A Rose By Any Other Name

"So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title."

The End is nigh.
Ah, once upon a time I referred to him as Romeo...now, however, I realize that such a name could never be applied to one such as he, for Romeo at least lived and died for True Love.
Nay, I would now deem him a Casanova who was, of course, a libertine usurped by venereal disease.
Not that I'm implying anything. ;-)

Five Yards Equals A First Down...Right?

Yes, I honestly used to believe that it was an accumulation of five yards on that green turf that equaled a first down. Of course, that was a few months after I actually understood what a "down" WAS. I'm not sure how the daughter of a head football coach manages to be so unaware of seemingly simple rules. Perhaps it stems from the day when I was six years old and caught in the middle of an eighth-grade boys' basketball scrimmage. Needless to say I had a knot on the top of my head where the orange ball almost twice my size pummeled me when the game got a little rougher than I expected. Ever since that incident I've been a little standoffish to things concerning balls. Take that how you will.
Below I've related a few funny stories about my "blond moments," I suppose, concerning my least favorite subject next to math - sports.

Nothing makes a girl hunt for a conversation starter more than a hunky boy. Such was my dilemma several years ago when I attended my first professional sporting event. The Braves were playing at Turner Field in the ATL, and I went with my church youth group. I arrived at the church and quickly scanned the group for my current crush - SCORE! Those baby blues sparkled in the sunlight as he flashed a grin at me; every girl can relate to my ecstatic joy when I was placed in a carpool with him and his hot friend - AND I got to sit in the middle!
So, game. I believe the Braves played the Padres. In my defense I had NO IDEA about baseball - even less than football, which was already next to nothing. The only thing I remember about baseball in highschool was Tony Bellew in those TIGHT pants and Katie explaining that the net was there to catch stray balls. I didn't believe her, however, until the first foul ball would have given me a concussion had the net been absent.
But here I am, getting off track. I used my small knowledge of baseball combined with a mean flirty blink and sheepish grin to keep my crush chatting with me the entire game. He was a photographer and I also feigned being able to get a good shot so he would offer to help me; he did, and I'm pretty sure I framed the picture he took...of the baseball field. Towards the end of the game I had to pee so badly my bladder was threatening to kill my family and burn down my house should I wait any longer. I just knew if I got up my seat next to him would be unavailable when I returned. Alas, it was, but thankfully it was near the end of the game. The Braves beat the Padres but of the exact score I am less sure. Like I said, my attention was - not surprisingly - spent elsewhere.

Seat 1C. Cute? Yes. His tow-colored mop curled impishly about his ears, highlighting his hazel eyes and warm mouth. He grinned at me, his teeth dazzling – I’ll give him that. His pink shirt was pitted with holes which resembled a mouse in his laundry, and his khaki shorts were faded but comfortable looking. Still, nothing to write home about. But, you ask, aren’t I doing just that? Ah, yes, but you see, this story is a bit more interesting than just another pretty face.
I officially met my first “famous” person.
He asked for a Diet Coke…something about a British accent gets me every time. Owners of such an accent could call me a warty, frog-faced dog and somehow it would still sound endearing. But, I digress.
Through a course of events, he made his way to the galley to ask for a refill to top off his drink. He stayed to chat, intrigued, I’m sure, by my enthralling beauty. Okay, wake up, Meredith. In reality, he wanted to know about our job, how exciting it was, which entitled us to ask about his. He meandered around the question, prolonging our conversation and inevitably making me fall more in love with his adorable accent. Finally, we got the answer we were searching for, “I’m actually going to Boston for work…I’m in the PGA.”
Now, before I go any further, let me apologize in advance to any golf fans. I do not – nor ever will – take an interest in or watch the sport for leisure. My next comment was a serious lapse of common sense which caused me to greatly question my powers of observation. I understand this.
“So,” I asked. “You’re good at golf?”
Sara, my friend who was flying the trip with me, looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just insulted George W. Bush by asking who he was.
“Meredith,” she said, with a tone of YOU IDIOT, “he’s in the PGA.”
I think I started looking for a hole somewhere that I could crawl into. Sheepishly, I apologized for my obviously stupid comment, but he only grinned at me and said, “Yeah, you might say I’ve got a talent for hitting balls.”
He proceeded to tell us about his life as a golf star; all the while, I still had no idea who this man was. When he got to the story about renting an entire race track in Paris for him and his friends to race their race cars, I kind of got the idea that maybe he made a lot of money.
“What’s your favorite city?” he asked me.
“Seattle,” I answered in the next second. “But I couldn’t afford to live there right now. Maybe one day.”
“But why not? Just get you a sugar-daddy and you could have it all. Let’s see…you could be with Bill Gates!” He suggested emphatically.
My face must have produced his next answer – “Oh my god, could you imagine, shaggin’ Bill Gates?”
At which, of course, we all burst into embarrassed laughter.
At one point, he returned to his seat to retrieve a paper – I hurriedly checked the manifest to see his name, making a note to Google him later.
Ian Poulter. According to his website stats, he is ranked twenty-seven in the world, making close to $10,000,000 this year alone. He is also the famous wearer of the “crazy outfits,” according to our pilots who later found out he’d been on our flight. Indeed he did own quite a few outrageous pairs of pants - from ones sporting the American Flag to Fleur de Lis, even snakeskin and Celtic plaid paraded throughout his eccentric wardrobe.
At the time Mr. Poulter was telling us of his plan to launch a new line of golf-wear for fellow players. I met him about a year ago, and according to his website, in April of this year he launched his line world wide in seventeen countries and his designs are being worn by young golf stars everywhere. Not that I'm an advert for him at all, lol.
It was quite the experience.

Seattle, Washington – a place near and dear to my heart. As I sat in the gate area waiting to board the flight I was to take with my best friend, we both gasped and spotted tall, dark, and handsome at ten o’clock. Ironically that was the time of day as well. As my friend and I were standby, we unfortunately sat on pins and needles through the two hour delay, not even sure we would make it to Seattle that night.
Sighing with relief when the gate agent finally called our names, I boarded the plane and made my way to the last row of seats. Getting ready to sigh inwardly as I realized I was – of course – trapped in the middle, my sigh turned into an, “Oh…” as I saw the handsome stranger in the seat next to me. Flashing him one my biggest grins, I settled into the once-loathed middle seat with a smile of satisfaction. Well, as the saying goes, when God closes a door, he always gives you a piece of hot-ass man candy to drool over. Or something like that.
Casually I made conversation whilst staring into his velvet browns.
“Yes, I live in Seattle.”
I was almost certain I heard him ask me to marry him and move there, too, but you know how loud the plane engines are, so I could be wrong. Still further research landed me in the middle of a foreign playing field – sports. Pun intended. “Yeah, I actually play for the Seattle Seahawks.”
Seahawks, seahawks…Is that a bird? I’d never heard of it before. I recall my mother once mentioning there was no such thing. What was worse, I had NO idea what sport this team belonged to.
I realized I was probably staring at him dumbly, so I smiled and nodded, “Wow, that’s so cool!”
But like Little George Washington, I cannot tell a lie, and so I piped up a moment later.
“I’m sorry that I have to ask you this, but what sport do you play?”
Twisting my face into what I hoped appeared to be remorse at so indelicately wounding his pride, I was relieved to see him smile back assuredly and say, “It’s okay, the Seahawks are actually a football team.” He seemed to enjoy the fact that someone wouldn’t be plaguing him for stats the entire five hour flight.
I noticed he’d brought along a DVD, The 13th Warrior, starring the notable Antonio Banderas. I recalled the day during senior year in Mrs. Harper’s joke of an English class when the famous substitute, Mrs. Brown, was surreptitiously duped into believing that our teacher actually left Monty Python and the Holy Grail as our movie assignment as opposed to a film concerning our current literature piece, Beowulf - enter The 13th Warrior, which I never chanced to see.
Smiling inwardly I mentioned that it was a good movie – in hopes, of course, that I would be invited to watch it with him on his DVD player. One heartbeat later he queried, “You wanna join me?” as he held up an extra set of headphones.
Did I ever!
When the film ended I could only hope he wouldn’t judge me by my apparent lack of taste in movies. The 13th Warrior was one of the most corny, horribly-acted, lame-scripted movies I’d seen in a very long time. And he actually thought I LIKED the movie! That was probably worse than him finding out I fibbed about having seen it..
As the story obviously goes, Mr. Seahawk didn’t ask for my hand in marriage or offer to sail a thousand seas for a token of my love, but I mustn’t give up hope.
Note to self: destroy all copies of The 13th Warrior to save thousands of girls potential embarrassment.

The Murder of Doing the Right Thing

About three months ago I met a boy, one whose full name shall remain a mystery. I was on a plane awaiting boarding, parked at gate C12. I stood in the cockpit swapping jokes with the first officer when through the windows I spied a mop of curly, jet-black locks on the ramp below the aircraft. Having always been a sucker for such a head of hair, I hurried to the open R1 door to see if this creature had any potential loveliness of features. As he raised his head to see the foolish girl leaning dangerously out of the open door with nothing but hard concrete twelve feet below, I fell with no handhold into his golden autumn eyes. Metaphorically, of course. Grinning at me, his brown eyes twinkling, he joked, “You’d better not fall out of that plane!” I smiled coyly at him, raising an eyebrow as mock seriousness edged my tone, “If I do then you’ll just have to catch me.”
Thus a conversation ensued about where we lived and upon discovering that we inhabited the vicinity near one another I proposed that we hang out. He concurred and as I found myself writing my name and number on a scrap of paper, I realized that I knew not his name. I wondered what possessed me to embark on such an adventure, but quickly shrugged it off in the name of Carpe Diem. Kneeling to hand the paper with my contact information to him through the door, I asked his name.
“Dave?” I questioned, not hearing him well the first time.
“No, Daniel,” he said, more loudly. I liked his name. A lot.
Later that night as I was in my hotel room in West Palm Beach, Florida, I told another of my flight attendant friends about my mystery boy. Anna, as it turned out, had already met him and quickly deduced from his conversation that he was quite a partier, which information she turned over to me to do with as I so chose.

What I SHOULD have done with it and what I DID do with it may have changed my life forever in a myriad of ways.
So here I am three months later and feeling the inevitable distance between us slowly beginning. So much has happened that I don’t know if I could remember all of it were I to try, but suffice it to say that he is just like EVERY OTHER GUY I’ve ever had a crush on, the typical saga of “bad boy” and “good girl”, although at this point I’m not so sure I can call myself that anymore.
While I’ve maintained a technical “virginity” of body, my mind has been fucked to no end and my soul penetrated in a thousand ways I never thought possible. He is such a bad influence, and while I’ve not necessarily embarked upon recreational activities such as getting wasted or high, I’ve been privy to many a session with him and his friends and the entire time I’ve felt wretched in my heart because it’s not me. I feel that I’ve compromised a part of who I am and I can blame none but myself. I thought that maybe since I’d never experience certain things before that I just didn’t know what I was “missing”, as the cliché rings. But I can’t really say that I DID miss anything. Mindless nights that are so often forgotten by the over-indulgence of black habits are not exactly something I wish to cherish for all time.

It’s a tragedy to admit but it must be done all the same for one must see the reality of a situation before reaching a resolution…I have begun to become the girl I have always sworn against morphing into. That girl who slowly begins to doubt her self worth and allows things she never before would have pandered to because she feels that perhaps SHE is the one who needs a lesson in life. The complacency with which I accepted each blow to the person I am and standards I uphold astounded me, even as I watched the placid lake that was my world turn into a crashing ocean storm, the person I have striven to become slowly being obliterated as I helplessly stood by.
Thankfully I have not yet reached the break down, but should I continue to swirl in this vortex of a relationship I will remain nothing but a shattered vestige of the person I once was.

Am I in love with him? I think not. Certainly I care for him and would never wish any harm to befall him. Still, with the life he leads I can’t help but think a catastrophic demise awaits my broken hero.
Oh of course he can be quite the gentleman, his caring words and thoughtful gestures blinding me momentarily, like when sunlight slices through a dark cloud and hope ensues that perhaps the sun will stay, that the brightness will not be hidden behind the gray confusion of the brooding storm.

I will miss his full lips and the perfection of his kiss, the soft way he caressed my face, the gentle chocolate brown of his eyes smiling into mine. I will cling to the memory of his warm body cradled about me, the way we fit so perfectly together achingly seared into my dreams. His resonant laugh will haunt my thoughts and the way he softened his tone and adoringly called me “Beautiful” will not quickly be forgotten. I will cherish the conversations we shared, the many mornings we eluded sleep until the birds of dawn serenaded us outside the window. My nose will never forget the lingering scent he oftentimes left on my pillow, an exhilarating mix of deep earth tinged with salty sweat reminiscent of a hard day’s work.I will smile to myself as I recall how careful he was with me, how fragile he made me seem at times, how he watched over my well being. The nights of pizza, Jack Daniels, and Mary Jane shared on a summer porch with friends will be looked back upon with mixed feelings as my spirit felt torn in times such as those, but I will never forget the laughs we shared as the full moon shone down upon us. I will always remember his hands, the beauty of their sleek, dark elegance demanding my awe every time my eyes were privileged to rest upon them, and the way his silky curls wound round my fingers as I lazily ravaged them will be a delightful memory indeed. I will soon find myself wishing again for the warmth of his skin against mine as he embraced me, burying his head in the crook of my neck, his sweet breath leaving traces of moisture. The longing for how comfortable he made me feel in my own skin will remain even after he is gone. The way I could transmit a thought into his mind and have it answered even before I spoke a word will forever amaze me; I know I must find someone with which I experience that connection if I am to be truly happy. I will miss his frustrating insecurities, the ones he didn’t even know he had, the ones that caused so much of our discord, yet things that I could never tell him – they are those things one must discover of their own accord lest the chance to revolutionize their life may be missed, oftentimes in denial of what an objective view point might mean to their current lifestyle should it be a correct assertion.

I do not want to do this thing I must do. I wish to continue a relationship with him, to have intimacy with someone as I have sustained with him, to feel that connection and bond that we have had over the past two months for a while longer.

But as I said from the beginning of this entry, we are growing apart. He is not satisfied to be with only me at this point in his life and well, so be it. Life is full of dissenting opinions and there is really no reason to stay where one is not fully wanted. I am giving him his freedom but I am also freeing myself, my spirit, and my heart to go back to what they know and believe, although my experiences with this man will never be forgotten.

And though I’m not sure I can say I’ve been changed for the better, because I knew him, I have been changed for good.

"Por la luz de la luna"

An autobiographical tale of my recent life. =)
Yes, be jealous all.


They walked along the white sands at dusk, watching the orange glow of the sun fade in the distance, the twilight grey settling like a goose down cloak around the two. She ran squealing into the icy waves, taunting him all the while for refusing to join her.
"You're such a baby!" she laughed. "It isn't THAT cold!"
She ran towards where he stood on the water's edge, playfully splashing waves in his direction. Grabbing her hand he pulled her into the warmth of his chest and she inhaled deeply, taking in his musky scent. He smelled like deep forests, of fresh pine and dark earth. She so loved breathing him in.
They walked a little further along the wet sands, feeling the slight chill of the wind as the last bit of sun slipped from the horizon and out of sight, on to bring day to the other half of the world. He sat on a nearby bank of sand, pulling her down beside him as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She swung her legs over his, cuddling closer to the warmth of his body.
The pair sat in silence for a time and then began pointing out constellations, laughingly arguing over which stars formed the big and little dippers. The moon was nowhere in sight, but as her eyes scanned the inky black horizon, she gasped and pointed.
"There..."
He turned to see what so took her breath away and murmured a word of awe.
A perfect circle of hot pink hung low in the sky, the edge of the midnight waters cutting the sphere in half. They watched the moon slowly rise as if pulled by an unseen hand, higher and higher over the ocean until the fiery orange light glinted off the dark Atlantic.
She felt him nuzzling her neck, his dark hands softly caressing her bare legs, and sighed in contentment. He kissed her chin, turning her face to his with his finger. She felt the sweet warmth of his breath on her cheek, feeling the sea-dampened air around them lit as if with an electric current.
And then, oh then, he kissed her.
It was a maddening flurry of frenzied kisses, the built up tension of an entire month released in an instant. She splayed her hand on the back of his warm neck, his silky black curls tickling her fingertips. His strong fingers tightly grasped her leg, his other hand finding solace in pulling her closer to him.
His full lips enveloped hers perfectly, the taste of chocolate mint lingered on his tongue. Flames licked at her veins and that delicious burning fire she had longed for settled low in her belly.
All too quickly the kiss ended, and they pulled away, breathless, staring into each other's eyes. Their faces were inches apart, smiles touching their ravished lips.

It couldn't have been a more perfect first kiss...well, except for maybe a soundtrack. =)

Fun...a small word for such a large meaning.

So here's the thing.

When I tell a person - mostly people who are in my age group - that I don't drink alcohol, I get the inevitable question..."Well, then, what do you do for fun?"

I find question to be very...ignorant. I feel that when that query is posed, the person is assuming that a) that's the ONLY way to have fun or b) they have a very limited view on a good time.

The following is a list of things that I love doing instead of getting wasted. Granted, I've been around people who were drunk before and yes, I had a few laughs. Still it isn't for me. I enjoy other things instead...By the way, this list still doesn't begin to touch everything I like doing.

I like...
Laughter...crazy, loud, insane, uncontrollable laughter,walks in the park, getting on airplanes and going to NYC for the day to catch a Broadway show...passion iced tea lemonade from Starbucks and sinking down with a good book on their comfy leather couches.

I love renting foreign films from Blockbuster and Netflix, writing new blogs based on the neverending drama of my life, and shooting photographs with/of my friends. I really like going to the movies and watching thrillers, lol, and maybe even sappy romances, but I'm up for "guy" movies, too. Afterwards I love sitting at the Waffle House until 3 am making jokes with the waitress, drinking sweet tea and eating cheese grits.

Writing frees my spirit and bridles untamed feelings wish ache to run rampant when I know I shouldn't let them.

Oh, I also love seeing HORRIBLY made films and making fun of them so much that my sides hurt from laughing. Texting and talking on the phone for hours makes me happy, and sharing inside jokes with friends is definitely on my list of faves. I make up nicknames for almost everyone I meet and refer to them as that in private - or to their face if I think they can handle it, lol. I love shopping - what girl doesn't -and clearance sales are the bomb.

Flying is my passion and I love seeing new airports of all sorts.

I'm into literature and poetry, Edna St. Vincent Millay being my hero.

I love history and have a vivid imagination when I'm in a place rich with old stories. I lilke to imagine I'm part of that place in centuries past, lol.

I like to drive late at night with the windows down in the summer time - I go nowhere, really, I just like the stars and silky wind against my skin.

I am crazy about gelato and I love Tiramisu dessert. It's fun to play in fountains and make wishes on pennies.

I love musicals and singing along with them at the top of my lungs, wishing I were the one on stage. If I had time I'd love to act in plays.

I also love sad music, songs that get you more down when you're down, but in a good way. I really like rock, too.

I love experiencing cultures different from my own and becoming friends with people who can teach me things. I especially love the richness of the Indian culture and...I kind of have a thing for Indian boys, lol.

I love the bitter sweet taste of black coffee with Splenda and dipping warm chocolate chip cookies in the dark brew.

Although heights make me dizzy, I love the dangerous feeling of standing on that precipice. Heights are breathtaking.

I like rainy nights on tin roofs, the patter of the drops lulling me into sleep...searching through tins of old photographs and listening with shining eyes as I hear the story of the young lovers in the picture brings joy to my heart.

I have a liking for all things polka dot.

I enjoy laughing heartily at my cat as she spastically runs through the house, the clip clap of her claws on the hardwood floor audible down the hallway.When I hear a train in the distance I stop for a moment and make a wish - I imagine that I'm a nurse in the Revolution, off to bring the boys safely home.

I love rising before the sun on a day when you're free to traverse the country on a long road trip with friends, blaring music the entire way and taking countless looney photographs.

Trips to the thrift store can be quite an adventure - many an interesting trinket have I purchased; I love telling people where I bought it.

The smell of freshly cut grass takes me back to a time when I was young and perused my pop's rose garden as he rode the mower over his expansive yard...I wish there were a way to bottle that scent.

I love to agonize over my pale skin only to realize that in the end it is what makes me unique.

Picnics by isolated streams and rivers are one of a kind dates, especially when they are by the light of the moon. I love to dip my bare feet in the aching coldness of bubbling brooks.

Fishing is fun, although I sort of despise using live bait.

I love to rearrange my furniture when I am bored with it, this being once every two or three months. I am obsessed with Amazon.com and searching their endless list of used books which I buy for almost nothing...I love getting those packages in the mail and look forward to them earnestly.

Flying kites on a windy hill in March assures giggles galore.

Lighthouses make me happy.

Sometimes I like to cry for no reason at all other than that I feel somewhat relieved after I do.

Concerts are a blast as well as musicals and plays.

I love to dream of my Prince Charming, wherever the hell he may be, lol.

Level-headed arguments are fun and almost always lead to very interesting conversations.

I love posing for photographs. Trying new foods is up there on my list of cool things and I will try almost anything - unless it has bugs in it.

Sometimes I like to sit down to the piano and plunk out a tune I used to know in days gone past.

Old towns are fun to explore, those "cities within a city" that one hardly knows to look for. Many a delightful restaurant or eclectic music joint have a I found on such adventures.

I like speaking in a fake British accent to people who don't know me.

I love hot chocolate with marshmallow cream on cool October nights, sitting by a campfire and breathing the wood-smoked air. Freshly fallen snow makes my spirit feel clean and I love seeing my breath on a cold day.

I stare at pictures of foreign places and imagine I am standing there snapping the photograph, telling myself I only have to be patient and that dream will at long last come true.

I have a thing for quotes.I am quite the sarcastic girl at times and love throwing strangers off with a comment they least expect. Especially when I am in uniform. =)

I enjoy volunteering at soup kitchens and the like.

Renaissance Festivals are so much fun to dress up and attend.

My favorite board games are Monopoly and Clue. Nothing like the old days when games were actually tangible.

When it rains in the summer and the sky is free of lightening, I stand it in and let myself be soaked to the skin.

I love lingering in my down comforter on a lazy Saturday morning and pillow fights are always a sure way to make me laugh.

I make wishes on stars - whether they have fallen or not.

Kisses - long, slow, sensual, hot, bite-filled kisses are the biggest weakness I believe I possess. Not to mention they are WAY fun, lol.

I ache to embrace the world and all that God has placed in it with an open heart and mind. I am stretched taut with a feverish desire to dive into the Freedom of my Future. I want to explore the lives of others in such a way that a piece of that individual's heart is attached to my spirit for all eternity. I hope that my life and my actions impact this world and turn the heads of passersby. I am a deep person...no matter what a first impression may say. I like to dig in places that no one has uncovered and have spirit-curdling conversations. Music is a part of my spirit that will never be disposed of. It is my heaven on earth. I soar to ethereal places when I allow the melodies to slip over me like satin. It restores my soul.I love to gaze into the cloudless sky to try to see heaven and God's smiling face.

And I'm always up for trying new things - skydiving, scuba diving, paintball, lasertag, - the list could go on

Nightmare City

I saw him in a place he should never have been, and in a time when I least expected to see him. Sadness poured from his eyes in unseen tears and jerked hard at my spirit. The light from the chapel's stained-glass window cast colorful prisms across his hard features, the green of his eyes still glowing with heat when he locked my gaze. I queried about his well being.

"My son died." Just like that. "He was three months old."

I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. I felt so responsible because I never wanted him to have a child with her. With anyone. Anyone but me. In the back of my mind, I knew I'd caused it somehow, that the law of attraction had brought down the hand of Doom on this innocent one and smote him because I wanted him gone.

Strangely, though, it was me to whom he turned for comfort. He mourned for days, he and I alone on my bed, no acts but the one of grief being fulfilled. Pure aching was met with as much comfort as I knew how to give. I held him as he cried on my shoulder, weeping with him in anger at myself and sorrow for his excrutiating loss.

When he finally returned home, I checked my bank account soon after to discover that $1200 was spent on a Dell laptop, one I knew I didn't purchase. Intuitively, I knew he'd retreated into himself and commited the lowest of low - he stole my credit card number and did it to make me angry. I went to him.

"Please," I begged him. "I'm not angry with you, but you need to tell me if you stole the money. I will give you anything you ask for, just be honest with me."

"YES!" he exploded. "I stole the money! Don't you get it?" He screamed in my face. "I'm trying to push you away! I'm doing anything I can to make you stop loving me, and yet you only love me more and forgive me more than I should ever be forgiven. Why? Why me?" he implores.

To be honest, I didn't know how to answer him. I just opened my arms and he pulled me into an endless embrace.

"Because," I whisper to him. "My heart needs you."

Haunted

I've heard stories about this place. Horror stories, in fact, of bumps in the night, air rustling past skirts where no air should whisper, a scream in the darkest of hours, voices in the adjacent room when the room was supposedly unoccupied.I was afraid to stay in The Lodge.

Although it is located near the Moline, Illinois airport, to be fair it is actually situated across the state line in Iowa. As our transportation rounded the curve, a small gasp caught in my throat at the monster of a hotel before me, reminiscent of a large German cottage against the black midnight sky. I tried to ignore the mocking jabs of the pilots in the seat behind me as they tried their best to imitate the voice of Chucky and quote the most terrifying of movies.

"It's just a hotel," I whispered to myself. "If you don't believe you won't be frightened."As I stepped foot inside the the doors, I felt immediately transported to the world of the Gothic romance novel, something akin to what an author such as Victoria Holt would pen. I expectantly waited for women in hoop skirts and men with top hats and coattails to waltz through the lobby on their way to the ball room. Paneled oak walls added to the heaviness of the room as did the dark wooden furniture and the large chandeliers which hung from the low ceiling. The front desk was complete with a filigreed hand held telephone, much like the ones pictured in Victorian era films, and the fireplace glowed with dying flames. I glanced at the front desk clerk but was greeted with more of a dead stare than a friendly grin. The classical melody of Moonlight Sonata lilted through the room, adding a movie-esque quality to it all.

I noticed my room number was on the eighth floor, but the elevator in front of me only listed four.

"Um, what does this mean?" I asked my fellow crew members, afraid they might say there were secret floors where murders happened or people died from unknown causes.

"That means," said the captain with a mischievous grin, "that you're in The Tower."Gulp.

"T-t-the Tower?"

"Yes, you take this elevator." He indicated a lone elevator which went all the way to the tenth floor. I was alone on the floor, bereft of my crew and left to the wiles of whatever might choose to follow me up to my room. "No, don't think like that!" I chided myself on the elevator ride. As the doors opened, I was greeted with an oil painting of a woman who appeared in dire straights, her hand reaching desperately for the cup on the table beside her large chair, a look of anguish spread across her features as if she'd been poisoned or was trying to poison herself to escape the horrors of being locked on this floor at all times, subjected to the terrors of demons! "Stop it!" I said aloud. I know how I can frighten myself at times, and this time my imagination was definitely running away with me.

My floor was eerily quiet. I almost wished for a drunken party of football fans next door as opposed to the deafening silence at this late hour. I slid the key in the lock, pushed open the door and beheld a lovely room complete with a spiral staircase that led up the "loft" area where the bed was located. The room itself wasn't as lavishly decorated at the lobby, but I was somewhat glad of that as I was already at my wits' end and didn't need to see anymore oil paintings or imagine what lurked behind dark panels. Flipping on the television, thankful for at least that reminder of modern times, I stared at it for a moment in silence before I realized that it was one of the "fireplace" channels, where I suppose one can fall asleep to the sound of a crackling fire, minus the actual blazing heat. I laughed at the absurdity of it. Finally after two hours of calming myself with a little online surfing and covering the grandiose mirrors with towels to abate my fear of seeing a ghost in the reflection, I settled down to sleep...with the lamp beside the bed on all night, of course.

My night played out uneventfully, to my delight and slight disappointment, if I'm going to be completely honest. I had hoped for a bit of an adventure, a crossing with the devil, a dance with disaster. Still, I'd not yet been to the dining room. I had a coupon for a free, hot breakfast buffet, so upon rising, I slipped downstairs and followed the long hallways to the dining area. I took in my surroundings, the crossbeams above my head coming to an upside-down V, reminding me of my favorite movie as a child, Heidi, and how it resembled her grandfather's cottage in the Swiss Alps. The stained-glass windows along the corridor had pictures embossed on the glass if one studied them closely. I came upon an open area which imitated a cobblestone walkway on an old street, complete with an open sky roof, windows to tenants rooms which looked like the shopkeepers homes above their stores, and a large, bubbling fountain right in the middle. I smiled to myself at the quaintness of this "indoor village."

The scent of gravy and biscuits wafting to my nostrils kept me moving towards the breakfast area. I was more than a bit surprised to see that I was the only soul in the large dining room besides the lone waitress. A sense of unease crept over me...it was like going to a SuperWalmart at night and seeing only one car in the parking lot. There were countless tables set with lovely china and silverware and not one living being to partake of the delicious food but myself. The waitress moved towards me and offered to bring me coffee. I smiled acceptance, noting that her voice remained at a monotone level for every question, "Regular? Sugar? Cream?"

It was a bit unsettling, but I headed for the buffet. I will say this for The Lodge - never, ever have I had such a delicious breakfast in a hotel, hot or not. My coffee was brought and I ate in silence, devouring the fresh fruit, hot bacon, lovely seasoned potatoes, and warm gravy with buttermilk biscuits.

Looking up, I jolted from my food reverie and noticed that on the seemingly mile-high wall, dead animals were watching me eat. There were at least thirty deer heads, a bison, and bulls; the adjoining wall sported antlers of varying shapes and sizes. I slowly lowered the biscuit back to my plate and took a closer look at my surroundings. On the opposite side of the room, even MORE taxidermies, complete bodies of foxes and small bears lined the shelves above the room. Again the classical music drifted into the room, almost as if on cue, and I noticed the waitress staring at me with her dead eyes. There was a shelf of old books peeking out from the loft area which was reached by steps near my table; I wondered what other dark deeds took place up those stairs. The doors to the kitchen opened and a handsome, blank-eyed boy appeared. I didn't catch his gaze, but a flash from his shirt locked my attention. It was a long silver chain accompanied by a large, dangling cross. Maybe to ward off the dead? I thought again about how amazing the food was and wondered if it wasn't a ruse to lure bait for their sacrifices! To add to my melodramatic imagination, I began noticing that as I finished my meal, more and more employees seemed to be present in the room, but never another tenant of the hotel! Maybe it was true...while no one had been "rude" to me, they certainly hadn't smiled welcoming smiles or shone any light in their eyes the way humans usually do. They appeared a bit like Vampires. I shivered.

Before I could scare myself anymore, I hurriedly finished my meal, and excused myself, hastily thanking them as I quickly exited the room. As I passed the "General Manager's Office" a man in a - no lie - black midnight suit and blood red silk shirt stepped out of the office directly behind me and began to follow me down the long hallway back to the main lobby. I could almost feel the sharpness of his teeth sinking into my neck, the warmth of my blood seeping out with my last breath until I would forever become one of...them. Perhaps it was they who were the actual ghosts of the hotel.

Of course I wasn't bitten but I am being honest when I say I was actually scared that they may happen as I ate breakfast in that room all alone.It still makes for an enchanting story...