Part I. What things may seem to be.
Shelby is 28.
She has a nice apartment in a nice district in town. Her things are nice and her job is nice and her attitude about life is nice.
Everyday after work Shelby gets home, throws her keys on the side table, flips off her shoes and slumps into the couch where she will, like most nights, remain until she got hungry enough to go make dinner and then go to bed.
It’s a routine so engrained in her subconscious that she can’t even recognize the pattern of mediocrity has solidified.
But, Shelby Lynn Jackson was not always this way. At one time you would never have described her with words such as "routine" or "pattern" or "shoes." But time had passed and maturity had been thought of as essential and the color in her wardrobe has become bland and her laughter faded to polite chuckles that appeased the masses that filled office doorways and smoke filled bars.
She was raised near a creek in a rural town where Friday night football and summer romances trumped the business of the world. When she was seventeen she spent her last summer there in that most magical of places. This creek in the nowhere places was the place where girls would find boys. It’s the place where boys would chase after girls all the way to their porch fronts. This was the summer of playing in creeks with boys.
Part II. What things are.
Shelby is the girl in the red cloak.
She walks down streets that were thought up in minds that are strewn with cobwebs and snares. She carries a dagger in a small sheath inside her left boot. Her dark brown hair is constantly up in tails and her eyes are always watching. Watching for him. Watching for the one who caused her to have this abnormal, sideways, underneath life. Shelby had never seen him but she knew him well.
She walks quietly and slowly but with absolute purpose, every step with poise and caution.
She is the girl in the red cloak.
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