Drabble 37: Black.

“Why don't you ever wear white?” The golden button boy asked her.

Because it gets dirty. Because of ink and coffee stains. Because black is so much more useful.

“Because I look much better in black.”

Who was this guy? Why didn't he ever go away? Why did she keep purposefully not turning off her light?

The guy didn't like her answer, but he asked, “Why's your light still on? Lights out was an hour ago.”

She'd been good at excuses, but tonight she felt like truth. “I was writing.” The proof was on her fingers.

Drabble 36: Camouflage.

He was pretty sure everyone thought his favorite color was camouflage. It wasn't. Actually it was yellow. No one knew about his fondness for cats either. In fact, it was marvel if they knew his real name. Soldier was forever annoyed by his nickname. It gave everyone the wrong impression. And how was he going to find a new girlfriend if everyone thought he was some kind of killing machine?

He had a horrible soundtrack of “That's not my name. That's not my name. That's not my... Name.” constantly playing in his head. He was so sick of it.

Drabble 35: Myth.

It was rumored to have sharp claws, web-like wings like a bat, big round cat eyes, and a stub where its tail should be. It was thought to eat only the souls of lost wanderers in the forest. It was supposed to be the height of eighteen buckets stack end on end. Its voice was the volume of croak with the vibrancy of a scream. Its skin was smooth as the lake's surface and as orange as the setting sun. It could swim through the lake and not sink!

Ingrid thought it myth. She'd believe it when she'd seen it.

Drabble 34: Advice.

Two long lines of strange looking willow trees stretched out from the east shore. They were like a fence lining a quaint welcoming path. Please enter, they seemed to say. Come right in. We will protect you from the sun's harsh rays.

They drew the eyes of many with their sea green, fluttering leaves. Unique and shaped like starfish, they clung tightly and wound about the tree's branches and trunks. The path between them seemed to be littered with sparkling coral in a perfect shade of silver.

A few word of advice: whisper a secret and you might be safe.

Drabble 33: Loaded Letter.

The letter was etched in his brain. He was the heir to everything. He was simultaneously rich and orphaned. He should feel worse about it, but they weren't really there anyway. What surprised him was neither their permanent absence nor his sudden supply of money, but how they had died.

He'd always assumed they were busy living the good life. He thought they spent copious amounts of money on luxuries and elaborate meals. But they'd just been playing those parts. Ingrid would love this twist, he thought. She'd eat it up.

His loaded parents were a part of the resistance.

Drabble 32: Distracted.

So distracted by their accents, she thought. She wondered how she could write them. Could she add apostrophes here and there? It wasn't a lack of sound though. It was more a certain flatness in tone. It was just one of those unwrite-able things. “Ingrid.” Her boss would say, and she would ask, “Say it again?”

She was completely oblivious to the awkwardness.

“Excuse me? Did you not hear me?”

Ingrid would shake her head. “I'm sorry,” she'd say, “I must be losing my hearing.” A lie for sure.

But her boss definitely believed it.

Drabble 31: White.

She never wore white. He had noticed this. He didn't know why. It was a weird quirk. She was full of weird quirks. And she was so freaking interesting and unpredictable. He was going to figure her out.

Her light was on. Again. Again.

He throw a rock up to her window. He wondered if she expected it now, if perhaps she waited for the sound of stone against glass.

When she came to the window, he didn't ask her about the light or ask for her name like usual. Instead, he asked, “Why don't you ever wear white?”