There were few things that I enjoyed in the world. But what I enjoyed the most involved a pencil in my hand and my imagination on the paper. Watching the picture of my imagination come to life gave me such joy.

While sitting in my class, I only halfway listened to what the teacher recited from the text books. I could just go back and read it again later. But what I couldn't do was recreate the ocean scene in my head. If it didn't come out now, I felt certain it would be a long time before I ended up bringing it to the fore again.

As a few select words caught my attention, forcing my attention back to my textbook. I flipped the page, scanning for the portion my teacher spoke of. I paid close attention as she explained a certain battle, spoke of the individuals who fought there and how they died. How their legacy lived one in their cultures and created myths and legends.

I could practically feel the imaginative wheels churning.

Even though I didn't look it with charcoal on my hands and ears only halfway tuned in, school didn't bother me in the way it bothered others. The structure, the knowledge - if anything, it encouraged the creative in the back of my mind replenishing what could easily become a burnt out well.

My current class, World History, was my favorite in relation to imagination, reading about the world and the beautiful places filling it, the people who lived and fought for their visions and beliefs; it all filled my mind with wild images desperate for release. So now towards the end of class with my teacher rambling about historical figures, I shaded and darkened different features of my picture.

Bubbles took up the edges, filling in spots that normally would have been empty.

Currents, though seemingly invisible, moved the picture in ways that made it feel alive.

Coral and anemones littered the bottom of the page, all of varying sizes and color.

And in the center, the focal point of the entire scene, an orca twisted and turned through the waves, with an almost gleeful look on its face. Making an orca seem happy with giving it a Cheshire Cat smile was rather difficult for me, but I managed, although it wasn't my favorite part of the scene.

I darkened the top of the orca, adding spots for shine and shimmer as I went along. The eyes were still empty, which creeped me out a little, but I would out those in later.

"Study chapter 11 in your textbooks, and complete the quiz at the end. Remember, people, this will be on the midterms."

I snapped from artist mode back into student mode. My pad of paper was promptly shut and throwing in my bag. My textbook and pencils were added into the pile and within seconds, the strap was lifted over my head and I headed out the door.

My mood instantly improved, even with the thorn of people ahead of me that I still needed to make my way through. I knew that just beyond this corridor, my salvation waited for me.

For me, art class represented everything I needed in the world. It counted as y second home, my sanctuary. I felt at peace as soon as I walked through the doors, regardless of the day I was experiencing. My teacher made the hour even more pleasant.

Like me, he understood the need to always have paper and pencil. He understood the catalog of colors and constantly added to it. Like me, he saw the world through a different lens. There was no black and white, there were no gray areas. The world burst forth with color, hues and imagination.

I felt less like a lonely outcast.

The feeling of being an outcast didn't hit me until high school. Granted, I was a self proclaimed outcast; I was an elite outcast and I made that way in life for myself. But when people pointed it out to me, it made me feel a tad uncomfortable. It was like when someone asks a married couple when they are planning to have kids. Or a single woman when she's finally going to start dating. Or a teen, which college are they going to with what major. It's things that you don't really shove a plan for or have put much thought into until someone brings it up.

Now, with my mom constantly on my tail about being social and having friends, I realize more than ever how little I interacted with the world. I still didn't feel the necessity in doing so. The didn't seem to be much of a point in making friends this far into the school year when I knew they would just be graduating and leaving me behind next year. It seemed futile and ridiculous.

Besides, I thought, looking into the classroom for the best seat. Who needed friends when I can just retreat into some sort of paradise of my own creation?

Many of my peers called me callous and cold. But it didn't bother me anymore. Instead, I focused on my art and my family. Those things were the only ones I needed. Which is precisely the reason my mother's fanaticism with my pen pal irked me.

How could I focus on my art and family if she introduced someone new to the scene? My heart and mind had two boxes and to boxes only. There was no room for anyone else. There couldn't be room.

Inhaling deeply, I motored down the hall, leaving those thoughts behind me. Now was not the time to be thinking negative thoughts. I needed to clear my head and get it on straight.

Turning, or more like merging, to the right, I entered the art room. This room would forever be my favorite. Smells which would make others gag, filled my soul and like a narcotic, washed the stress and tension I felt building.

Turpentine mixed with the scent of oil paints, colors flickered across my vision as I made my way through the easels and stations where others were already setting up and getting their works ready.

I dropped down into the seat second from last, right next to the window. The chaos of art class is what urged the mind into a state of overwhelming creativity. My teacher always told us how chaos was really the father is creativity.

So our room was never really perfect. It could be rather messy at times; everyone organized their items in a different way and really, it couldn't be better.

Getting cozy and comfortable in my chair, I took the cover off of my piece and studied for a moment. Instead of my usual fantastical landscapes, I ventured into a more post-apocalyptic void this time.

The humanoid creature in the center possessed a robotic eye, mechanics making up most of it's make up. Covered in thick and discolored smog, it's home held elements of a world we knew. They looked so similar, but one could clearly see something was wrong.

All in all, I felt pretty pleased with how it turned out so far. Most of the art was still in a sketched out mode, the colors still getting lined up and figured out. I knew it would have an almost antique feel, despite it being a futuristic era.

"Alright, everyone!" Our teacher, Mr. Adams, clapped his hands as he entered the room, garnering the attention of all who were in attendance. Once all eyes were on him, Mr. Adams grinned. "Before you all get started on your current projects, I wanted to give you some great news." He began to walk the room, analyzing each of our projects as he spoke. "I just received the news of that our school will participating in the Sacramento Art Festival!"

Anxious and excited chattering broke out through the room, causing Mr. Adams to wave his hands in placating manner to calm the crowd of artists down. "It's very exciting, yes. Unfortunately, not everyone can be part of the festival, as there is limited space. But," and here, he made eye contact with each one of us, "you will have the chance to get your work in the show. We will be holding our own expo here at school later this year. The winners of this expo will be selected to display their works at the festival."

As Mr. Adams finished his announcement, I could already feel the gears turning in my head; could already see the various projects I'd stored for a later day. I dug through the mental filing cabinet, examining each piece and deciding whether or not it could be the one.

"This is really cool, huh?" the girl sitting next to me, Amy, said.

I nodded in response, before adding, "It's a real shame only some people can be part of it. Everyone in this class is so talented. It sort of bums me out."

Amy raised a skeptical eyebrow at me. "Well, yeah, but you're a shoe in to be part of the festival. So I think it's the rest of us who need to be concerned."

And just like that, I retreated into my shell. She did the same thing, studying her work with an intensity which rivaled mine.

Choosing to ignore the sounds of the room, I tuned into my special place, closing my eyes and breathing deeply.

When I opened them, I felt ready. Losing myself to the feeling, I grabbed my paintbrush and began the process of finishing my piece.

* * * * * * * *

The roads of Mendicino, California were fairly quiet this time of year. Summer had yet to come and the winds from the ocean could be on the cool side of the gauge. Early spring had grown to be my favorite season. Something about how my hometown felt during that time made my heart feel lightweight and content.

Growing up in a town like this could be trying at times. Once the tourists began flooding in, the streets were busy and the small shop I liked to frequent on my way home from school got overrun with people. Everyone who lived here knew everyone else who lived here. That could get old; the gossip train never really stopped because of that.

But most of the time, it was nice. The beach was nice and while a little smaller than most you would find in California, I enjoyed it. It was the perfect size for us. While a little too chatty, most everyone in the area was more than friendly. They just liked to be in the know.

So it wasn't perfect, but it was home.

Smiling at my own musings, I pushed open the door to the small shop I mentioned before. Clicking on the wood floor alerted me to Doc, the old Irish Setter mixed who belonged to the owner. He waddled towards me, his tale swishing back and forth and his tongue hanging out.

Kneeling down beside him, I scratched Doc behind the ears, cooing at him. "Who's a good boy?" He responded by whapping his tale against the floor, his brown eyes widening. "Alright, alright, I know what you want," I said, pulling my backpack off my shoulders and digging through the front pocket for one of the dog treats I kept there. After feeding it to Doc, I gave him a few more pats on the head and left him to enjoy his treat.

"You in here, Mister Jay?" I called out, winding through the isles and grabbing a few snacks for the remaining walk home.

"I hear ya, kid. Just can't see ya. I'll be up at the counter when you're ready."

Mister Jay - otherwise known as Jeremiah Hardt. I'd known him for pretty much my entire life. Stopping by the store every day for a can of soda and a snack became a routine for me. Some days, I would sit and play with Doc. Now that he was older, his white fur becoming a bit more prominent on his face, I mostly just sat down and scratched his head. Doc seemed to love that enough, anyways.

Plopping my purchases on the counter, I gave Mister Jay a toothy grin. "How's it going?"

"So far so good," he replied. "Only had one annoying brat in my shop today. But she's almost gone anyways." Mister Jay gave me a mischievous smile through his salt and pepper moustache.

I stuck my tongue out in reply. "Oh, come on, you'd totally miss me if I didn't come in here."

His features softened and he reluctantly nodded. "Considering I've seen you nearly every day for the past seventeen years, I would say so." Pushing my items towards me, he gave me a genuine smile this time. "I'll see you tomorrow, kid."

Waving as I walked out the door, I turned my attention inward. This expo - whatever I submitted for it needed to be top notch. I couldn't let it be a halfhearted attempt. I had to figure out which part of my heart to pour into it. In my opinion that would be the hardest part.

Hearts were tricky little things. They were filled with light and color and music. But they could at the same time, be possessed by darkness, nighttime eternal lingering in the corners. So which should be put on display? It felt like most days, I let the light shine.

As a general rule, colors covered my canvas, bright and blinding. The scenes I loved to create were always in the sun. And as much as I wanted to stick with what I knew to be good at, in order to push myself, I needed to tap into that darkness.

Gnawing on the inside of my lip, I searched for what emotions I could use to trigger such a painting. I'd never really experienced the dark side of emotions. With the wall I'd built between me and the rest of the world, I'd blocked most of them out. I'd never felt the sting of loss; it'd always just been me and my mother. My father died when I was young and I'd never even met my grandparents.

Any family I had were of the adoptive variety. And they were all still around in some way or another. I didn't need to really be concerned. Friends were . . . well, they were 'meh' at best. Too lost in my own thoughts and realms, I'd never really gotten past the point where we casually conversed at school.

The last time I went to someone's house from school is because I was invited to some party by their family. I went, but only because my mother made me.

And in the same way, dating wasn't a priority. I didn't object to the idea. But finding time and someone who could actually understand the inside of my brain didn't seem like a project I needed to focus on.

No, what I needed to focus on was this entry for the art expo.

That was the priority and it was all that mattered.

* * * * * * * *

BY the time I made it home, I'd gone through a catalog of emotions, pulling from the way I felt when I read certain books or watched certain movies. But none of them seemed to fit or feel right. "I guess that's what I get for not living outside my room a bit more," I mumbled, walking up the sidewalk to our front door.

"I'm home," I called out, opening and then closing the door, kicking my shoes off. After settling them into their spot on our shelf, I began the route to my room, not really waiting for my mom to reply. I spotted her, however, poking her head out from the kitchen with a smile.

"Hey, Wendy! How was school?" She greeted, wiping her hands on her apron and walking towards me.

Shrugging, I replied, "Pretty good. No one mishaps, nothing happened to my art. I think that counts as a pretty good day. Oh, there's an art expo of sorts later in the year," I informed her. My mother's eyes lit up and her attention was completely mine. "It sounds like the entire class is going to be part of it. It's going to be the deciding factor for who gets to be part of the Sacramento Art Show." I made it halfway up the stairs before she called me back.

Instead of walking back down, I leaned over the stair railing for what she held out. "You got some mail today, Wendy." The smile on her face sort of creeped me out; sort of like she was hiding something or had a some secret only she knew of.

Narrowing my eyes at her, I took the envelope from her and flipped it over, looking at what was scribbled on the front.

And suddenly, I knew her secret. And I wish I hadn't found out.

In my hands, I held a letter.

Straight from Middle of Nowhere, Alaska.

So I uploaded this chapter last week. And then I went back through to look at it and check for typos only to discover only half the chapter uploaded. So it took me another week to churn out what it only took me a total of two hours to pump out last time. This isn't half of what I wanted it to be originally, but it's difficult to recreate a chapter once it's finished, you know?

Anyways, hope you guys enjoy this! Hopefully when I upload the next chapter (it's close to being done!), the entire thing will actually upload.

Until next time!

- Kim