Pointe of Breaking

by Amy Daws

  Cool? God, this is ridiculous. I’m better than this!

  “Campus is pretty dead in the summer, huh?” he suggests.

  “Yeah, peaceful. I sort of love it,” I start to take a sip of my coffee, but stop suddenly, realizing I’ll burn my mouth if I take a drink right now. There is nothing I hate worse than swollen taste buds. Okay, there probably are things I hate worse. Like Ebola. That would definitely be worse.

  “I’ve never been this close to campus during the summer before. I always go back home and live with my parents.”

  “That’s cool.” If I don’t stop saying cool right this damn second I’m going to punch myself in the face.

  “I’ve been seeing you here almost every morning for a while now, so I thought it was time I said hey.”

  “Huh,” I reply, and laugh awkwardly.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” he says, leaning down slightly, like he’s trying to hear me. I catch a whiff of strong, manly-scented cologne.

  “Fin…ley. Finley, or Fin…either’s fine.”

  “Finley. Cool name. So, what are you doing this summer that has you coming to the gas station every day?” he asks, shoving a straw into his cup.

  “I work in one of the IT offices on campus. It’s open year round for faculty and summer students. It’s just a computer lab, pretty much.”

  “That’s cool. I’m doing an internship at a sports chiropractic clinic.”

  “Sweet, are you studying to be a chiropractor?”

  “No. My major is sports management, but I still have two more years of school left. I red-shirted as a freshman. I play basketball.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen you at a few games.”

  “Cool, you go to a lot of games?” he asks with a small hint of arrogance.

  “Um, yeah, well…no. Not really I guess. I went to one, once last year,” I stammer, and set my coffee down to adjust my ponytail nervously. “See, I’m not much of a sports or fitness person, per se. I played basketball in high school but was terrible. I rode the bench a lot. The only bit of exercise I ever get is my morning walk here every day. Unless you count dancing at the bar.”

  He nods thoughtfully, so I continue. “So yeah, my roommate says I waste so much money getting coffee here every day, but the way I see it is that it’s cheaper than a gym membership, so…” I trail off and he looks down, evidently deep in thought. “Anywho, I only went to that one game because they were giving out free t-shirts to anyone that sat in the student section,” I pause. “Yaaay,” I finish dumbly, balling my hand into a fist and pumping it above my head in semblance of a cheer.

  Jake laughs, revealing stunning white and perfect teeth. The corners of his lips turn down as he attempts to compose himself.

  “You’re funny, huh?”

  I shrug.

  “But not much of a sports person,” he adds. “What do you like?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual things: parties, social gatherings, reading, and watching movies.”

  “What kind of movies? Chick flicks?” he asks, heading over to the counter.

  I follow behind him. “No! I love comedies mostly. I mean, I don’t hate the chick flicks. I am female after all.” I set my mug down in front of Alex, who looks at me with a slight glare that confounds me.

  “That’s cool. We should hang sometime. Campus is so dead right now and my roommate isn’t here this summer, so I’m bored out of my mind over there.” Jake hands over some cash and Alex gives him his change.

  “Um, sure! Sounds good! Do you…”

  “I know where you live, I’ll stop by sometime,” he says, casually walking backwards toward the exit. “Catch ya later, Finley,” he says, pulling on his straw as he exits.

  Damn, he looked so cool doing that. I scrunch my eyebrows trying to decipher what just happened. I look up and see Alex still glaring at me.

  “What the hell, Alex?”

  “It’s just lame,” he says, with a sneer.

  “What’s lame?” I ask, my voice rising in pitch.

  “That you don’t play Bejeweled. ‘Cause it’s awesome. You should see me play the lightning level one time. Or play in poker mode. It’s magical. I guarantee you’d be hooked.”

  “Um, I think I’m good,” I reply flatly. Man, this guy is really serious about his games.

  “You’ll never be good without Bejeweled in your life, Finley,” he says, speaking my name more forcibly than necessary as he hands me my change.

  I tuck it into my pocket and step away from the counter.

  “You need to get a better hobby, Alex. That digital game is frying your brain.”

  “Your brain…is ruined…without…jewels!” he sneers, shaking his head.

  I make a hasty exit. Jesus. I think I might go de-friend Alex on Facebook. That just got really weird!

  I gingerly sip my coffee and mull over the conversation I just had with Jake. Was that a date he asked me on? Or just a friends thing? Did he seem flirty when we were chatting? Maybe he’s just bored and being nice? He did mention not having any roommates or friends around this summer, so that’s probably all. He just needs someone to kill time with. I better not read too much into this. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably not even going to happen.

  Continue reading Amy’s Becoming Us

  OR

  Read Sarah’s sneak peek of Snow White Lies

  Snow White Lies

  By Sarah J. Pepper

  “Evil poisons everyone. Period. Our mouths water when we sink our teeth into what we have always craved. Surrendering to our desires by biting off a delectable piece of the forbidden fruit is nothing more than a meager confession: Poison tastes sinfully sweet,”—Confessions of the Big Apple Debutante, by blogger Miss Snow White.

  Prologue of Snow White Lies

  {New York City, Imminent Future in the 21st Century}

  {Alias: Snow White}

  The provocative scent of the once unnamed vigilante lingered on my chiffon curtains. Motorcycle exhaust mixed with his signature cologne. Other than his aphrodisiac essence, there was no other indication that he’d been inside my penthouse tonight. Even so, I knew he’d been here all night to protect me from the Seven, a demonic mob that claimed New York City for their Queen.

  Drawing back the curtains, I gazed through the balcony windows that overlooked the Big Apple. The city was particularly enchanting when the sun cast vibrant hues over the brilliant architecture built by our forefathers—unremarkable commoners who’d been long forgotten by all but one. The Huntsman bore witness to the rise and fall of nations, oversaw queens and kings come to power, and had washed more blood off his hands than any wartime criminal. Yet, he was never mentioned in textbooks, on the news, or God forbid, the tabloids. He might as well have been a ghost for he’d claimed no name for nearly two centuries. The Huntsman was the most unrenowned person alive; yet, he pestered my every waking thought.

  The natural beauty of the skyline almost overshadowed the fact that the city was diseased with black magic: alchemy of Seventh degree. Nevertheless, a debutante such as myself, could pretend the necromantic sickness enslaving the city did not exist. The fashion, propaganda, high-end lifestyle, limelight, and little white lies were enough to ignore the evil festering in the city below. Furthermore, half of the city paid dues to White Industries. My Enterprise. My credit cards had no balance limit because of the good fortune this city had provided me.

  However, I knew that the Huntsman saw a different scene gazing upon the greatest city on Earth. It was a city that came with power; a city that thrived off of the almighty dollar; a city that brewed with dark magic. It was the city to which he had been condemned to so long ago by the Queen who swore no allegiance to the Americans.

  If I closed my eyes, I could picture him leaning against the bronzed casing of the window beside me. I envisioned him looking down at the citizens with a vengeful jealousy. They lived the lives they wanted. He did not.

  Yet, he had come for me on his own accord.

  That he
was in my penthouse tonight was not to be mistaken with his newfound freedom. No, it wasn’t a simple coincidence that what he was ordered to do and what he so desperately sought were one and the same.

  Me.

  I let out a gasp upon catching sight of him. Blanketed by shadows, he watched me from outside on the balcony. His frozen breath lingered in with the industries’ smoke that capped the sky. By all means, he could hide in plain sight, even though his robust stature suggested otherwise. I eyed his leather jacket and wished that I clung to his body instead of it.

  Hunger had long since manifested in his light blue eyes when he gazed at me. I’d promised to slip into something more comfortable the next time we met, but nothing in my closet justified tonight’s significance. Hence, cherry lipstick and pair of black Burberry heels had to do.

  The mix of lust and the forbidden four-letter word built between us until I could no longer stand it. I stepped out from behind the softness of the curtains and pushed open the oversized door. The harshness of the bitter cold air pricked my skin, but the temperature was miniscule to the effect he had on me.

  My choice of attire, or lack thereof, was met with unhinged approval in his eyes. His gaze dropped. His body tensed. He was at war with himself; he was in battle with me. My arsenal was in the form of lipstick, and his were clenched tightly in his hands. One gripped a black powder gun, circa the Revolutionary War. The other clutched a bright red apple. Fate brought us together, but it would be his choice to comply with the evilness that forced us against each other.

  My stiletto switchblades clicked against the icy floor as I approached him. For a city that never slept, everything else was drowned out when I met him on the edge. Without tearing his gaze from my lips, he handed me the apple. His cold hand lingered on mine until I punctured the fruit’s skin with my manicured nails. The juices dripped down my arm as I brought it to my mouth.

  “Just one bite,” the Huntsman promised. His archaic Americana accent expelled the urgency in his voice with a lingering provocativeness that could not be matched.

  I knew I shouldn’t do as he asked. The apple was laced with poison that would certainly be my undoing. Yet, to deny my cravings any longer would positively kill me.

  The sweet apple burst in my mouth. As I swallowed the forbidden fruit, he closed the gap between us, taking what he desired. With the gun pressed up against my body, he stole a kiss from me—a kiss I had no intention of denying him.

  With the gun’s nozzle resting against me, I dropped the lipstick-stained apple. It fell off the edge of the balcony just as a gunshot broke the stillness of the night.

  Chapter One of Snow White Lies

  {New York City, 1771}

  {Alias: Unknown}

  Déjà vu. A red-headed beauty lay frozen on the dock of the most predominate shipping yard in the New York Harbor. Large rope was strewn around her waist, which would be heavy enough to hold her petite body at the bottom of Hudson’s unconventional cemetery. However, her feet were submerged in buckets of cement to ensure she never surfaced. Aside from her cement shoes, she was dressed immaculately, wearing a corset black dress that highlighted her hour-glass figure. Each stitch was perfect, and the white lace was pressed smoothly against her skin. Her scarlet hair was done up in curls. The shine of her hair accentuated her shimmering ruby red lips. Her spectacles were water stained, but her olive green eyes still shone through. They were open, freezing the horror on her face from the moment she died.

  Kneeling down beside her, he pressed down on the gaping gunshot wound on her chest. Gunpowder residue was dusted on his hand. Her skin was cold against his hand. It was too late. Nothing could be done. She belonged to the otherworld now.

  A tear slipped from his eye when he closed hers. This woman had been important to him even though she wore an unfamiliar wedding band around her finger.

  He tried to recall the night’s events that ended with the death of the mysterious woman. Nothing surfaced. Anything of significance escaped him. In fact, he couldn’t recall anything, not even his name.

  Although he could not recall a specific time and place with her, vague memories of sliding his hands down her silky smooth skin fluttered in his thoughts. Her ghostly kiss lingered on his lips. The spark of unrelenting determination in her eyes surfaced when he closed his. Her laugh echoed in his ears like a haunting remembrance to what was—what they had been before… The harder he tried to remember, the more their phantom past slipped through the cracks in his mind.

  “You are in debt to the Queen,” a dwarf said, standing behind the man, strumming his fingers on his spiked cane.

  His miniature shadow cast onto the beautiful corpse. The dwarf bore a strong Anglo-Saxon genealogy and was well-dressed as any man would be who owned land and substantial coin. Dressed in black breeches and a yellow waistcoat, he appeared positively out of place in the shipyard. While the man couldn’t recall anything significant about himself, the dwarf’s reputation preceded him. He went simply by the Boss, leader of the Sons of Liberty.

  Like any high profile leader, the Boss wasn’t alone. Armed with a Kentucky long rifle, another dwarf, who went by the alias Privateer, sat on the dock’s railing. His eyes were as green as the emerald necklace around the dead woman’s neck. His teeth were crooked. His fiery red hair was hidden under a top hat, yet the man was anything but a businessman. His clothes were only a little better than a beggar’s, but his dress wasn’t remarkable. Tattoos littered his skin. Only his face and hands were clean of the ink. His Irish descent was unmistakable. His mittens had the finger tips cut off, but the dwarf did not seem to notice or care about his complete lack of hygiene. He seemed rather concerned with scraping the dirt out from under his nails, all nine of them, with a rusted switchblade. Nonetheless, he knew that it wasn’t dirt. What lay under his nail beds was residue of coal. Practitioners who performed in the dark arts often referred to it as Elixir. Necromancers paid a small fortune just to get their hands on some of it. Those who didn’t practice dark magic sought it as a drug. The state of ecstasy the residue provided was immeasurable.

  The two dwarves were demons of the notorious Seven: a mob of dwarves who practiced dark alchemy: aka, black magic. Their allegiance was only to the Queen, a powerful necromancer. She preferred to stay inconspicuous, allowing the Seven to do her bidding. They were noxious to society. Tales about the Seven and their corruption were common knowledge amongst necromancers, but nay mentioned amongst the mundanes—people who were oblivious to black magic.

  “It’s time to dump the wench’s body,” the Boss said as casually as if he’d been informing them of tea time.

  Fury filled the man’s heart when the Boss grinned smugly at the most beautiful corpse in the world. Hatred poured through him, and he wanted nothing more than to tie the rope around the dwarf’s ankles so that he and the woman may find their watery grave together.

  “Awaiting your repayment to the Queen, you belong to us,” the Privateer said, jumping down beside the Boss and handed him the gun. “And until then, we don’t need you to expire before your debt is paid in full.”

  Flipping out a switchblade made of bone, the Privateer advanced toward him. The dwarf swayed like a drunken bastard, like he didn’t know how to walk properly on land after acquiring his sea legs. He grabbed at the man’s arm.

  The nameless man swiftly kicked the legs out from under the Privateer. Striking quickly, he man punched the dwarf’s nose, breaking it immediately. He twisted the boney switchblade out of his attacker’s hands. The switchblade was uncannily hot to the touch. But it was still a knife, regardless of the magic harbored within it. Thus, the man charged the other dwarf.

  The Boss aimed the rifle at the man’s chest. Without hesitation, the man threw the switchblade at the dwarf. It stuck in the dwarf’s chest, but the little bastard didn’t fall.

  “Calm down boy,” the Boss said and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet punctured the man’s knee. Blood splattered. Bone shattered. He dropped and cl
utched his leg.

  “Just kill me!” the man said through clenched teeth. “I’m bound to lose my leg if I don’t bleed out.”

  “There will be no more dying today,” the Boss said, lowering the rifle. He pulled out the switchblade that was wedged in his chest and tossed it to the Privateer who was wiping his bloody nose on his shirt. His eyes were already swollen and bruising had taken up around his nose.

  The Privateer kneeled beside him and pressed the switchblade against his neck. “Let’s try this again, shall we mate?”

  He spat on the dwarf’s face. “Fuck off!”

  Enraged, the Privateer slammed the switchblade down on the man’s forearm. Moving quickly, the man grabbed the hilt of the blade and jerked it out of the dwarf’s hand.

  “Best be on your way, chalker!” he yelled, pointing at the Privateer. “I will not be your cutting board!”

  “How many bullet holes do you need before you smarten up and cooperate with us?” the Boss asked, humored as he tapped gunpowder into the barrel.

  His lip curled. “More than one.”

  “So be it,” the Boss said and fired again.

  This time the bullet grazed the man’s hand. He dropped the switchblade. Acting quickly, the Privateer slammed his foot down on the man’s wrist and armed himself with the switchblade. The Boss followed suit. He withdrew a pistol and pointed it at the man’s head.

  “It would be a pity to kill you,” the Boss promised. “A man of your stature would be useful to us.”

  Cutting beside the previous stab wound, the Privateer jerked the blade in a cryptic rhythm. The blade tore through the man’s skin.

  “It’s more effective if you whistle,” the Boss said dryly.

  The Privateer stopped and withdrew the blade only to point it at the Boss. “Has your tattoo’s effectiveness worn off? No? Then shut it and let me work my talents on my own accord.”

  The Boss tugged on the hem of his sleeve, covering the bit of tattoo peeking out from under his clothing. Satisfied with the Boss’s reaction, the Privateer dug the blade back into his arm. His blood turned black as it oozed to the surface. Ink poured from his veins. It crusted over in a matter of seconds. The dwarf had cut the current year into his skin; a jagged number the Seven was scratched over the top of the year. It was Seven’s brand.