He hasn't called me yet, but I wasn't expecting him to. Dean has other things to do with his free time, things involving money and the only way we can get out of this town without the assistance of the police, but here I still wait in my KISS t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. Waiting for him on my shaggy brown carpet, looking at the beige walls around me at the pictures adorning it of my old friends in various posses: cracked faced, shocked face, sexy pose, crazy face, and smiles all abound, I juggle my cell between each hand, biting my lower lip as the time creeps upward. What ever. Before me is a window looking out into the shrubs and dandelion grass sprouting out of the dust ground, and as I hobble up from the floor I see my reflection and smile at the imperfections. My almond shaped green eyes are small and wide set between my broad nose and my lips are fine, but my two front teeth are always peeking in front of them as though anticipating the next bite of food. Above my eyes my eyebrows are arched and appear to be a faint after thought of my genes, but my straight ebony hair spikes out down my side and cascades down the front of my face on many occasion, so they are rarely seen. A triangle of red dots marks my left cheek, but none of it matters now, and I don't care.

As I throw my cell on the floor, I glance at the yellow disposable camera on my abused mahogany chest of drawers – drawers stick out with clothes and chunks of the wood are missing - amiss the plethora of change, nest of wire, and flakes of paper. There too in my scarlet CD player, resting with a random splatters of ivory paint infringing upon its brooding sheen. They both sit there waiting for something to use them, wait for something to come, and wait for something unattainable by them but given as unmediated gesture never to act on their own. The pictures plastered along my walls are fading and the memoires they capture are becoming vague and distorted, but they remain indifferent to the times ahead and focus on the now… smiling at the things they remember and the things they can't. And they all are looking at me with their smiles and poses, looking at me with faded hope and faded joy, the glare of the alabaster light blurring their faces together; they all gaze at me, and I avert my eyes from them and my camera, for my heart it starting to pound. Outside a full moon beams through tendrils of clouds, and I shuffle over to the pane of glass, placing my right hand on the glass and shivering at the coldness of it.

I may miss them, but this isn't a way for me to be remembering my friends. I just wish I could see them again. I think as my heart slows and I unlatch the window and open it to allow an ardent breeze to meander though my room and whisking my hair around.

Silence is all around me as I lean out the window into the warm Arizona night, thinking about songs Celia and Don used to and smiling at the thoughts of us blaring our voices with the competition of Whore's exhaust.

"Lucky mother fuckers," I say before I back out the frame and amble over to my camera and CD player, tucking my hair back when it obscures my vision once again.

Before I grab them I glace over at my cell on the floor biting my lip again, but I don't grab for it, for I take the things before me instead and tuck them under my arm as I head back towards the open window. Tonight is a fair night, and the moon bask above in the cradle of the clouds above with all of its scrimmages apparent on its face tonight; tonight I forget the faces of plastered against my wall and remember the now of today, but before that I need to figure out how not to drop my things when I jump on the roof. As I climb out of the window, holding fast to the window seal, I throw my CD player the short distance on to the roof with a distant clank of it echoing off into the night.

Well, I hope that isn't broken.

With my camera in tow, I hop onto the ceil, bending my short legs as I turn around grasping for the edge of the roof with a strained grin, stretching my short arms until the rough feeling of shingles can be felt on the tips of my fingers. The roof isn't very high, and when I look down at the ground I smirk again and swing off the railing, laughing a bit with the wind dancing around me, for it feels as though I'm swinging off the limb of a tree. My tree. And I don't want to leave from this position, but my arms are starting to ache, and I can't stay like this all night, so I pull myself up squirming and grunting, and saying fuck a few times before I scrape against the shingles, minor scars scrape against my skin and hair falling back into my face. Above, the moon is covered for a second and all light is extinguished, for there isn't another house around for maybe a mile. Just for a moment I think I should have brought my cell for light, but I banish the thought from my head in an instant. No one is going to bother me with this, more so Dean or should I say Diean. The wavering cloud glides away from the moon, and the rivulets of light come trickling down once more, and I scurry over to my intact CD player and run my fingers over the back where my name is in indigo glitter: Andy Pen.

In the player is some black mix CD I made a few weeks ago, so I grab my earphones and place them over my head and on my ears to listen to music and watch dreams and wishes of centuries sprawl out before me. When I turn it on the funky music of MGMT's Time to Pretend comes on and I smile and start humming the words in my not- to – stellar singing voice. It makes me laugh a bit, but when I take my camera and see that there is only two pictures left my laughter sputters to a halt and my smile wanes.

"Well that just sucks," I sigh as I lay down on my back, seeing what has inspired and killed since life has been on Earth: doors into the future.
They all stare down at us and appear at night, but they still illuminate the days we have yet to come across. Right as the song is about to end I push myself up and mull over what to do with the remaining pictures, but only come up with one thing to take a picture of: the moon. Such an idea makes me place the camera down and just look at the moon from this vantage point, for tonight it is large and dominant over the sky. Tonight the moon isn't a pale ivory but a muted yellow and appears to have a soft glow around it. Half conceived clouds warp around it and float across the sky, and stars shine bright through their veneer. Yes, this is a good picture, and at a good angle too because the low rising hills won't obscure the lenses and I might be able to get a decent photograph out of it. Then I can place it on the wall with the rest of them, but this one won't be faded… this one will be real and fade with my own memory. Taking back my camera I place it before my eyes, focus the place of the lenses, and make sure the flash is on and just look into the little hole for a second before hearing the click signaling the picture taken. Only one left, damn it. With the picture taken, I bring my knees up and warp my arms around them listening to the sounds and lyrics of American Woman thinking about what my next picture will be, thinking about how I will con more money out of my Dad for some film, and humming along to the song just as it says free.

Author's Note: This is for you Karina, another part of your Christmas Present because I know you wanted me to write this story and the times I have been trying to write it didn't really work out but I have this, and I hope you like it. OH, and if you can't tell the narrator is a girl. And while I was writing this I got an idea for this story, so thanks for your help, I was going to write the ending for you but then I was like NOO then she would know everything. Anyway merry Christmas and I hope you like it.