The Collectors is a project I started last year; a project I began with a certain scene in my head that wouldn't fit the other projects I'd been (and still am) working on. What started out as something to keep the creative flow going - a little something between stories - quickly grew into a full novel of roughly one-hundred-sixty pages.

I do plan on publishing it at some point but would absolutely love to post a few chapters to see how well it does.

(Please, please, please... keep in mind that this is still a work in progress. I am still slowly working on edits.

Without further adieu, I present...

The Collectors

The world we live in is a farce. None of it is real. The sweet old woman sitting next to you on the subway? She sells narcotics to teenagers out of her garage. The nice little girl down the street? She sells herself on a Brooklyn corner every weekend. Your husband of fifteen years? He’s been cheating on you with your best friend since your honeymoon. And the gentle boy you see walking across the street, dressed in dark washed jeans, a white shirt, and a leather jacket, with hair as dark as a raven’s feather and skin pale as the moon? He stalks the night, seeing things you never imagined could exist.

Me? I can tell all of these things, can sort out the truth from the lie, with just one word. If I enjoyed it, I would call it a superpower. But because I happen to hate it, it’s a curse. Being a walking lie detector really does take the fun out of everything. I always know when someone lies about wanting to go out, about who likes who, about why the money’s missing from the bank… There’s no stress, no fights, no wondering. Most people would love that. But the truth is…I’m bored.

“Sky! Take out the trash!”

I rolled my eyes and buried my nose even further into my book. What was the point in having a housemaid when she made me do all the work? Mom might as well fire her and pay me to do all the chores.

“SKY!”

I sighed loudly and rolled off my bed, closing my book softly and going downstairs. When I entered the kitchen, Dana, our maid, was standing by the sink with suds up to her elbows. “You know, the garbage man doesn’t come for two more days. At the rate you’re cleaning, we’ll have to put our bags on the sidewalk.”

“If you weren’t such a dirty teenager there wouldn’t be so much to throw away.”

“Drat!” I snapped my fingers and over dramatized according to the situation. “You’ve caught on to my evil rebellion! For the love of Krypton, don’t send me away!”

She rolled her eyes and I grabbed the large black bag by the back door. Dana was a thinly built woman in her mid-thirties, very much concerned by her ticking biological clock. Her blonde hair was becoming ever increasingly flatter, the bags under her eyes more pronounced; the flashy red lipstick like a beacon screaming: I’m single, someone date me! She was ornery twenty-four-seven and she had no concept of kindness.

I opened the creaky screen door and walked outside into the somewhat suburban air. It wasn’t entirely clean; dirt and pollution from the city still clogged the air. Our house was a two floor Victorian style place with its complicated floor plans and damn near impossible to heat interior. It was painted in shades of blue, my mother’s favorite color. Some people looked at it like it was an eye sore, but I liked it. The color blue was associated with tranquility and calmness, stability and depth; it also symbolizes trust, intelligence, loyalty, and confidence. It was a reliable place and comforted me.

I reached the silver trash can and lifted the lid, the awful stench associated with trash assaulting my nose in a very intrusive way. I shoved the bag inside the can and quickly shoved the lid back over the eternal stench. Three minutes later, when my face started to turn purple, I released the breath I’d been holding. With the smell masked a little, I started to turn back to the house when a light tap appeared on my shoulder. I turned to find my next door neighbor, Chris, smiling widely. His glasses were knocked askew, like they always were, his small nose hardly able to hold them up. He had an olive tone to his skin, dark brown hair, and green eyes that complimented the natural ensemble quite nicely.

“Hey, Sky. How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know. Another adventure out to the trash can. Twice in one week! It doesn’t get any better than this, Chris. I’m finally living the dream.”

He smiled, used to my sarcasm by now. “If you’re up for an adventure, we could go to Fresco’s. It’s a new sandwich place just up the road. Carlie says it’s really nice.”

“Carlie said, huh? You’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately, haven’t you?”

“With Carlie?” His upper lip curled up and his left brow shot up into his hairline. “No way.”

Lie. What he really meant was: Yeah, I spend almost three hours a day with her. She’s beautiful.

“Right.” Chris didn’t know about my curse. He didn’t know anything more than anyone else knew. I’m seventeen, my mom works all the time and mostly out of state, I pretty much take care of myself with the exception of cleaning, and I hate nearly any and all living things. If it can lie, I hate it. “Thanks anyway, but I have a date with a tall, handsome blonde who happens to live between the pages of my book. For a fictional character, he’s quite sexy.”

Chris rolled his eyes but managed a small smile. “Some other time, then?”

“Perhaps.” He waved then and started walking away. Just as I was turning back towards the driveway, I saw a deep azure car beginning its way to the house. The driver was pale with dyed red hair and a scowl that would kill a bystander on sight. I quickly turned back around and went through the gate, practically jogging to Chris. “On second thought, let’s go now.”

***

Fresco’s was a small establishment with very little to do with its art-inspired name. A fresco is a painting done over fast drying plaster, right? There was no art in this generically Italian decorated building. Not a single piece… The owner might assume that the framed doodle of a child was considered priceless material, but to me it was just a doodle on a menu that any two-year-old could accomplish. Chris and I were sitting at a counter made with a questionable crème laminate, stools that bore no cushion, and unsavory food. Carlie obviously has debatable taste in appetizing nutrition.

“So, what made you change your mind?”

I put down the crumbling sandwich, grateful for the distraction of talking so I could put off another disdainful bite. “Carpe diem.”

“Is that slang for ‘hungry?’”

I opened my mouth, fully prepared to be a smart ass, but couldn’t bring myself to insult him. Chris was too kind and he was the only person who actually liked me enough to be my friend. “Sure.”

He smiled and took another bite of his sandwich. It was falling apart fast and looked even less appealing than what was on my plate. To save myself from having to take another bite, I excused myself to the bathroom. It was painted a ghastly persimmon color and had little plastic bunches of purple grapes hanging all over the trim. There was no doubt in my mind that this place was going nowhere with increasing speed. Sighing, I went over to the sink and splashed a little water on my face. It was cool and refreshing, but didn’t exactly calm the nerves that were beginning to build up.

The lady in the azure blue car was my mom and when she scowled like that, it meant she was too angry to hide just how angry she was. She usually attempted a mask to keep me from seeing it; something or someone obviously pissed her off beyond effort. I didn’t want to go home and deal with her; I didn’t want to listen to her complain about the idiots she works with or how she wished there was something else she could do. She is the most self-pitying, self-absorbed person I know. The last thing I wanted to listen to was how she wished I would get a job and take on more responsibility. There was no end to her wishing other people could do more for her.

After washing and drying my hands, I opened the door to walk out. A crowd of four preppy girls walked in, their overpoweringly fruity perfume strangling my senses. They laughed and when they saw me, the blonde at the head of the group sneered in my direction. She eyed my clothing—a long sleeved blue shirt that read: This is the End across the front in curling white letters and a pair of ripped and fraying blue jeans—critically. “That, girls, is what you call a freak.” They chuckled mindlessly.

I shook my head. “And that, ladies, is the ever overpopulating bitch. Or is it a whore? I can’t really tell from here. Tell me, because I need the distinction, how often do you screw your mother’s boyfriend?”

She turned scarlet and lunged for me, but I’d already slammed the door shut. With a confident nod, I smiled. “Sky: one. Preppy bitch: zero.”

Just as I was starting to head back to Chris, I was stopped by a soft clapping. When I turned around, I found a handsome boy around my age leaning against the wall. His hair was the color of oil, his skin pale, and his eyes a startling jade green. His lips were full, his jaw square, and his attitude bordering on cocky. He was dressed in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a flawless—but obviously well loved—leather jacket. With a few alterations, he could very easily pass as a T-bird. Kenickie, most likely.

“That was quite clever of you.” He snickered. “Are you always so…charming?”

“I don’t care if people hate me. It’s not my goal in life to be liked.”

He smirked. “I like that.”

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re thinking, but if you come anywhere near me, I’ll drop kick you into the next millennium.”

“Part of me would love to see you try.”

I looked at him closely, trying to see what he was really thinking, but I couldn’t find anything. Every feature made it incredibly obvious that he wasn’t lying, either. He really did want to see me try. “I’m here with someone, so…”

“Oh, I know. The weird looking guy who thinks carpe diem is slang for ‘hungry.’ You know, you shouldn’t encourage his ignorance of dead languages. It’s not really helping him, is it?”

I narrowed my eyes. “How did you—”

“Just because you aren’t looking, doesn’t mean you’re not being watched.”

My heart thudded hard and I took a step back. “That was really creepy. Back off, man.”

He chuckled. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only ask that you keep me in mind.”

“Why should I do that?”

His smile fell away and he stood away from the wall. With a few steps, he was close enough that if I reached my arm out, I would have been able to touch him. This close, he smelled faintly of the city and strange cologne. “Because the day will come when you’ll need my help. When it does, you’ll need a way to find me.” He held out his hand, a white card between his fingertips. When I didn’t take it right away, he sighed and placed it—none too gently—in my front pocket. My body froze with him so close and my heart raced. “Call that number and say,” he pushed aside my long dark hair and leaned in close enough that his mouth was nearly touching my earlobe. “Ostium apertum est.”

Without another word, he turned and walked off. I stood absolutely still, shocked and a little curious. The bathroom door started to open and I quickly turned to leave. I didn’t want to encounter those girls again; I was out of ammo at that point. Whoever that guy was, he wasn’t going to leave my mind easily.