Monsieur Pierre.

I decided to mention a little tidbit of my teenage years, not exactly but very close to a story of my first crush.




It was march, wind had come to play against her face, and she refused to give in and wake up, she snuggled deeper into her covers, and turned the other side away from her window, a dream in her head of the loveliest specimen known to mankind.

Ahhh! Monsieur Pierre.

Tall, slightly tanned, with brownish blond hair and green eyes the color of wet leaves.
He had reminded her of a disney-like prince charming, he had always greeted her with a smile a friendly "Bonjour" in that heavenly language of his.

She had flunked her midterm because she was so preoccupied watching him seated at his desk going through some papers, reading the documents with interest she longed he'd show her.

If only she was french! She had thought, she could flirt with him in his own language and not stutter like an idiot trying to form a sentence, and still he had always been so patient with her.
When she finally did manage to speak for herself he turned to the rest of the class and exclaimed, "Ecoute!! Ecoute!!" She had been so proud of herself then, but when she finally had gotten back home her thoughts turned to a horrifying turn that perhaps he had thought she was indeed helpless and could not believe that he had finally succeeded in making her converse.

She decided to throw that thought out of her head, he had liked her enough to turn to the rest of the class to say that.
Yes, he had liked her.

When it was finally the last day of classes, she had found out she had gotten a gleaming "B+" and the daunting announcement that Monsieur Pierre will be going back to France.

No.
Was the first word that came to mind, how could she go on with such an existence.

And he had looked so young then, with his dark jeans, and a simple white shirt, his hair lightly brushed.
"P-pour quoi allez-vois?!" she had managed, and he had smiled at her insistence in conversing with him in french, "I have work there, mon ami." he replied politely, and turned to speak with his many students leaving her clutching her notebook to her chest, a breaking heart underneath, he had mentioned that he would toast them with champagne, but since they were non-drinkers, he had respected that, but inwardly she had not minded tasting the drink for him.

Before the class was dismissed he had written his email on the board, promising he would reply to anyone of them if they needed him, and she had written the precious address with the most urgency for fear it would be wiped away..

Soon she was found before her computer typing away quotes she had found in books, and some romantic ones and had sent it over to him. Hoping he'd be enthralled by her discoveries of the language.

But it was a week later that she had gotten the news.
"WHAT?! He was going back to get married!!" She had intoned in a voice that rang through the halls, her eyes awash with jealous fury, "He said so. He told us, he was Va se marier." "He had even put it in a sentence!" her friends had informed her laughing.

She had gotten a severe stomach ache that day, but she did not cry.

Now, with the winds tugging at her hair, pulling her upwards, she relented and gotten up with a smile on her face, her eyes awash with new adventure, a chuckle on her lips because of her fruitless infatuation with a man that regarded her like a helpless little sister. He had been wonderful.

A total gentleman in every aspect.


(He was half spanish, and had gotten back to marry his fiance who reportedly was ugly, that atleast softened the blow, but he really was the kindest person ever, and had been so helpful, all the rest of my tutors were boring, ugly, or impatient thus I never really gotten a grasp of the language. I wish him well wherever he is. I can't say he was my only crush! there were many after him. :P)

Once there was a boy.

Once upon a time there lived a boy, who liked to run like the wind, sneak a bite from a plate without his mother's knowledge, wouldn't rest until he found what he was looking for.

He enjoyed fishing, swimming, football anything that would drive him to laugh his breath away, he adored his friends like brothers, and would often enjoy competing for the girl.

Every girl except the one.

This one...Ahhh, Her.

She had been too bookish, he thought with a smirk, too high and mighty for anyone, especially his kind.
He knew from her sniffly little nose that she detested his presence but there was something about her, he watched her stash her books away as if they were jewels of a foreign land, so carefully.
He recalled.
He had towered over her, but she still managed to look him down, as if he was an insect she longed to squash.

Ouch. He had laughed.

He didn't mind it then, he was so preoccupied with her hands, little hands that would hold each page like a tender lover, running her fingers against the words, sighing at an unknown author.

He wished he could write then, perhaps she'd find him more appealing if he could.
But he was never a man of words, he could sweet talk his way, yes. But he wasn't that Byron person she was always raving about.
So he did what he always did, just stared at her back, watching her curly black hair sway from side to side.
She had such pretty hair, He recalled.
But when she turned to him, it was her eyes that caught him off guard, big brown eyes, that always reminded him of melted chocolate, wide, questioning and ravishing. She did not have that innocent doe eyed look, no.
These were eyes of courage.

Memories. He shook his head, what use was it to remember?

What use was there to remember a woman, a girl, that was never to be his?

But he couldn't forget.

Never that.

It was the first time he had known real hurt, it wasn't a broken bone, or a wound at his wrist.
No, his heart had bled that day.

That far away day, when he had wanted to come, knock on her door and claim her as his wife,she had told him that she did not want him, just like she was refusing a plate of broccoli, She had hated broccoli.

How he had ached then, He still remembered how he had sounded.

Pathetic. He thought with gritted teeth.

He had thought it was the end, thought that he would never stand again, too broken to move, he was never the rich one, and he had never been ashamed of it until he had known what she had wanted.

She had wanted money, something he did not have much of.
She had wanted a Porsche.
A place called "Bags".
And Paris.

She had wanted things.

Obviously things that were more important to her than his heart, Why? He had asked achingly.

She had disposed of him, so easily. It was just like her.

So harsh.

And here he stood looking out a busy street from an open window, his blueprint plans of a new project lay forgotten on the table, different architectural instruments scattered about the highly important papers.
Wind played through the short strands of his dark hair, a cigaret clamped between his lips, a vision of a girl in his head.

He was eternally changed after that, no longer laughing, no longer inquisitive, he had been fire, now he was ice.

Slowly he turned away, stuffing pictures of hands, books, and curles out of his mind.

A dream forgotten.

Visions of Petra

It was too late for prayers, the priests were brooding at his approach, it would not do for a royal to be so lacking towards the gods. Especially one so close to fall , His long robes swayed about his hurried stride, his limbs were old but he could still hold himself high, the few greying hairs at his head did not slow him, As He approached Obodas, a small crowd came away, and He was let to settle down in front of his favorite deity.
It has happened again, They've come once more, I know not if tis for punishment or warning, The red robes I fear are everywhere, they claim this whole city now, I am merely a puppet, one that they would like to tear into nothingness, Please help me, Lord. They're plague in thine city is endless, I have always been respectful, submitted to your every rule, and had no regrets, Grand Obodas, You are all, You over all, Please, Rid us of they're greed. Take them away.
It was those last words he spoke aloud that made him grit his teeth in helplessness, For his hollow voice did not have the fierceness it used to , he did not hold much strength with a sword as he used to, By the gods...He was too pampered for all that now, too weak and helpless, and he doubted any of his men would stand behind him now, not against this, not against Rome.
Yes, the creme de la creme of all was after his little stone city, Hmph...they did not care a whit for it before its prosper, They did not care when it was a measly crack in the sands.

Ah, But now...Now, all wanted his grand sculpture, But they did not merely want it, No. They were out for possession. And of course they were expected to let down they're gates and welcome them in with open arms for fear of combating they're armed legions. Yes, He had to admit it. It was suicide to go against those masked men, He was in the age of lions and he was merely a fat lamb they wanted to take in.

All eyes were upon his front at his approach and at his back at his leave, they knew it was a matter of days before they're dear sire disappears, All were ready to give in, if it was for the safety of they're children and women...what whit would anyone care for a pampered king? Of course he'd be over thrown. At best he'd be a puppet king, one that the bigger force could twist around they're little finger.

Yes, Possibilitie; but all were dire in war. Suggestions that would all lead to they're downfall and so to they're decline.. They would not speak they're Aramaic tongue anymore, but be forced to change they're formations into Latin. They're children would never speak they're mothers tongue but be Roman slaves like all nearby cities.

"Can't be helped, King Aaron know's its for the best." Said the elderly monk to his fellow priests, "They'd want him dead for sure, he's not puppet material like Heera's sultan." replied another younger fellow, " But what would happen to us? I have children." replied another in an overly emotional tone. "Us?! Were safe of threats since were not military men or royalty, its those with the power that are in real danger. Ironic, but true."said a middle aged man with a stoic posture.

Ironic, Yes.
There was a time when he was a force to be reckoned with, at least to his subjects, now he was gossiped about like some fool.
He raised his chin and stepped between the crowds, his robes pulled over his shoulder, the color of his clothing melted with the city's pink stone, and it seemed for a moment that he was one with these walls.

He raised a hand to what few alliances he had, and asked if they would open the gates to welcome they're adversary.
Soon every tongue was robbed of words, and every man,woman, and child retreated far back to the sidelines, allowing a clear view of the distant army.
As he had foreseen a sea of crimson and steel was marching his way, to him. It was death and it was approaching quickly, he swallowed again and again, sweat trickled down his spine as he heard the Bam,Bam,Bam of they're footsteps, so hard and sure.

Soon they halted just a few feet away, and a tiny man stood out between the large warriors, he held out a scroll and began reading it, one would describe him as plain ugly, but there was something sinister in the way he looked about the city, his mouth parted and gave away to a crooked tooth smile, it was nerve racking, his leer over his treasures was obvious, he was definitely the Legate. The senior officer of the Roman Legion in which he's appointed as the governor of a roman province.
In this case Petra was at a turning point to be just that.

"Greetings, I am Dante Severus, I come baring a message from the great emperor of Rome."Said the Legate.
"His eminence commands the patrons of the stone city to relent at once, The area surrounding you is already governed by our esteemed emperors rule, you are the last to join. My compliments on your decision to spare your people, very wise." said Dante with a smirk

King Aaron looked on, he was quiet and reserved yet to say a word to speak his mind, and he did not plan to. To speak the mind one has to be free of the imaginary chains that seemed to lick at his neck.

The Legate could not keep his escalated excitement from showing, he held a hand to the hilt of his sword, and flicked his fingers with the other, at the mere sound of it two brawny warriors stepped into view and stepped up the short stairs to King Aaron, they held his hands fastened behind his back, and pulled him into the darkness behind the opened doors of the palace, Nobody seemed to protest instead they clutched at they're robes and children with shivering awe.

Make it swift.
He prayed with deep breath, he tried to ignore his fears, tried to ignore that he was fastened and dispositioned, all he could hope for now was a swift death, just a swing of a sword and it would be all over.

He could hear the slow footsteps that followed him, It seemed that the Legate had all the time in the world to make him suffer a bit more, "Lovely." He said looking up at the shaded walls decorated with carved ornaments.
"You know tis not usual for a leader to be granted a grand favor, leaders like you are simply beheaded outside they're city's walls and buried out to be forgotten." Dante continued tapping a finger at his lips, "I think I shall enjoy a bit of change...perhaps a public audience? Very poetic."

It would not do to clutch ones fist and grit ones teeth at the suggestions the Legate was thinking, But Aaron did not think, he did it anyway.
There was one thing he was thankful about. His lack of wife and children.
If he had any, those pigs would relish torturing the hell out of him with something like that at they're disposal.
Which brought something else to mind as well. All that he had lived for, and relived for, and tackled, fixed, and built, was all for naught, It was all a pawn now, something he had invested all his life and youth into just to be taken away so simply.

He cursed himself, his own weakness for what had been brought down at him, Nothing was worth anything after all.
He was not worth anything.
He was a stone, unoriginal and easily replaced.

They knew where to pick at him, hurt him where it hurts the most, but he still stood quiet, what use would it do to speak? What use would it do to protest? What use would it be to try to fight they're iron grip.
All for nothing.

He heard they're whispers in latin, he understood enough that it was soon time, he was tired and weary, it would do him good to just let go of this misery.
Soon.

People outside were looking about themselves, women held they're children to they're breasts, men stood in silence onlooking, elders were beginning to protest only to be pushed back to not be heard.
This was not a bloodfest, if they stood docile they'd be treated like the silent lambs they are.
But only one Baa would cost them all they're life.

Soon the tall, broad doors parted and soon he was pushed out by the same burly warriors that had taken him in, he walked on shivering feet, his eyes to the sun, blinded by its brightness, for it did well to block the red robes from the corners of his eyes.
Death was ideal now, a step to climb on the central platform, a swish of a sword, and all would be over.

His stride unbalanced but he managed to hold him self high, his tall frame helped him accomplish it, his hair unkept with the sudden gust of wind that tore by him, his robes seemed to wrap about his legs and then fasten around his waist, yet fall again in a usual fashion.
Then he stood, a dark vision blocking the light, Vercingetorix dressed all in black, heaving a large hefty axe hammer, he spoke in a guttural tongue and pushed him down to his knees.

Hands flew over mouths, astonishment flickered through every eye, green, blue, hazel, black, all shades of them were awestruck.
He was the embodiment of Death, Azreal come to take his life.

And with a braced arch, his axe hammer cut through his cords, and his lifeless head fell to the ground in an echo where it rolled to silence.

That same sound echoed through the valley of stones, down to the treasury up to the mount of Aaron, and onwards resonated through the cries of his people.

Once there was a girl.

Once upon a time there was a girl, who was brought up to do all right and no wrong, she enjoyed her studies, laughed with her friends, and read all the books she could find.

She enjoyed drinking hot milk with honey with a book on her lap, she enjoyed the scarce rainy days, where she'd sit against a couch and listen to the rain dribble outside her window.

She loved the sight of droplits on the glass, a vision that had always left her giddy with warmth.

Slim, tall, with sleek dark hair, he used to smile at her and watch her stack her books away, teased her about her glasses, and remarked that she should eat her sandwich before he did.
she remembered that he liked melted cheese on cold bread.

Perhaps she'd make it now.

Perhaps not.

It was in a hot summer's day, where she learned he befriended another girl, she scoffed and laughed the matter off her shoulders, she wasn't brought up to fall in love after all, and the notion was foreign as snow to her.

Love=Trouble in her book. It was an equation she wished not to join in, for there was no pleasant ending to the matter, she wasn't an idealistic princess, and he was certainly not prince charming.

Oh, he had many faults, Too many, she decided primly, and it would not do to waste time on him.

However, why did the memory of his white smile make her heart flutter?

Why was it-when he walked into a room he would make everyone blur in the background?

Why was it when he was with another girl, her breath caught?

Why was she thinking this now?

She should move on.

Would- Move on.

She couldn't stay struck on a dream, a man, a boy that was never to be hers.

After all there were prospects to consider:
He would never buy her a Porsche.
He would never fly her to Paris on they're anniversary.
He would never take her on a shopping trip to Saks.

Never, Never.

And here she stood looking out a lonely room, watching passers go by in wonderment...

But what if?

What would it be like?

What would it be like to have him here?
How did it feel for him to hold her?
How did he smell?

God, she couldn't remember.

Was it strong cologne, or peppermint?

Cologne, she decided.
She liked the smell.

Would he like the simple yellow dress she was wearing?
Or would he insist on the red ensemble, that still hung in her closet untouched?

She remembered, he couldn't even pronounce the brand's name, "Channel." he had said, scoffing at the more correct name of the iconic brand.

She recalled a night of far away, a broken voice on the other end of the phone, "W-Why?"he had asked like a little boy begging to know what he did wrong.

She had informed him she did not want anything to do with him anymore,

So cold.

So harsh.

Just like her, she thought grimly.

And here she stood looking out a beautifully furnished room, riches in her closet, and a Porshe down in her garage, just as she had always wished for.

she heard footsteps behind her, and turned to pose a smile at the elderly man, he had come to inform her that she was needed downstairs, "I'm coming, darling."she said kindly to her elderly husband.

All thoughts of a dream buried in her head.