Courtney Cole

After a thousand years pass, it builds its own funeral pyre, lining it with cinnamon, myrrh and cassia. Climbing to a rest on the very top, it examines the world all throughout the night with the ability to see true good and evil. When the sun rises the next morning, with great sorrow for all that it sees, it sings a haunting song. As it sings, the heat of the sun ignites the expensive spices and the Phoenix dies in the flames.But the Phoenix is not remarkable for its feathers or flames. It is most revered for its ability to climb from its own funeral pyre, from the very ashes of its old charred body, as a brand new life ready to live again once more. Life after life, it goes through this cycle. It absorbs human sorrow, only to rise from death to do it all again. It never wearies, it never tires. It never questions its fate. Some say that the Phoenix is real, that it exists somewhere out there in the mountains of Arabia, elusive and mysterious. Others say that the Phoenix is only a wish made by desperate humans to believe in the continuance of life.But I know a secret.We are the Phoenix.

Sometimes, at the least opportune times, the past is an insomniac, alive and well.

We must stand together and resist all such incursion! We must come together in brotherhood and toss out those like you__omen who take a man__ job, who rob a man of the ability to feed his family."__ho is __e_?_ Jessica peered at the empty green hedge behind him. __ou appear to be alone.___ speak for all working men!

What was it about relationships that made you feel so vulnerable? Oh, right. A relationship. In any relationship, you put yourself out there. You exposed all of your sensitive nerve endings and your heart and you just had to hope that you trusted the right person.

The bad thing caught you.I__e never retreated in my life. I__e never backed away from a fight and I__e never cowered in fear. Ever. That__ not who I am. But I__e been in combat long enough to know that when something unbeatable chases you, you do the only thing you can do.You run. - Gabe

By night, I am free. No one hears my monsters but me. My freedom is fragile, though, Because every morning, Over and over, The night is broken by the sun. It__ a good way to die.

Because I'm a monster, like my father before me and his father before him, and so on. There is no help for me.

I look up at him. He is so devastatingly beautiful in the moonlight. I tell him so. He stares at me, his dark gaze unwavering. Except for my knees. It definitely wavers my knees, if that is possible. I know I wouldn__ be able to stand up if I tried. Which I__ not going to. I__ staying right here_with Dante. __iss me,_ I whisper. __lease._ Dante is silent, his blue eyes frozen on me. And then he lowers his head and his soft lips are upon mine. And I might seriously die this time. For real.

I squint my eyes and glare at him. __ don__ have a crush on Quinn anymore._ He raises a golden eyebrow. __o?_ I shake my head. __o._ __hy is that?_ I stare at him long and hard, trying to decide what to say. Should I be downright, painfully honest? I__e always found that the best way to be, so I nod. __wo words._ He waits. __ante. Giliberti._ I hear him suck in his breath and I smile. Sometimes, honesty is refreshing and so very worth it. __e?_ He sounds so surprised, as though he doesn__ know that he is practically a living breathing Adonis. I nod. __ou._ He studies me again and I fight the need to fidget as I wait for his reaction. After a minute of nerve-wracking silence, he finally answers. __o, will you keep the bracelet?_ I nod. __an I kiss you again?_ I nod. So he does.

Insomniacs know that there is something about the night. A darkness, an energy, a mystery that shrouds things. It hides things at the same time as it illuminates them. It is this thing that allows us to examine our thoughts in a way that we can't during the day. It is this thing that brings truth and clarity.