The Overture

Lying is the Most Fun a Girl can have Without Taking her Clothes Off

Skyscrapers. Thick-layered hardbound books numbered by edition and piled up, high and mighty. Dump sites. Crumpled intermediate and yellow pads, plus soaked wet tissue papers stuck together. Street lamp posts. Bulbs connected to a rubber trunk tube with a manual on-off button with a dot and a horizontal line on the far ends of the seesaw atop a shiny, plastic hill. Railroads. Long series of horizontal lanes placed on one-half lengthwise quiz pads. Pedestrian lanes. Notebook sheets cast along the streets. Animated billboard. LCD screen broadcasting different motion pictures, playing head-banger rock songs, and most of the time hanging up on a boring article entitled Microsoft Word Document.

Youri Brandon created her world, an environment wherein she could be herself, carefree but artistic. Her eyes were sea green, her brows arched perfectly, her nose well sculpted, her lips innocently kissable and her face refreshing and always calm. She stands taller compared to other teenagers her age. She was never even alike to any of them. She was special, one of a kind. She was a real treasure, a rare gemstone cast in a mountain of useless land.

Youri Brandon. Writer-novelist. Composer. Part-time model. Full-time mysterious.

With her guard always up, she was aware of how her surrounding smells and feels. But at this moment, she is totally safe, feeling secured and out of danger. She was home. The only place where she can let her guards loose, her self free. She sat on her bedside study table where a city must’ve emerged. Her books were piled up, her broadsheets scattered on the table, her works messed up and her desktop left on. Moving the swivel chair a bit left, she opened one of the drawers and took out a small black garbage bag and started to clean her desk up. She was on the mood to do her usual chores so there was no great use of being extraordinary.

She started cleaning up with the broadsheets,...