I've always thought of myself as an escapist . It's not that I cannot deal with reality, and by extension choose to distance myself from it. No, it's more that I refuse to deal with reality and so I construct a better existence in my mind. And that is why I read. I started reading children's stories and books at the age of six. What I read was mainly silly colorable stories with a simple line or two under each picture. They were engaging and I enjoyed them very much. They are probably why I love colors so much. My Dad noticed this and step by step the stories started having more lines than pictures in them. I moved from stories to small novellas to huge 300-page novels. Reading, to me, was the most beautiful adventure I could ever go through. When I was in the fourth and fifth grades, around the age of ten and eleven, I had a beautiful tiny collection of stories and books that I was extremely proud and protective of. It was a passion, which, again, my Dad fed ...
Lola is turning 118 in five days. She sits on her bedroom window's ledge looking up at the silver-tinged night sky. From up here, everything feels like a shadow of what it really is. The night can be so deceiving, and yet it can still reveal so much. Lola's head swims with thoughts about her birthday, about what she is and what she wants to do, and what she wishes she could be. She is excited about her birthday if a little guarded. You see, Lola has a dream, which among many things, revolves around leaving this place. She wants to go out into the real world and explore everything she never had a chance to see or hear or taste before. The only obstacle in the face of this dream is her mother's protective streak. Her mother, to put it mildly, despises humans and everything that has to do with them. It is true that her mother is somewhat justified in this dislike due to the fact that her mother believes the fire that killed Lola' father was started by a human. A vamp...