A Drawing and Story from the Back Row

One day, when Farrah and I should have been paying attention during class (that's how one becomes a true healer), Farrah drew a picture and I wrote a story in an exercise of artistic synergy. The experience of creating art together was truly transcendental.

The beach was darker than usual. The waves lapped against the shore with a swoosh…swoosh. Lana had never been to Sandy Shores beach so late at night, and the chill of the air caressed and massaged the whiteness of her cheek.

She usually wasn’t so daring. She was a good girl – got straight A’s, fed her dog, did her homework with an extra vigor not previously seen before at Sandy Shores High, and she even drank eight glasses of water a day (but as a result, she had an overactive bladder and felt really bloated for most of the day).

Anyway, Lana’s life had changed one day when she stopped by the local SavMart to pick up her 2% milk for her whole grain cereal (“a wholesome breakfast for a wholesome girl,” her mother always said). Marcus Flutie, the dangerous wild druggie had stopped her.

“Hey,” he said in a deep sexy voice. Lana had always been frightened of him – their lives were complete foils of each other – the good girl with a virginal quality and the bad boy, who owned dirty Metallica and Nirvana t-shirts.

After that soft, breathy “hey,” they were inseparable. Tonight she had snuck out of her split-level home for a midnight tryst on the beach with Marcus.

She waited for him by Rocky Cove, an inlet on the far side of the beach. She heard a shuffling behind her.

“Marcus,” she said breathily. But the shadowy figure was too large to be Marcus. The night was jet black, and suddenly, Lana felt uneasy, frightened even. Paralyzed by fear, she looked at the sea, which was black as ink, instead of its usual beautiful aquamarine. The romantic night had taken a macabre turn.