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 ^{(it's beta!)}

The library was dimly lit, smelled of mildew, and the carpet patterns could’ve driven anyone mad. I saw him sitting in a folding metal chair at one of the tables near a window. He looked old, wore a wrinkled plaid shirt, kakis, and brown loafers. His thick glasses made him look like a barn owl but his eyes, whenever he put his reading glasses away, always looked so tired like a comedian that’s run out of jokes.

I watched him while he sat by the window and pushed game pieces around on the tabletop until he looked in my direction. I walked over and sat across from him. I was seven.

“Whatcha doin’?” He looked down at me through his glasses, past his bent nose and said gruffly, “It’s called Chess.” I tilted my head. “How d’ya play?” I noticed his eyes when he removed his glasses and tucked them away in his shirt pocket; one was cloudy blue, the other was sharp brown.

We met everyday in the afternoon at that same table where he taught me how to play.

“It’s not a game to play,” he told me, glaring down at the pieces, “It’s strategy, it’s a puzzle, it’s the art of war. It’s reading your opponent’s moves like you would read a book.” The Rook was my favorite piece.

The Librarian came over one afternoon and asked why I always sat there.

I told her we were playing chess. Her brow furrowed, “Who?” I pointed at him, “Mr. Bill.” He smiled, showing his straight yellowing teeth, his glare softened.

The Librarian gave a knowing smile, “Oh, your imaginary friend?” I shook my head in protest, “No, Mr. Bill.” There was a pause, I frowned,"He's sitting right here. That's his coffee on the window sill." She gave a small awkward laugh, “But there’s no one there, sweetie.”

The next day he didn’t show up so I waited. The pieces were the way we had left them the day before, so I didn't touch them. We never finished our game.

(just a few edits/spelling/stuffs)

She stood on the slate roof over looking the cathedral’s steps. The streetlights glittered on the puddles below left over from the rain. The air was cold and made her lungs burn after climbing up a rusty fire escape. She sat down next to the ledge and pulled her knees to her chest, staring down at the people leaving.

She was now a member of the church; she had completed her rite of passage.

A small chain with a metal cross hung heavily around her neck. Its coolness sent shivers through her so she pulled it off and dangled it idly over the side, contemplating whether or not she should let it fall into the rose bushes at the bottom.

“What are you doing up here?” whispered a voice close to her ear.

She jumped and turned sharply to see his wide grin and hat dipped low over his dark eyes. Drawing in another breath she looked away,

“Wondering if I’m allergic to gravity.”

He sighed and took a seat next to her, his arm curling around her shoulders, “Conformation, eh? Well now, that’s something to be proud of.”

She stood, shrugging off his embrace,

“Bastards locked me in a closet for four hours.”

He stood also and followed as she inched closer to the edge.

“Going somewhere?” His arms encircled her waist loosely.

“I don’t know.” Her voice became strained, “You’re going to leave me like the others, aren’t you?”

His breath condensed on her neck as he buried his head deeper into her shoulder.

“I don’t want to.”

Her eyes stung. She let the cool chain slip through her fingers and watched it fall to the ground below. He heard her bite back a sob and held her tighter.

“I won’t leave you, Alice. Not if you don’t want me to… if you don’t leave first.”

She took another glance over the edge at the roses, at the people becoming smaller across the street, at the wrought iron fence just below them.

“Promise?”

She heard someone climbing the ladder.

His lips pulled back in grin and pressed lightly against her cheek.

“I promise.” Then suddenly his warmth was gone.

Peter swung his leg over the ledge, panting, “Alice, they’re looking for you down in the great hall… why’re you up here? I don’t think we’re allowed. Anyway, um, I’ll tell them you were on the playground or something.”

She smiled. “Thanks, I’ll be down in a minute.”

[edited]

Outside of the post office there was a concrete wall about eight feel high that cut into a steep hill. When the sun turned itself off, fluorescent lights came on and lighted it. Near that was a makeshift dirt path. Bike tire tracks lined the narrow path, giving away the fact that the brave (or the just plain stupid) came out to play after dark.

She was tall for her age (some said lanky), her eyes were still blue though tainted green like copper rust, and her hair hung down to the back of her knees when loose. They called her ‘chicken’.

She saw them, the teenagers, riding their bikes down that treacherous hill at dusk when no one was around to stop them.

It was difficult, she could tell. So many fell off before they reached the bottom. Gravity was unkind to the vertically inclined. Their laughter was sharp with the thrill of making it down in one piece; she longed to join the chorus.

"Why are you staring?" The middle aged gentleman sitting next to her quirked a brow.

"Tired of being called a 'chicken." She smiled meekly and looked away.

"And what if you break your neck? What then?"

She glanced at him, her hallucination, knowing he wasn't really there... even though she could see him opaquely.

"I'll be dead, so I won't care. Why do you care, Simon?"

He shrugged, looking somewhat flustered.

"Well then... you won't, I won't. It--"

she cut in, "You'll die too?"

His eyes became distant, an indefinite yes.

She stood, her spindly arms resting akimbo to her hips.

"Wish me luck."

After much jeering, harsh laugher, and sharp pokes to the side, one of the teenagers donated a bicycle to the cause; imminent suicide. She swung a leg over the bar of the machine, struggling to keep her balance, positioned her foot on the pedal and stared out that the blaring fluorescent lights.

The wind howled past, the handle bar vibrated violently over dusty gravel ricocheting off spinning tires, and for a moment she thought she was flying. Then, she found herself looking up at the blushing contusion of a sky, sprawled out on the grass, unharmed from what she could tell. Faces framed her line of sight, all whispering and looking at one another. Among them, Simon stood smiling and gave a two-fingered salute, "Well now, the chicken did it!"