang of nervousness. There was definitely something wrong here.

Julia stared at him, then brightened perceptibly. "Listen," she said suddenly, setting the wine glass down hard on the counter. "Why don't we forget the masquerade and go grab a cup of coffee?"

Phil was taken aback, but pleased at the same time. "All right," he agreed. "But let me drive."

She raised an eyebrow in assent and they left the party, Julia patently ignoring the guests and Phil brushing them off with a quick, "We'll be back later."

The coffee house she chose was back through the canyon, located a few blocks from the beach. Amy seemed to know it well, because she lifted a finger once they were seated and the waiter brought a pot of coffee.

"You take it black?"

He didn't, but nodded anyway. "Of course." He first poured her a cup from the pot and then filled his own mug. They sipped their coffee in silence for a minute, then Phil dared to speak. "My roommate told me that your real name is Amy."

She didn't say anything, and Phil, discouraged, stared at the faint metallic swirl that covered the top of his coffee like a rainbow in an oily puddle. He set the cup down.

"You're fascinated by me, aren't you," stated Amy abruptly. He glanced up, startled. "That's why you've been pursuing me for so long."

"Um... I suppose that's the reason." He could feel himself turning red.

"I'm not all that interesting, really. Despite what you might think, I live in the real world, just like you."

"Then why do you hold the masquerades?"

Amy was silent for so long that Phil thought she was going to ignore the question completely. Finally she looked him directly in the eye and said simply, "Because I don't like the real world."

Phil searched desperately for something to say in reply. Finally he said, "Do any of us really?"

She directed that cool gray stare at him, as if she was trying to read all his secret thoughts. Then she smiled and took a sip of her coffee before launching into a discourse on her favorite surrealist painters.

That evening seemed to be a turning point in their relationship. Phil and Amy began to see each other frequently, between masquerades. Randy commented on it one evening when Phil came in from a poetry reading with her.

"I gotta hand it to you, Phil," he said, lounging lazily on his bed. "I didn't think you could do it."

"Do what?" asked Phil, a bit annoyed.

"Get with Amy. I mean, she's pretty hot, even for such a weird chick."

"She's really not that weird, Randy." But even as he protested, he knew there was something missing from the image he had created of her.

She was a junior, just like himself, majoring in Creative Writing. She had grown up in the house on Los Caballos, had been living there alone since she turned eighteen. Phil had heard rumors about her now-deceased parents: her father was supposed to have been some well-known producer, who had died in a car crash years back. He knew nothing about her mother. He had inquired once about her family, but when he pressed the issue, Amy got so angry with him that he had stumbled over himself with apologies. and so her personal history remained a complete mystery.

Of course, he was well acquainted with her preference for surrealist art, particularly Dali, and that her favorite poem was T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land." But he was all too aware that while his attachment to her was growing stronger, she still avoided confiding in him anything but superficial details.

He was surprised then, when he picked up the ringing phone a few days later, and she asked immediately, "Will you come over tonight?"

Her voice was subdued as usual, but there was a tension, almost an excitement, underlying her throaty tones.

"Is there something going on?" "A celebration of sorts," she answered. "But don't worry, it will be just you and me."

So Phil finished typing up his article for his journalism class as quickly as possible and headed over to her house. Amy met him at the front door of the manor on Los Caballos, glowing with sort of an incandescent beauty. She wore a loose black velvet dress that brushed the floor and made her look like something out of an old Gothic novel. Her hair was partly twisted in braids on top of her head, drawing attention to the cameo at her throat. He had the sudden, strange feeling that he was looking at a ghost.

Amy laughed, almost as if she read his thoughts, and led him inside. "Do you want something to drink?" she asked, going to the small table in the parlor. An open bottle stood next to two glasses, one half filled with dark red liquid. "Chianti, my favorite." She poured him a glass and handed it to him carefully.

"What are we celebrating?" Phil asked, noticing again the nervous energy in her controlled movements.

She sipped the wine quietly and said, "It's an important anniversary. If you're patient, I'll tell you about it later. But first, let's just relax for a while. Chat."

"All right," said Phil, feeling uneasy, but seating himself on the couch.

They talked of various things of little importance, but Amy's mind was obviously focused on something else. "Tell me about your trip to China," she said abruptly.

Phil, by now, could slip into the masquerade without any thought. "Fascinating, really. I went to Hong Kong first... have you ever been?"

"No, but it's been a desire of mine for quite a while. Let me know when you're going back?"

"Of course," he said, a bit surprised. "I'd love to show you around. The Far East is very colorful. I prefer it to Europe by far."

"My husband brought me back a jewelry box from a shoot in China after we were first married." The revelation of this new detail in her history threw him. Until now, he had assumed that Amy's persona, Julia, was the single, well-educated businesswoman. She had never mentioned a husband. "Of course," he said again.

Julia led him up the staircase to the second floor, which he had never seen before. She walked straight down the hall to the master bedroom and opened the door. Again, Phil was surprised. The elegant, sumptuous decor was not in keeping with what he had imagined her bedroom as. The whole room had an air of pretension that he would have thought she'd turn her nose up at. She stopped at the dresser, just inside the door and gestured to the teakwood jewelry box with a jade and mother-of-pearl inlay.

"Amazing," he murmured, lifting the small box and studying the traditional design carefully.

"Pretty, isn't it? It's a shame that the top is cracked. My daughter dropped it when she was a baby."

Phil blinked, "Daughter?"

Julia went to the desk and began rummaging in the drawers. "Yes, I never told you? I have a daughter."

A sudden uneasiness washed over Phil and he carefully set the jewelry box down. He glanced at the other objects on top of the dresser. A pewter framed picture showed a happy family: a man, a woman, and a young teenage girl. Phil studied at the girl in the photo closely, then glanced back at Julia. "Really," he said, answering her last comment, though his thoughts were spinning. "What is her name?"

Julia was still rummaging through the bottom drawer. She answered absently, "My daughter's name is Amy...Phillip always liked the name, though I wanted to call her Justine after my own mother."

A chill washed over Phil, and he swallowed hard. "Is--is Phillip your husband?"

"Was my husband," corrected Julia, finally straightening up. She turned, "He died five years ago today, actually." He realized with a jolt that she held a gun in her right hand.

Phil swallowed hard. "Amy-- what are you doing? This isn't funny anymore... it's okay, you can break character. I don't care."

She stared at him strangely and laughed, her eyes unfocused and seeming to gaze right through him. "Amy? No, don't worry, Amy is asleep in the other room. She won't walk in until it's too late."

Sweat beaded on his upper lip, as his stomach clenched into knots. He wildly tried to distinguish between Amy and her persona. What could he say? What could he do that Julia would respond to? He took a deep breath. "Julia, why don't you put the gun away."

Julia shook her head, "No, too late. You're already dead anyway, what do I have to live for?" She stared at Phil, and then slowly, raised the gun until the muzzle rested against her temple.

Phil stared, his limbs trembling. "Julia, don't do this to yourself! You still have something to live for!" He racked his brain. "Your daughter! What about your daughter?"

Julia gave a melancholy smile and shook her head. "What about my daughter?" Slowly she closed her eyes, and squeezed the trigger.

The apartment was on the second floor of a building situated within a gated community. Modest, observed Rebecca, yet more than she had expected. She wondered idly what the old apartment in San Francisco had looked like.

It took only a few minutes to find number 341, but Rebecca stood outside the door for a few more, patting her dyed auburn hair into place and straightening the seams of silk-blend trousers and the matching blazer. Finally, she lifted her hand and rapped lightly on the door. It opened almost immediately.

May, even more beautiful than the last time Rebecca had seen her, peered out. "Rebecca!" she exclaimed, hugging her warmly. "You look wonderful! Come on in!"

Rebecca followed her into the apartment, glancing around surreptitiously. The decor was bright and airy. Pretty nice for a summer rental, she thought. Out loud, she said, "It's so nice to see you! It's been, what, three or four years?"

"Almost five," the other woman confirmed. "The fall after our high school graduation, don't you remember? Oh, please, sit down! Can I offer you some coffee?"

"That would be great," said Rebecca, settling on the overstuffed sofa and crossing her legs carefully as to avoid wrinkling the fabric of her trousers. She watched May go into the adjoining kitchen, envious as she always had been of her grace. Willowy and tall, with long dark hair that reached almost to her waist, May looked every inch the dancer. Try as she might, Rebecca could never achieve that same effect. But then May had always been different from the rest of them. Somehow, everyone in the high school had sensed that May was destined for great things.

She returned a couple of minutes later with two steaming mugs and handed one to her old friend. "Kona, raspberry chocolate, of course." An old tradition. Even in high school, they had a taste for such things. "I would have made us cappuccino, but naturally, the machine broke last night."

"That's okay." Rebecca watched her settle herself on the sofa like a cat in blue jeans, one leg stretched out in front of her. "Just like old times."

"Sure, sure," laughed May. "Some things certainly have changed. Look at you-- you must be doing pretty well. I see you're not shopping at K-mart like me!"

The outfit was expensive, and Rebecca was glad she noticed. "Well, I haven't exactly made my millions yet, but I'm doing okay."

"Did you ever go through with the marketing degree like you planned?"

"Yes, finished just last year. I'm now the executive assistant to the Vice-President of marketing in a fairly large company in L.A. Not part of the master plan we had in high school, but it pays the bills."

May grinned at the reference to their "rich and famous" design. She always said she would settle for the famous part, and Rebecca would be the millionaire. "Well, you do what you can." She fell silent for a moment and asked, "So what about the perfect man? Found him to go along with the job yet?"

Another of their half-joking high school plans. It was Rebecca's turn to shake her head at the memory. "There is someone. He's not everything I ever wished for: he doesn't write poetry or play the guitar."

"But he's got the tall, dark, handsome, and disgustingly wealthy going for him, then?"

"Sure." Rebecca smiled easily and took another sip of her coffee.

A white cat stalked out of the kitchen and made a delicate leap into her mistress's lap. "Rudi," scolded May. Rebecca remembered the Persian from their junior year; he was named after the famous ballet dancer, Rudolf Nureyev. She had forgotten about that.

Rebecca stood up and walked over to the opposite wall. White-painted and artfully arranged, it was what she would call a "vanity wall." Tour posters and program photos of the San Francisco Ballet were displayed in lacquered frames. Next to them were various other photographs: one of May in her first dance recital and a more recent one of her and a fellow dancer, in full costume and makeup for some performance. Her eyes moved over to a black and white shot clipped from Dance Magazine showing May in the studio with other company members, looking lovely and completely comfortable. "What about you?" she asked brightly.

May stood up and joined her in looking at the photos. "I'm not dancing anymore," she finally said. She tapped a fingernail on the framed bill of Swan Lake and continued, "This was my last performance."

Rebecca's jaw dropped. "You're kidding," she whispered. "What happened?"

"I was driving home from rehearsal.. someone ran a red light and I got hit head-on. Mostly cuts and bruises everywhere, but my knee got crushed pretty badly." She outlined the surgeries she'd gone through in the last three years with clinical detachment, but from the way she glanced down, Rebecca knew she might well be able see through the layers of denim and skin to the steel pin holding her left kneecap together. She had no idea what to say.

"I'm sorry," she finally managed. "I never thought-- I mean, when I ran into Chris, he never said. . . or else I wouldn't have--"

"Don't feel bad about talking about your success, Rebecca. I've dealt with all this, I'm fine with it. I'm just glad I don't have a limp. Even gladder that I'm alive to talk about it."

But the lump that had formed in Rebecca's stomach didn't want to dissolve with reassurances. "What do you do now?"

"Oh, I'm tending bar at a place called The Midnight Special in Hollywood. It's not much fun working nights, but it gives me time to go to school during the day. I'm getting a degree in computer science," she added with a flourish. "I was always good with those things, might as well become a programmer."

"That's great!" And it was, though it was a far cry from performing on the stage of the War Memorial Opera House. "I'm glad to hear that you've found something else."

"Well, like I said, you do what you can. I make enough on my salary and tips to keep this apartment, though I'll be paying back student loans for the rest of my life. And you do meet some interesting people, working in a bar."

"Anyone special?"

"Nope, not in particular. But that's okay, I'm not looking either. Listen, Rebecca, I don't mean to burden you with all that. I'm afraid you think that I'm really shattered, but I'm doing fine."

"I know you are, you have always been an incorrigible optimist." Rebecca smiled weakly, looking around for a second, and then set her cup down on the coffee table. "I really should get going, May, though I hate to run out on you so quick."

"Oh, no, not at all. I understand if you have someplace to be." May reached out and squeezed her old friend's hand. "It's been really great seeing you. I just want to say that I think it's wonderful that life has treated you so well. No one deserves it more."

"Thank you, May. I've enjoyed this."

"Anytime."

May led her to the door and opened it for her. "Call me, will you? When Chris told me he saw you, I was hoping that you lived close. Hey, even come visit me at work."

"I'll do that, May," promised Rebecca. She hugged her quickly and with a hurried good-bye, escaped down the steps to the bottom floor. For once, she didn't flip on the radio in her battered four-door and sing along. She made the thirty minute drive to her apartment in complete silence. Even so, the drive passed faster than she wished.

Unlocking the two dead bolts with separate keys, Rebecca pushed open her apartment door. After seeing May's bright little space, this apartment seemed even more dingy and depressing. The flood of fluorescent light that came on with the switch didn't help much, only accentuating dirty walls scarred by the earthquakes.

She saw that the red light was blinking on her answering machine and proceeded over to the kitchen. On the way, she shrugged off the jacket and threw it in a crumpled heap on the threadbare sofa, ignoring the fact that the suit was worth a good month's pay. The machine's tape rewound with a mechanical screech and then clicked back to play.

"Becky, it's Dolores. Two of the other waitresses just called in sick, and I need someone to work the dinner rush. Can you cover it for me, please? Give me a call ASAP."

Rebecca sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, feeling even worse than before. She dialed the number for the restaurant and asked for her manager. "Yeah, I'll cover the shift," she agreed emotionlessly. "No, it's okay, I could use the money."

In her tiny bedroom, she pulled on the unflattering green skirt and pin-striped blouse. With a last longing glance at the silk suit, she hung it in the back of her closet, shrouded in a plastic garbage bag. While she jabbed a few bobby pins into the hurriedly fashioned bun, she thought of May, who used to wear her hair like this all the time. As she grabbed her purse and left the apartment, Rebecca wondered how long it would be until May stopped waiting for her to call.

There were times at night when Karen would lie awake sleepless, and a strange trembling rage overtook her. It wasn't an anger, but a heat that paralyzed her limbs and made them ache with pure helplessness. She clenched and unclenched her muscles, trying to dissipate the feeling that slowly crept into her head and pulsed behind her eyes. She longed to scream out, claw at her limbs, do anything to make it stop, but just when she hovered on the edge of agony, the tide would go out. Then she would lay in the damp sheets, her mind clouded. She would stay for the rest of the night, unable to sleep or really think, but just stare at the bars the moonlight threw across the wall and listen to the coyotes crying from beyond the edge of civilization.

Karen had moved to the Southern California only three months before, having struggled through college with grades just good enough to gain a degree. San Francisco had closed in on her early in her education, the constant crowding and non-existent living space wearing on her nerves. She took constant pilgrimages to the mountains to meditate, to clear her mind of accumulated city filth. The day after the graduation ceremony, which she didn't attend, she made her escape.

Southern California didn't seem a very practical choice in retrospect, but where else did someone with a degree in telecommunications go? If she had've thought of it, she would have realized she could have gone practically anywhere and avoided the haze of smog that hung over the valley. But she hadn't really thought at all, and so she moved into the tiny one bedroom cubicle in Camarillo a week after she left the Bay Area. It was then, a short while after she settled into her new life and her new job, that the nighttime fits began.

Her job was as a "production assistant" of a mind-numbing morning talk show, which basically boiled down to a glorified gopher position. Even though she hated it, early on she learned the ability to smile and nod at the appropriate times, while her mind drifted elsewhere. No one seemed to notice, least of all the plastic hosts.

No matter how much she disliked her job, however, her new home didn't close in on her like San Francisco had. Even the smog didn't bother her, when she realized what stunning sunsets it created. Often, at dusk, Karen would put on her hiking boots and go hiking into the hills behind her complex. They were long and rough climbs, but when she reached the top of the hill and looked down over the mottled brown and green of the valley floor, the scratches and bruises were long forgotten. There she could really think, sitting peacefully in the late afternoon sunshine, watching hawks circle the sky, then plummet graceful down to their prey. On occasion, she saw a coyote or two down below her. One of them would stare at her for a while, sizing up the motionless human figure, then move on as if recognizing that she belonged there. Karen smiled to herself to think she had made a friend. She would stay on the mountain as long as it was light, then go home and watch TV until late into the night. She dreaded going to bed, afraid that she would wake in the middle of the night, that unidentifiable feeling coursing through paralyzed limbs. But she tried not to think about those nights often, not sure what the strange phenomenon meant. She certainly didn't breathe a word to anyone else: all she needed was to be told she needed time off from work for psychological counseling.

Arriving home from work one day, she was so deep in thought about her evening plans for hiking that she paid even less attention to her surroundings than usual. She had already slipped her key into the lock of her apartment when she realized that someone was following her. She turned sharply. "What do you want?"

Her pursuer was an average-looking young man with dark hair and blue eyes, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He looked taken aback by her tone. "Um, my name's Kevin. I live next door. Well, next door and upstairs, actually."

Karen relaxed a little, but withdrew her key from the lock and kept her distance. "Can I help you?"

"Well, I see you sometimes when you come home at night-"

"You've been watching me?" asked Karen incredulously.

Kevin turned bright red. "Oh, no, I... uh, I went about this all wrong. I just-- okay, I can see into your patio and your sliding door. When I got up today-- I work the night shift-- I saw that your door was open, which seemed kind of unusual. But then, when I came back by, I thought I saw something--someone, I guess-- jump over your porch railing and go inside."

Karen glanced around a little apprehensively. "Someone broke into my place?"

"Well, I called the complex security, but they didn't find anything. I just thought you should know, check to make sure nothing's stolen."

Karen nodded, and reached past him to slip her key into the lock. "Let's check then."

"Wait. Let me go first."

"It's my apartment," she said with an amused smile. "I'll look." She pushed the door inward and glanced around. All was as she left it. She walked over to the sliding door, which appeared to be securely latched and untampered with. "Everything appears to be fine."

"Maybe you should check your bedroom as well. Just in case."

Karen watched him for a second, then shrugged. The inside of her room was dark, and as far as she could tell, unmolested. "Either you have an over-active imagination," she mumbled to herself, "Or this is a really pathetic way to meet women."

Returning to the living room with a fake smile, she said, "Thanks for your concern, but everything seems fine. Must have been just a weird shadow or something."

"I guess," he said, a bit confused. "Well, anyway, I'm sorry to bother you."

She held the door open for him and as he stepped through, he turned around. "What was your--" he began, but she had already closed and locked the door.

"Kook," she said, crossing to the patio door again. She peered out briefly, trying to find the window from which he spied on her, then drew the vertical blinds. Diverted from her hiking plans, she flipped on the TV and watched the lineup of stupid early-evening sitcoms.

She went to bed that night, dreading the strange fit, but it never came. She dropped into a thick and dreamless sleep. In the morning, she stumbled in a fog to the shower, opening her eyes only as the hot water stung her skin. Frowning, she looked down at her body. Small scratched, already scabbed over, ran along the insides of her arms and down her shins. She checked her short nails, but there wasn't any blood under them. Wincing under the stinging spray, she decided that she must have done it on her last hike and just not noticed it.

For some reason, Karen found it even more difficult to concentrate on her work as usual; she felt like she was back in college, attending classes after an all-nighter. She downed several cups of Colombian Roast and forced a cheerful smile as she made her rounds to the guest dressing rooms. She checked her clipboard and saw that the first was Dr. Adrian Rowe, a controversial parapsychologist. She allowed herself a private smile, then rapped on the door. He answered immediately. "Good morning, Dr. Rowe. I'm Karen Chandler. Welcome to A.M. Los Angeles."

The man stared at her for a minute, in a way that made her uneasy. "Is there a problem?" she asked. He snapped out of it.

"Uh, no, no problem," he said slowly, his eyes still fixed on her.

"Ms. Chandler...is there something wrong?" Karen frowned. "No, nothing's wrong, why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason." But still, he studied her, his eyes probing hers as if he could see behind them into her thoughts. Karen shifted uncomfortably.

"Dr. Rowe, can I get you anything before the show?" "No, no, It's okay. I really have to get ready for the show. But thank you." He began to close the door slowly, eyes still locked on hers, until the door shut with a click.

Karen blinked, taken aback. The guest's strange behavior stunned her for a few seconds. But she shook it off and continued on to the next guest, who welcomed her in and chatted for a few minutes. Karen forgot all about it and moved back out towards the stage.

By the time she finished the taping and the subsequent office work, she was completely exhausted. Even the cooling air outside didn't calm her, and the drive home just made her more and more frustrated. By the time she reached home, she was acting on instinct and reflex, her mind ceasing to consciously process information. She dropped her shoulder bag as she walked in the door and headed straight to her bedroom. She stripped off her business suit and threw on jeans and a sweater. Stopping only long enough to grab her keys, she strode out the door and made for the hills.

The physical exertion of climbing, and the quiet broken only by her footsteps on the rocky slope, calmed her nerves a bit. The sun dipped in the sky, glowing orange and red on the smoky horizon. She stopped at the top, breathless and thoughtless, feeling energy flow through her veins. She sat down on the bare ground, cross-legged, and stared down on the valley. The atmosphere soothed her, and lulled her into a dreamlike trance in the mellow gold light.

Karen blinked and suddenly the landscape went black. All around her, she could hear crickets chirping, and the rustling sounds of the night. Her heart pounded, and her head swam. "What happened?" she murmured, glancing at her watch. 10:25. She attempted to stand, her joints stiff and numb from cold and inactivity. She groaned and rubbed her hands together.

The bushes rustled a few yards away. In the moonlight, she glimpsed a pair of glinting yellow eyes, two glowing circles in the dark form of a coyote, bright in the dark form of a coyote. Karen suppressed a scream and scrambled down the hill. The loose dirt shifted underfoot and sent her sliding down on her backside. She struggled to her feet, only to stumble again and slide head-first down the mountain. A terrified whimper escaped from her lips, but adrenaline spurred her on, and she pulled her bruised body up. When she reached the bottom of the hill, she didn't even pause, but broke into a sprint that didn't slow until she reached her apartment.

Once inside, she closed and locked the door behind her, then slid down, gasping, against the door. She dropped her head into her hands, feeling sick. "Oh, God, I'm losing my mind." She looked down at her palms, which were scratched and bloody from grappling the rocky hillside. The front of her legs felt raw and bruised from the fall, and she tasted blood from a split, swollen lip.

Still shaky and bewildered, Karen pulled herself up and into the shower. The spray of warm water stung her raw skin, but she endured it and cleaned the dirt out of the cuts. As the dirty water spiraled down the drain, she felt a little more peaceful, and slipped into a soft flannel nightshirt and fuzzy slippers. She locked her bedroom door and turned down the blinds before crawling under the down comforter. Tonight, she welcomed sleep, longing for the respite it gave from all her unanswered questions.

She dropped into sleep, but it was filled with surreal and disjointed dreams. Sometime in the middle of the night, she started awake, her heart throbbing painfully in her chest, frozen in fear. Inky black shadows detached and melded in the corners of the room. And then she heard a voice, a raspy whisper echoing in her head, "Come to me." It seemed to take on life of its own, thick in the silence, until it faded away.

Impelled by fear or foolishness, Karen slipped out of bed and stole over to the window. The blinds were open; she peered through the slats. Just beyond her vision, a shape moved and disappeared around the side of the building. From outside her door came a sudden, strange clacking.

Mindless of the circumstances, she went to the door and turned the knob, but the usual click of the lock disengaging was absent. Her throat constricted, but propelling herself forward, she stepped into the hallway and rounded the corner to her living room. The sliding glass door stood wide open, the stiff breeze from outside rattling the slats together.

Karen stared for a minute, and then her vision clouded, as she crumpled to the floor.

She woke up the next morning, lying on her living room floor with her throw blanket twisted around her. With consciousness brought immediate panic, and she sat up sharply. Sunlight streamed into the room. She saw immediately that the door was closed and securely latched, the blinds as she left them. But at the base of the door were several dry, dusty splotches. She looked closely. Too small for footprints, but then what were they? She dialed her work number and told them she was ill.

Karen had no idea what she was going to do, but after the night before, she was in no shape to go to work. It crossed her mind that perhaps the stress of recent years had gotten to her, and she had cracked. But those were not the musings of insanity. All she needed was a day of relaxation, to catch up on leisure reading and watch her soap operas. Then everything would be okay, and she could go back to her normal life.

She made a pot of her favorite coffee, popped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster, and flipped on the TV while she was waiting. Yesterday's show was being broadcast, and she felt a twinge of guilt for claiming to be ill. But a quick look at her gouged hands and the bruises on her legs convinced her that she had done the right thing.

In the daylight, the scene last night seemed easy to explain. She had been so exhausted that she fell asleep on the hill, and the fright from the coyote was enough to give her nightmares. Karen had never been a sleepwalker, but she heard that stress could do strange things to one's nocturnal patterns. Maybe she even went outside again and tracked in mud, then fell asleep with her blanket on the floor.

The more she thought of it, the more sense it made. There was nothing out there trying to get her. Karen felt silly for those wild thoughts, and ate her breakfast curled up on the couch with a sense of relief. She lounged around the apartment all day, catching up on cleaning, reading a novel, watching her soaps. By the time night fell, she felt better than she had in a long time. "Maybe I just need to have a nervous breakdown more often," she said to herself with a smile, as she dropped pasta shells into a pot of boiling water.

She poured herself a second glass of red wine after she cleaned up, wrapped a blanket around herself, and stepped out onto her small patio. The night was chilly, though not as cold as it had been, and clouds created a hazy halo around the crescent moon. Sighing in contentment, she sipped the wine and listened to the musical sounds of the night.

"Come to me."

Karen's hand tightened around the glass, and wine sloshed over the side to the ground. She listened. Silence, then, the same words. "Come to me, Karen."

Her limbs were overtaken by trembling, and the glass slipped out of her hand to shatter at her feet. "Who are you?" she forced out, her voice quavering. "Who's out there?"

"It's only me." The voice came from behind her, and she spun around. Her next door neighbor, Kevin, stood there, framed in her door.

"Why are you stalking me?" she whispered, backing away, and ignoring the bits of glass biting into her bare feet. "What do you want?"

Kevin laughed easily. "What are you taking about, Karen? I am not stalking you. Your front door was open, I was worried and so I came in. Don't you think that's a bit Hollywood, your next door neighbor trying to kill you or something?" He smirked and ran a hand through his dark hair. "I think you've been working too hard at that TV show of yours."

Karen frowned. "How do you know that? I never told you I worked on a TV show!

Kevin grinned and leaned back against the sliding glass door, his hands resting in his jeans pockets. "I know your name from the newsletter the complex sent out, then I saw your name on the credits of A.M. L.A. or whatever that foolish show is called. Simple." He smiled again, his stare holding a wordless challenge.

Karen felt fear twist her stomach into a fist as she glimpsed the look in his yellow eyes. She distinctly remembered Kevin having mild blue eyes. As she took a step back, the glass biting deeper into her feet, Kevin's smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth... canine teeth. She cast a wild glance over her shoulder, gauging whether or not she could vault the railing for escape. When she looked back, muscles tensed for action, the doorway was empty. And her front door was closed.

A rustling in the bushes a few feet from the railing caught her attention. From the shadows, a coyote stepped out, its eyes reflecting white in the light from her porch. It stared at her, as the voice in her head whispered, "I have chosen you, Karen. Join me." The coyote yipped a couple of times, its nose in the air, then loped off down the cement walk out of sight.

Karen whimpered, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She darted into her apartment and slammed the door behind her, engaging the latch. But even as she did it, she knew it wouldn't do much good. Whatever he was, he could get to her anytime he wanted, no matter how many doors she locked behind herself.

She didn't sleep that night at all, huddled in the corner of her room beneath her quilt, and racking her brains for possible solutions. But nothing came to her. Every creak and groan of the building settling in the night air sent a new wave of panic over her, as she searched wildly for any sign that she was not alone. Her heart pounded as if it would burst out of her chest at each new sound, and she clutched the pillow against herself for some sort of feeble protection. Close to dawn, her eyes began to creep down, and she slept, crumpled against the wall like a doll.

Karen didn't go to work that day either. She woke at three in the afternoon, feeling ill and almost hung over. There was only so much fear one person could feel, she decided, trying to explain the gaping hollow inside her body and the sluggish workings of her mind. She dreaded the coming night, knowing that it would bring either another terror or a sleepless, torturous night of waiting.

She moved restlessly, unable to truly think or reason out the problem. She cleaned the bathroom, made herself lunch, checked her mail. But the more she attempted to convince herself things were normal, the more difficult it was to be confined in the apartment. The walls seemed to be creeping close to her, the air draining itself of oxygen so she couldn't breathe. She sat on the couch, paralyzed, that familiar ache tearing at her muscles. She gasped for breath, her mind unable to process anything but the sound of her own rasping breath and the strange sensations in her body. She could hear the sounds of nighttime clearly through the walls, creating a screeching, manic symphony inside her head, until she could stand it no more. And then, suddenly, her knotted muscles melted, freeing her from her paralysis.

Not bothering to take her keys or a sweater, she burst out her front door and headed out her apartment complex. She headed for the hills, each step giving her another breath of air, fading the sounds in her head by another degree. She scrambled up the side of the hill more easily than usual, ignoring the sliced soles of her feet, her burning hands. It was only when she reached the top, bathed in moonlight, and enveloped in the cold air, that Karen regained consciousness of her situation.

She was standing near the point she had fallen asleep at the night before, overlooking the valley. For the first time, the icy tendrils of fear were absent. She looked around, and shut off the nagging part of her brain which screamed insanity to her; she allowed instinct to make her decisions instead. "Come out," she said softly. "I'm here."

The familiar rustling of the bushes directed her attention to the coyote who padded slowly into her sight. Then, before her eyes, the animal melted, transformed really, into Kevin's familiar form. He smiled. "I knew you would come."

"You made me," she accused, staring at those reflective eyes in the dark. "You called me here."

He smiled, and she again caught a glimpse of canine teeth, reminding her that this wasn't really Kevin. "Yes, but you answered." He cocked his head, almost like a dog listening to a distant sound. "You look shocked. I thought that human form would be easier on you."

"You're not human then," she said. "You're an animal!"

Kevin just laughed. "No, I'm not either. Not completely. Not anymore."

"I don't understand."

"You will. I have chosen you for this, Karen." He smiled. "You dared me long ago on the hilltop; you said that you belonged here as much as I did. You were right."

He moved toward her with an inhuman grace. She began to back away. "What do you mean?" she whispered, feeling trapped by his harsh yellow gaze. She resisted the pull towards him.

He grinned. Before her eyes, Kevin's figure shimmered and liquefied, as if she was viewing him through a sheet of water, before solidifying back into a familiar shape: her own. Karen choked, the air seeming to stick in her lungs. Kevin reached forward, placing his hands on either side of her head. The landscape dimmed before her, then was lost in blackness.

Red and blue lights flashed across the complex from the three police cars parked outside Karen's building. She looked around, confused, but made her way to her own apartment. The door was wide open and flooded with light, policemen walking in and out of the front door. Two paramedics with a stretcher hustled past her into her front door. She followed them, bewildered.

Inside, Kevin stood with two officers, one of which were making notes in his pads. "I just saw the door open and I was a little worried, so I went in. Then I saw her...in there." He gestured towards the bedroom, and as he turned back, caught her eye with a small smile.

Karen slipped in, somehow unnoticed by the people standing around. She went to her doorway and looked in. Her stomach clenched convulsively.

The walls and carpet of her room were splattered with blood. Lying on the bed in the corner was the form of a person, but the body was unrecognizable as male or female. In the center of a blood-soaked bed, it looked as if it had been ripped or clawed apart, all the organs visible and entrails spilling out. She overcame the urge to retch and watched the paramedics transfer the body to the stretcher and cover it with the sheet.

They wheeled it out without noticing her, but as they passed by, the sheet fell aside enough to show the victim's face. Karen reeled back against the wall in horror.

Kevin appeared at her elbow suddenly. "It's time to go, Karen. I've taken care of the police."

"That-- that thing was--"

He flashed two rows of uneven yellow teeth. "That was you, Karen, my dear. Now come on, we need to leave."

She allowed him to lead her out in shock, not questioning why no one even gave them a second look as they pushed their way through the crowd. As he steered her out of the complex, she attempted to form questions from her disjointed thoughts. "What--? I mean, how do you--? We're--"

"Don't worry about it, Karen. I'll explain everything to you. We have plenty of time."

"What do you mean? Where are we going? How much time?

Kevin held out a hand to her. She stared at it, human but for the claws on the end of his fingers. An image of the mangled body flashed in her mind's eye. She swallowed hard, even though somewhere deep down she now realized it was an illusion of her mind, that she no longer had a body. He smiled once again, withdrawing her hand, and motioned for her to come with him.

As they walked slowly toward the hills, a sudden cry of coyotes erupted. "Come on," Kevin said, "It's time for you to meet the others."

Andrea Carroll leaned against the Spanish-tiled kitchen counter and stared down at the list in front of her, trying to calculate exactly how long her errands would take. She glanced at the clock and frowned. If she left now, there would be just enough time to run down to the pier market for fresh crab, pick up some flowers, and get the meal in the oven before Gordon came home. Slipping her To-Do list in her pocket, she hurried out the door to the garage. She was determined that tonight be perfect, and it wouldn't do to keep their dinner guests waiting.

Not that anything so disastrous had ever happened. As Gordon was so fond of relating to his colleagues, his wife was the consummate hostess, somehow managing to orchestrate an evening as smoothly as if choreographed. The benefits of marrying a wealthy Southern girl, they murmured. In reality, these skills had been learned as a necessity in her eleven-year marriage. When Andrea and Gordon met, she had been a young and rather inexperienced girl vacationing in Italy to celebrate her college graduation. It was only after marrying the charming professor that Andrea learned how to run a household.

Andrea's thoughts were far away from that long-ago European courtship as she drove the crowded San Francisco streets to the fish market. She was calculating how much crab was necessary for a salad for six. Perhaps she should make something else for the first course--

"Barbara!" Andrea shook herself from her thoughts as she realized she had forgotten to return her agent's call. She knew that the message waiting for her when she returned from the gym yesterday had something to do with her newest novel. A flutter of nervousness caught her off guard and she smiled. The smile faded a moment later as she realized she wouldn't have time. Maybe she could steal a couple of minutes while she was making dinner.

Two hours later, Andrea made it back to the house, her arms loaded with paper sacks of fresh produce and precisely the right amount of crab. She set the bags carefully on the counter, and removing the paper wrapped bouquet from the top of one, buried her nose in the fragrant flowers. She always bought her flowers from a particular stall in Chinatown. It reminded her, strangely, of the stall in a Florentine piazza , where Gordon had bought her lush, Belgian roses. Andrea smiled at the recollection and took down a glass vase, beginning to arrange the stems with careful, practiced hands. Yellow roses and irises. For a moment, she had wavered at the heavy-headed red tulips, but she knew that Gordon disliked red. He claimed it was too garish, too unsophisticated. Andrea stepped back and looked at the newly arranged centerpiece with satisfaction. She had made the sensible choice: it would go nicely with Gordon's expensive family china.

"Andrea, where are you?" Gordon closed the front door behind him and glanced around the living room. He sniffed appreciatively at the smell of rosemary chicken baking in the kitchen, and smiled at the artfully arranged dining room table. "Andrea?"

"I'm up here!" called Andrea from the second floor. He climbed the stairs and found her in the master bathroom, running a brush through her dark hair. Gordon came up behind and kissed her neck. She smiled at him in the mirror. "How was your day?"

"Good. I ran into Dr. Rowland this afternoon. He told me to thank you for the invitation. He says he never turns down a chance to sample your cooking." Gordon placed a hand affectionately atop her head. "I think I might get the appointment as chair just because the Dean likes your cooking."

Andrea laughed. "Oh, really, Gordon. You've worked hard, you deserve the position. Was he terribly impressed about the textbook?"

"Hard to tell." He pulled his polo shirt over his head and grabbed a towel. He disappeared into the shower cubicle. "Did you get my suit from the cleaners? The gray one?"

"In the closet." She twisted her hair up on top of her head and pulled a few tendrils from the knot before pinning it. "I spoke to my agent today."

"Really?" He turned on the shower, the rushing water echoing loudly off the walls.

"Yes, Barbara said--"

"What? Sorry, honey, I can't hear you!"

Andrea sighed and uncapped her mascara. It was going to be one of those evenings. She wondered if she'd ever get a chance to tell him her news.

"Andrea, everything looks wonderful. I don't know how you do it." Cynthia Rowland gave the hostess a hug. She was the wife of the Dean, Dr. Michael Rowland, and a former professor at the University. Andrea had never liked the couple, but she understood how important it was to portray Gordon in the best light, so she always attempted to be friendly and gracious. Andrea gave the obligatory smile of thanks and said something complimentary in return, before shaking hands with Dr. Rowland.

"Nice place you have here, " he commented, though it was third time he had been there.

A few minutes later, the Carrolls' oldest and dearest friends arrive. Charles and Lydia Preston had been the first couple Andrea met in San Francisco, having introduced themselves at a small cocktail party thrown by mutual acquaintances. They didn't exactly fit into the stuffy academic circles that Gordon and Andrea tended to socialize within; Charles was a syndicated columnist, and Lydia was the vice president of a local bank. But both were intelligent and sophisticated, with a wit best satisfied at the expense of their academic friends. Andrea tried to invite them to as many of these dinner parties as possible to liven things up a bit.

"Have they begun to run down their lists of degrees yet?" asked Charles sotto voce , as soon as he stepped through the door.

"Not yet." Andrea accepted his kiss on the cheek before he moved over to let his wife through.

"God, Andrea, I don't know how you do this month after month," whispered Lydia. "Then again, I don't know how I do this month after month."

Andrea suppressed a grin and settled them in the living room with the others, who were drinking cocktails and mineral water. She disappeared into the kitchen to check on the chicken. When she returned, the men were discussing international politics, and Lydia was standing with an amused smile at the mantle. "I don't think I've ever seen this picture before. " she said as Andrea came over to her, "When was it taken?"

Andrea peered at the framed photo on the mantelpiece. In it, she and Gordon were sitting at an umbrella-shaded table, holding hands and looking blissfully happy. Andrea laughed at the bright red dress and matching floppy hat. "That was in Florence, where we met. Can you believe that oufit?"

"I don't know," said Lydia, "I kind of like it."

"I was quite flamboyant back then. You should have seen my fingernails-- about six inches long and always painted that same shade of red." Andrea smiled dreamily, "That reminds me of our bus trip back from Venice. . ." She broke off with a preoccupied expression, until Lydia leaned over and stared at her.

"You there?"

"Mmm. Sorry, I was just thinking of something." She shook her head. "Excuse me for a second, I better go see if the food is ready."

"I'll come too."

Once inside the kitchen, Lydia leaned against the counter and watched as Andrea prepared the food to be brought out. She flicked a piece of lint off her dark blue dress and said, "I can't believe you do this all the time."

"It's really not so bad. As long as Gordon is happy."

"Gordon," said the brassy blonde with a sniff.

"For once, I'd like to hear about something other than him. Hey, by the way, what happened with your novel?"

Andrea couldn't prevent the smile of pleasure from overtaking her face. "I talked to Barbara today. My publisher loved it. They're giving me a huge advance on it."

"Congratulations!" squealed Lydia, practically bowling Andrea over with her hug. "What did Gordon say about it?"

Andrea sobered. "I haven't had time to tell him. Lydia, don't say anything, please! I don't want to take over his night."

Lydia stared at her, but finally nodded. "If that's what you want," she said, shrugging. "Far be it from me to ruin his night."

After everyone was seated in the dining room, Andrea began to bring out the food, careful not to brush anything up against her white linen dress. She had managed, with customary precision, to time the baked rosemary chicken, potatoes, and fresh bread to be finished at the exact same time. And her crab salad had come out perfectly. When at last she sat down and helped herself, the others were praising her skill.

Dr. Rowland grinned at Gordon. "This is more than you deserve, Gordon. Your wife is a wonder."

"I know, she's great, isn't she?"

Andrea accepted the comments quietly as usual, but Lydia glared at the men. "She is also sitting at this table, you know."

"Lydia--"

"Forgive me, Andrea, " cut in Rowland smoothly, "I was just joking with your husband. Everything tastes great."

Cynthia smiled sweetly and immediately assured, "Oh, yes, I haven't had a home cooked meal like this since before I left for London."

Andrea swiftly turned the conversation away from her cooking, "Business or vacation?"

"Oh, business of course. Or academics if you prefer. I was giving a lecture at a conference there."

"On what?"

Cynthia waved a hand, "Oh, nothing terribly interesting. A colleague and I discovered that a few poems originally published anonymously were actually written by Thomas Hardy. He was--"

"A British Victorian writer, I know."

"Really! You read poetry?"

"I studied English literature at Vanderbilt."

"Really!" Rowland repeated his wife, "In all the time we have known each other, Gordon never told me that."

"It never came up," explained Andrea's husband.

Charles Preston laughed. Everyone at the table swiveled their heads to stare at him. He hastily apologized.

When everyone had finished their meals, Andrea excused herself and returned with a bottle of chilled champagne. "I'd like to propose a toast to my husband. We've just heard that his textbook on European socio-economics has been picked up by UCLA and UCSF as one of their European history texts." She raised her glass, as did the others. "To Gordon."

After they drank to Gordon's success, Lydia stood up. "I'd like to make a little announcement of my own. Well, actually, it's Andrea's news, but since she would never let on, I'll have to tell you all."

"Lydia, sit down!" hissed Andrea, coloring.

Lydia ignored her. "Today Andrea's third novel was accepted for publication."

The table erupted in conversation. "You're a novelist?" asked Rowland incredulously.

"Three books. . . she's an established novelist." Charles was enjoying himself.

"Really!" the Dean said. Andrea had never noticed how much the man used that word. She glanced at her husband. He looked shocked.

"Why am I the last one to know these things?" asked Gordon under his breath.

"I tried!"

"Who knew there were two such talented people under the same room?" commented Lydia. She studied the couple and raised her glass. "To Andrea."

"To Andrea."

The young woman looked embarrassed, though everyone at the table appeared curious and rather impressed. All but Gordon, whose stony expression spoke of hurt and anger.

"So that's what Barbara told you about?" Gordon asked. He was lying on the bed, watching the eleven o'clock news when Andrea came in. It had taken nearly two hours to clean up and wash all the dishes. And she had broken a salad plate in the process.

Andrea unzipped the back of her dress and stepped out of it, before answering. "You knew that I sent in my new novel."

He still hadn't faced her. "No, I didn't."

"Gordon, I told you that I mailed it to Barbara!"

"I don't remember that."

"I tried to tell you this afternoon, anyway."

"I know." Finally, he glanced over at his wife. "I was just hoping-- well, you know how much I want the position as chair!"

"I know that, I know. I'm sorry that Lydia brought it up on your night."

"That woman."

"It's not Lydia's fault," she said quietly. "She just takes an interest in my career."

"Your career," he sighed. "Why do you just now want to turn a hobby into a career?"

"A hobby?" Andrea was stunned. "I've always wanted to be a writer."

Gordon rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. "When I met you, you didn't have any high aspirations. You were intelligent, of course. And beautiful. And charming. You were wandering though Europe on your parents money. I remember, we met in a coffee bar in Florence and you yelled at me for taking your newspaper. In Italian, no less!"

Andrea smiled sadly. "I remember."

"You charmed all those old Italian men when we were traveling around the country. Especially the shopkeepers. They were always giving you things for nothing."

For a moment, she got caught up in the memory. "Do you remember the bookstore in Venice?"

"Of course. I found that 1899 edition of the history of Europe in there. You know, I still have that book in my office."

The glow left her as quickly as it had come. She rose slowly from her perch on the edge of the bed.

"Where are you going?" "Bathroom. I have to brush my teeth."

But Andrea closed herself in the cubicle and sat on the edge of the bathtub. She could hear the nightly news as a low buzz from the other room. She stared at the wall for a long time. By the time she returned, Gordon was asleep. She flicked off the television and then the light and crawled into bed beside him.

The shoe box had sat forgotten on top of Andrea's closet for so long that when she took it down, her fingers left little greasy marks on the dust-covered lid. She opened it gingerly, as if afraid of what she might find inside. "I'd forgotten about this," she whispered to herself, sifting through the contents.

The memorabilia was numerous and varied. A program from "La Traviata" at the La Scala Opera House in Milan, a picture postcard of the Pont Vecchio, a couple of blurry 35mm snapshots from the tour of the Italian countryside she and Gordon took a week or two after they met.

At the bottom of the box was a small cloth-bound book. From the bookstore in Venice. It was a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets, translated into Italian. She opened it and ran a finger lightly down a page, scanning the familiar lines. She flipped through the pages, stopping in surprise at the exact center. The Belgian rose, she had forgotten she pressed it in the book. It was old and fragile, beginning to fall apart from the long years pressed between Sonnets 116 and 117, its red petals darkened to black. She stared at it for a long moment, the lines blurring before her eyes.

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. Andrea shoved everything back into the box and slipped it back on the top shelf in the closet. "I'm up here, honey," she called, swiping a hand quickly across her eyes, before walking downstairs to greet her husband.

"Andrea! Hey, where are you?" Gordon came through the front door late Monday afternoon, and tossed his sportscoat and briefcase on the sofa. Andrea didn't answer.

He took the stairs two at a time, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his cuffs. Their bedroom door was closed. He opened it, then stopped short.

Andrea heard the door open and froze also. Garments hung from both hands on hangers, waiting to be put into the two open suitcases on the bed. "Gordon! I--I didn't expect you home so soon."

"Andrea? What's all this?"

Andrea laid the clothes on the bed and began to fold them briskly into the suitcase. The activity steadied her trembling hands. "I'm going on a trip, Gordon. To New York. I spoke to Barbara this morning to let her know I was coming." She glanced at him, but she couldn't bear the stricken look on his face.

"Were you going to tell me?" He sank down on the edge of the bed. "Or were you just going to leave?"

"Of course I was going to tell you. But--"

"No, don't explain." He ran a hand through his hair. Until now, she hadn't notice how much it was thinning. He didn't move, just stared at the floor. Finally, she resumed putting the clothes in the suitcases.

Five minutes later, he still hadn't spoken, and Andrea couldn't bring herself to break the silence. She zipped the suitcases closed. The sound harsh snapped him out of his shock.

"Are you-- will you be coming back?"

Andrea looked up and caught his expression, for the first time feeling the weight of her action. Her eyes blurred and she said hoarsely, "I don't know. I didn't get a return flight."

"My God, what is happening?" murmured Gordon, kneading the back of his neck in frustration. "Andrea. . . I. . . I can't talk you out of this, can I?"

"No."

"Well, then. I--" He shook his head and picked up a suitcase. She didn't follow him down the hall. When he returned, she was holding a small, worn cloth-bound book.

Andrea saw him staring at the book in her hands, observed the recognition on his face. She slipped it into the last suitcase. His eyes were still fastened on her hands, on her fingernails. They were still short, but painted red. Gordon's eyes raised to meet hers. It took all her strength to meet the stare. Then the honk of a horn made them both jump.

"I called a taxi," she explained quietly, picking her purse up from the bed and slipping the strap over her shoulder.

Gordon helped her carry the last suitcase down the stairs, and put it with the other one in the taxi's trunk. He opened the rear door and then paused. "Will I see you soon?" he asked haltingly.

"I don't know." She blinked as he leaned down to kiss her softly on the mouth. She allowed him to close the door behind her.

"Where to, ma'am?" asked the driver.

"LAX." He nodded and slowly pulled away from the curb.

Andrea forced her eyes away from the window and leaned her head back against the seat. She closed her eyes, sensing the cab's brief pause at the stop sign at the corner, then exhaled deeply as it accelerated around the corner.

"What do you want?"

The abruptness of the question startled Sierra, and she realized that once again she had been daydreaming. She glanced up into the unfriendly expression of the middle-aged waiter and forced a smile. "Coffee please. Black."

The waiter raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and swaggered off behind the bar again. No one seemed to notice her in the corner, but she still had the vague, uneasy suspicion she was under observation. She glanced down at her open book and cracked a smile. Maybe she had entered into the Twilight Zone and the waiter was really--

The thunk of a mug on the table in front of her brought her back to reality, as did the soft slosh of coffee as it spilled over the rim and crept toward her book. She lifted it quickly while the man mopped up the spill and retreated to the bar, never meeting her eye.

Sierra sighed, running a hand through her short hair and looking back to the printed collection of letters. Why had she decided to move here anyway? She could have stayed in the college town, kept her job at the bookstore, and continued to labor over this criticism of Keats. Even after she returned the ring, Seth would have allowed her to stay as long as she needed to. Her research was more important, she could imagine him saying in his no-nonsense tone. But no... she had thought that a change of scenery might inspire her; being alone in a strange city would force her mind from her other writing onto Romantic literature. She took a sip of the coffee and felt her stomach churn against both the bitter liquid and the overwhelming feeling of entrapment. Picking up her pen, she began to take notes in a steno pad. Perhaps if she wrote long enough, her reason for being here would flow onto the page.

Her ears began to burn, and she looked up; it was a sure sign that someone was looking at her. This time, her paranoia was founded. A young man at the bar slipped off the stool and sauntered with a casual grace to her table.

"May I join you?"

Sierra felt her face flush at this first friendly overture and nodded. She didn't gain her voice until he slid into the chair opposite. "Good evening," she stammered, instantly cursing her formality.

He smiled pleasantly, and she felt herself begin to relax. Calm, intelligent brown eyes regarded her with a hint of amusement. He extended a hand to her, "I'm Alec."

Sierra took his hand, venturing a smile in return. "Sierra. Pleased to meet you."

Alec nodded and took a sip of his beer, leaning back in his chair. "A unfamiliar face in a sea of old regulars. New to our fine city, or was the library just closed?"

She glanced down at her open book and grimaced, feeling foolish and conspicuous. "I'm new in town."

He smiled again and nodded to the book. "I've always hated the Romantics. Anything that can't be read comfortably in a bar should be eliminated from the canon."

Sierra stared back at him for a moment, then choked on a burst of laughter. "That's one way of looking at it. Actually the automaton behind the counter did try to pour the pot of coffee onto it." She shoved aside the book and took a gulp from her cooling mug.

Alec leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'll give you a hint about him. You ever see that old Twilight Zone episode?"

Glancing between the waiter and Alec, Sierra sat back in her chair and smiled. "Funny you should mention that... the episode with the bus and the diner, right?"

He grinned. "So the academic does have a life outside of Keats?"

Sierra pushed the book aside with a smile. "I'm not really an academic, I'm a novelist."

Alisha sat quietly in the center of the thatched hut, her fingers smoothing the small, semi-precious stones as she removed them one by one from the leather bag. Her eyes were closed; sight was unnecessary, the variances of energy flowing through them to her fingertips more familiar than her own reflection.

Deep within her mind came the Voice, that Other who had chosen her so long ago. "You have failed again, my young one. It is time to pass the gift."

Alisha frowned unconsciously, her voice wavering as she whispered in the quiet, "I need another chance... you must give me another chance. I have not yet learned enough! The task was demanded too soon!"

The Voice said sadly, "There is another. The cycle must go on. You know it would happen someday, that I would leave. But you have failed, and your Destiny demands repayment."

Alisha felt panic welling up inside her, overwhelming all her sense. She took deep breaths, calming herself until she could again feel the presence of the Voice. "Please," she said simply, "You mustn't."

"Submit yourself to me, Alisha. Do not fight it."

The wooden door of the hut flung open with the crack of wood. She snapped out of the trance, whirling around and spilling the stones from her apron onto the earth floor. The soldiers flowed in, two of them flanking her and clamping strong hands around her upper arms. She cried out in pain and fear, "What do you want? Where are you taking me?"

The grim faced soldiers said nothing, but dragged her out of her home into the street. Already, the crowd was forming, dirty, angry-eyed peasants pelting her with rocks and chunks of peat. "Heretic!" they shouted. "Burn the witch!"

The cries broke through into her paralyzed mind. They had found out! She was to be burned at the stake as a witch! Her mind spun as she tried to think of what to do. This was to be her sacrifice, she was supposed to submit. But as they dragged her nearer to the pyre upon which she was to be killed, she knew she had to turn her back on the Voice, that which guided her power and set her apart from the true witches.

Rough hands pushed her up to the tall wooden pole and lashed her struggling body fast. She scanned the crowd, not sure what she was looking for. Her eyes lighted on the familiar face of the young girl, her apprentice. The girl stared back at Alisha, her eyes cold chips of blue glass, and Alisha instantly knew. Her apprentice was to receive the gift, her gift; she was the one for whom the Voice was deserting her, the one that betrayed her to the guard. A mixture of remorse and determination seized Alisha, and she focused all her energy on the girl.

Instantly, the young girl began to choke, falling to the ground and clutching at the unseen force blocking her air. Froth, turned pink with blood, spilled from the corners of her mouth, while panicked onlookers shouted, "She's possessed! Possessed by the devil!" Eyes wide and rolling, the girl struggled for breath, until with a violent jerk, she lay still.

The awestruck audience turned back to Alisha. Alisha began to murmur the familiar Latin words. "The witch is casting a spell!" someone shouted, picking up the torch and running forward towards the pyre. Only the horrified monk recognized the Lord's Prayer, and he was rooted in place by shock.

Flames ignited the dry wood and rushed up around her. Even as Alisha spoke the Latin prayer out loud, she was focusing within her mind. The Voice was gone, it had left the minute she turned her back on its demand. Instead she called on her only other option, the Darkness. The late afternoon light dimmed to dark as the flames licked towards her. Just as she was completely engulfed in flamed, Alisha said the final word of her rote and melted away into the shadows. The flames licked up the pole, and in the stunned silence, crackled at the empty bonds.

Laura struggled to steady her hand as she touched the flame flickering from a lighter to the end of her cigarette. You're an idiot, Laura, she told herself, inhaling deeply. Took you a year to quit and you're starting to smoke again. Real intelligent.

Her thoughts elicited a bitter laugh. Yes, intelligence. She had cultivated that quality for most of her twenty-two years, molding herself into the perfect daughter, perfect student. Would be graduating summa cum laude, just was invited into Phi Beta Kappa, had two co-authorship credits on professional articles as an undergraduate. Quite impressive, it had all seemed. Until now.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, taking another drag on the cigarette and feeling the smoke bite into her lungs. She knew that it looked as unattractive as her research partners had always claimed. Not that appearances were particularly important. No one noticed her in the dark, crowded upstairs room of the coffee house. They were too busy with friends and lovers, discussing deconstructionist theory and next week's hair color over tiny cups of espresso. For the first time, she looked at them all-- really looked at them-- and felt a stab of regret.

Damn, she thought to herself, turning her head away from the scene. She took a gulp of her cappuccino, welcoming the scalding sensation as it slid down her throat. She hunched over the mug, the gold pendant around her neck swinging out on its thin chain to tinkle against the ceramic. She slipped the necklace over her head and dropped it into the coffee dregs, watching until the liquid overtook it and obscured the Greek letters inscribed on the surface.

The couple in the corner had been watching her chain smoke for the last hour. Though they were perhaps more attractive than most of the clientele, they faded into the shadowy darkness, just another duo warming their hands around oversized mugs of cappuccino.

The woman, willowy and dark-haired, smiled as her eyes took in the girl. "Yes, I've seen her before," she murmured to her companion, "Though usually she looks too lost in her books to think of anything else." She glanced over at the man.

He frowned. "Laura, you said?" The man tapped his fingers against the rapidly-cooling, untouched mug of coffee. "She's a student. She will be missed."

The woman shook her head and continued to watch, her green eyes narrowing and glinting cat-like in the dim light. She saw the girl light another cigarette with unsteady, but practiced hands, smoke exploding from her rose-painted lips. "Idle... despairing..." the woman's voice trailed over the words lovingly, a hint of irony as she added, "...weary of her mortal existence..."

He smirked at the woman, folding his hands on top of the table "Aren't you pleased? You get to be her salvation."

She chuckled, the sound turning almost to a growl in her throat. "Yes, just retrieving another lamb into the fold, my dear." She stood gracefully and glided across the room, settling into the seat across the table from the solitary girl. Laura's eyes jerked up, registering a nameless fear, before the expression faded again into resignation. The woman repressed a smile, speaking instead in low soothing tones. Laura pushed her cup away and stood up. The woman threw a triumphant glance over her shoulder at her companion, then placed a hand on the small of Laura's back and escorted her into the night.

Her graying pink bra strap peeked from beneath

A frayed knit sweater, mocking the carelessness of the false world:

"Take me if you can!"

My own jealousy drew me from within: I thought her more free

In the scope of her fascinated friends. . .

Until I had to leave

And she reached with cigarette stained fingers

From her barred glass cage.

My affinity for the Gothic frightened him:

He could see my soul through stained glass windows

Bleeding crimson and true blue.

But my opus modernum was antiquity

In his innovated eyes.

Elegant throat,

Graceful limbs shaping all beauty

From light and air,

Fluttering out of my grasp.

I watched lightly

Not recalling

That I had once soared like you.

Pigeons flutter, their wings pureeing the air like

A thousand hornets

But lacking both the malice and the intelligence.

In the square, a thousand

Guidebook-carrying tourists laugh at rain.

The heavens smile to themselves, waiting

For just the right moment

To pour forth the deluge.

Cappuccino cups, lined with the froth

Of conversation

And evening observation,

Cover the outdoor tables on every corner cafe.

For the lingerers, either curtain has been missed

Or high society consists of

A pot of Earl Grey tea.

Gray stone monstrosities impale the wine-lit sky,

Baroque yet classical delineation, regressing

To near grotesqueness in the cloying shadows.

They guard the city with a jealous eye

Like gargoyles, they seem to me.

Yet they abet the creatures of the night with arch

Impunity.

The city is a bride;

Empty streets lay open in sleepy innocence.

While blue-cast dawn brushes away

Any sordidness of night.

Dark slinks into the corner like a delinquent cat

Shocked awake by the morning rays.

Sing to me, oh, Erin of old;

Of wind-wettened coastlines and fishermen's sails,

Of peat pitted hillsides and rushes of gold;

Now blindly ring out apocalypse tales.

Remember me, oh, land of my youth

As you lay awe-stricken at the pale chevalier

That comes with a flash and a blast too uncouth;

Your herald of distrust has harkened your bier.

Your children lay dying at unfeeling hands.

Their cries in the darkness now transcend the lands.

They reach me in anguish on this foreign shore.

Then silence drifts softly-- my Erin's no more.

Spiral

The spiritus mundi's sifting mists left none to chance

Within the spiral-studded fate: a dance

For primal and late, entwined all in a golden voice

And a veiled glance; what can man make but a choice?

Well within a many-towered Troy came the downfall

Of passion's last defense; the silvered call

Of the white-armed temptress beckoned a fool to death;

And every wistful sigh purloined sacred breath.

Camelot's splendor could never redeem a part

Played out in secret; betrayal of a noble heart

Changed treachery to sainted love; yet no remorse

May reverse the devastating spiritu's force.

Beneath the monuments of stone and glass,

Eleven hundred years of history

Sigh forgotten amid the tourists' pass

Not knowing what it was, nor will be.

Perhaps the foot of Arthur trod boldly

Where Shakespeare at Avon then inked his quill;

By night the same wind that now bites coldly

Once teased imaginations, then fell still.

The earth itself cries out for recognition, yet

It knows its glory days have come and left

Above the empires, monarchs, apostles set

A sun which now rises on a land bereft.

Reject the art that holds you in deathly fame

And rise to new glory: your timeless claim.

Blanket of night heat:

Outside, sudden wind whispers,

Disturbed by raindrops.