Jenny had always been around the wrong crowd. Throughout her adolescence she had been drawn to trouble makers like a moth to the flame. She didn’t know why this was so, nor did she care. She was content with the unpredictability of it all. Jenny could have been a good girl and hung out with all the boring guys, but where was the fun in that? She liked being with the mischievous ones because there was always a rush.

Jenny felt the beer beginning to get the best of her motor functions. The beer warmed her stomach on this freezing night. She lay on top of the dirt staring up at the bright full moon. She had never gazed into the moon as she did in that moment. Her body relaxed as she stretched out her arms and breathed in the cold air. Cathy sat down right next to Jenny and handed her another beer. As she took the poison from Cathy, she felt how smooth Cathy’s hand was. Jenny lifted her eyes to meet Cathy’s and was lost by how beautiful Cathy looked in the moonlight. Somehow, in this illumination, Jenny could still make out the green of Cathy’s eyes. The way they were lit mesmerized Jenny. Jenny and Cathy had known each other since the seventh grade. Together they started this game of going from one rush to the next.

I.

The room was dark and silent. A small boy lied trembling as he listened to the sounds of the footsteps approaching. Each footfall made his heart beat faster. Johnny retreated into his sheet cocoon as the stomps got louder and louder. His tears left wet tracks down his cheeks, pooling into his pillow. The fear was intense. He begged for someone to save him, but he knew deep down no one ever does. Little Johnny had suffered through this many times over the past two years. This was one of those things he would never get used to, no matter how many times it happened.

"C'mon girl! Why do you spend so much time putting make-up

on? It don't make no difference anyhow, you know that.”

Frannie’s mother yells at her through the bathroom door.

"She's right" Frannie speaks aloud to the mirror "it really

doesn't make a difference."

The mirror reflects the hurt felt by her mother’s comment.

Frannie would give anything to look like her mother, Sarah. A

thirtysomething woman with that emancipated anorexic binge and

purge body to die for, with 38 double d's to boot. The type that

the most educated men turn to slobbering slack-jawed knuckle

dragging cavemen when she enters a room. The one that always

gets the most tips at the bar. Many times Frannie has wondered

how she ended up with the fat gene.

    Frantic hands swam inside of the leather bag.  They removed a long black cloak and laid it on the workbench.  The hands smoothed out the cloak and caressed it lovingly.  The hands went into the bag again and this time they found an old sickle.  The sickle blade was brown and burgundy with rust.  One hand squeezed the leather hilt of the iron sickle until the knuckles turned white.  The other hand ran its thumb along the edge of the blade until tainted blood was drawn.  A tremor of ecstasy quaked through the bleeding hand as the blood was sucked from the dripping wound. 
    Once again the hands opened the bag.  This time a mask was removed.  It was a drama mask one would see at the theatre.  Gentle fingers stroked its smooth surface then clenched into a fist.  The mask was too perfect.  It needed to symbolize the new face of its owner, one of sickness and death.  The hands frantically rubbed clay onto the mask and molded it into the new visage, not one of comedy or tragedy, but one with the fervor of decay – a face of death.