I enjoy writing short stories and am currently working on a set of short stories in preparation for my English Honors project. Only excerpts are posted here. All of these were written during the last school year. I don't expect to get them published, but I do love to share them!

A private investigator otter travels to solve the mystery of the stolen Phycodure Tiara and meets some curious aquatic characters along the way.

The scent of lavender potpourri permeated the underwater home of the moray eel, who I had the good fortune to meet when conducting the initial stages of my investigation. The seahorse had recommended I start here, as he knew a lot about the denizens of the Reef. The elderly fellow wore horn-rimmed glasses and affected a false-sounding British accent. Nevertheless, he had a good-natured demeanor and I followed him into his home so I could accept his invitation for tea and scones.

I introduced myself as a detective working on a case, and the gentleman's eyes lit up earnestly. He brought a platter of scones from his kitchen so swiftly that I wondered if he had them prepared just in case he had guests. The scones were delicious, so I wondered that he didn't have a chance to entertain guests more often.

Presently, the elderly eel commented that the silence in the house was inhospitable, and eager to dispel any unease, he took the cover from an unfortunately dusty record player. The record he put on was also scuffed, and he spent a moment fumbling with it. However, the music was rich and warm, with the signature crackles and pops of analog music, and I was pleasantly surprised to realize that it was a familiar song, one which sounded excited and bold. I inquired as to the name and composer and with his endearingly ersatz accent, the eel replied, "1812 Overture, by Carcharodon carcharias, good sir!" The name of the piece immediately clicked for me, but I was not familiar with the composer he mentioned. I was certain that this was a Tchaikovsky composition, so I requested to see the record sleeve.

Indeed, the sleeve said Carcharodon carcharias. "I must have been mistaken with regard to the composer," I said, and the eel nodded.

A quirky older woman who runs a guinea pig rescue in Peru hosts a couple of young documentary makers while trying to find a missing guinea pig.

The wild guinea pigs lived in a more open area, where the forest met the grassland higher up the mountain. I could see the tell tale signs of their burrows and sure enough, as we slowly walked closer, I could see a family unit munching on some berries.

"There," I whispered. We gazed upon the family, which consisted of two parents and four offspring, who appeared to be about a month old. They were not even half the size of the parents.

"It's possible that we could go closer and engage them," I said. "I have seen this tribe before, and they are sometimes amenable to human visitors." Paul and Paulette nodded, so we went even closer. The grass rustled as we swept it aside carefully and the guinea pigs became aware of our presence.

I nodded to them and they stared straight at us, unblinking. This was the default facial expression of guinea pigs though, so I couldn't tell what they were thinking. After a moment, the father grunted and they went back to eating the fruit. I smiled.

"Looks like we're good," I said. "Don't get too close, but feel free to get all the footage you like. This is not stuff you get to see usually."

Paulette looked delighted and totally in her element, so she went closer as Paul started to take notes. More guinea pigs emerged from the burrows to see what the fuss was about, and I looked to see if Charles' bright red fur was visible. I thought I saw flashes of it here and there, but I must have been imagining things. Paulette expressed interest in leaving, so we packed up. However, as I approached my bag, I saw a round, red-furred body waddle away.

"Charles!" I yelled, irritated that he was running off but glad to see that he was safe. "Charles, come back!" He didn't so much as hesitate, and went behind a pile of boulders and into some bushes. As soon as Paul realized what was going on, he came after me.

We dashed off in the direction Charles had gone in. It wasn't difficult to follow him because his fur was so bright. "Charles, why won't you come back?" I cried, with a note of desperation. He might be safer from predators here, but he didn't realize how important he was. And I was certain that he wasn't eating as well as he did at home.

Lavanya has dreams of studying in London to become a well-known sculptor, but her parents have other plans for her future.

The sun was lower in the sky as Lavanya stepped out onto the street and was greeted by incessant honking. This particular street was very busy; thankfully, she could hail an auto-rickshaw at the corner. She found one and told the driver to take her to the fish market, and they zoomed off. The small, three-wheeled vehicle could traverse the labyrinthine streets easily, clearing the way with the squawk of its horn. There were no windows in the auto, and no doors. When Lavanya was a child her mother always had her sit close so she wouldn't fall out.

The food market was always a zoo. Stalls were packed next to each other under the sun, and the smells combined in her nose strangely. The aromas of spices and flowers contrasted sharply with the fishy smell of the stall she was heading toward. Filets were arranged on banana leaves on the counter, and rivulets of blood and water trickled down, attracting countless flies. Lavanya wrinkled her nose briefly, but it didn't help.

Her mother's specialty was mackerel, which absorbed the flavors of her curry particularly well. She took a moment to peruse the different fish, marveling at the unusual ones which she never had a chance to eat, like squid. After deciding that the mackerel looked good, she made her order, and one of the fishmonger's assistants wrapped it for her. The fish was whole, which was fine; her mother cooked the head as well, which was Lavanya's favorite. The meat was difficult to get out but it was especially flavorful.

The ride home was uneventful. She saw a white cow sitting near an alleyway, which was notable. When she was younger, there would be cows everywhere. She never knew who they belonged to, exactly, but they would wander about and eat anything and everything from the streets. Nowadays, they were a rare sight. The government wanted to clean up the streets, and had cracked down on people letting their cows loose. It was a measure of progress, but in a way, she missed the gentle creatures watching passers-by and chewing their cud.

A man who dies in a car crash is reincarnated as a sparrow and watches his fiancee move on with her life.

I watched her put the phone down with a thud and sigh. She hesitated, then turned to the stove and folded the scrambled eggs. She grimaced when she saw that they were stuck to the bottom of the pan. She scraped, missed, and sent some pieces flying, messing up the dusty stove top. Instead of cleaning it, she held her face in her hands. After a moment too long, she sensed that the eggs had become overcooked and took a deep breath, promptly disposing of them in the trash can. She grabbed a box of cereal from the shelf, sat down at the small, square table in the tiny kitchen, and ate the cereal haphazardly, plunging her delicate hand into the bag with a loud crunch and removing a handful of corn flakes. I saw her nibble on them, eating just a few pieces at a time. Eating like a bird.

I noted that I was hungry and hadn't eaten since dawn because I had been too busy watching her. I had perched on a tree outside her window and gazed upon her sleeping form, a form I once held. Alone in the bed, she had seemed so restless, tossing and turning. At one point she woke up and cried herself to sleep, which dragged my fluttering heart downwards and downwards, until I felt so leaden that I couldn't fly. I just stood still and watched her weep, and slip away into her private world of dreams.

She had woken up hugging a pillow tightly, and I knew where she had been in her dreams. This was confirmed when she threw the pillow across the room angrily, after realizing what it was, and stumbled to the window, where the morning light illuminated her face with shades of gold and alabaster. The blinds printed stripes across her features and down her slender body, whose curves were highlighted by her simple pajamas. She was lovely.

A model who struggles with getting too old for the business recalls a strange night and the events that transpired.

One hour and several fitting room visits later, Amy has found a lovely satin gown for the gala. Satisfied, she hails another taxi to take her home. She has time to kill: she could read one of her library books, or watch TV. But a nap sounds like the most attractive choice.

She turns the key to her apartment and throws the dress in its bag on her couch, immediately plopping on her bed. It's a little drafty, so she pulls her comforter closer, and sleep soon envelops her.

Washed in a haze, Amy realizes in the most underground part of her brain that she is dreaming. She is at the same party from last night. She had attended a photo shoot earlier and had felt like she wasn't good enough. When you surrounded yourself with beautiful people, it wasn't difficult. She had decided that dinner wasn't the best idea that night, and her stomach had growls horribly.

But now, she feels a strange, anticipatory excitement. Something lovely and transcendent is about to happen to her. She's on the cusp of a revelation and it's on the tip of her tongue.

There's a glass in her hand, and she sips at it, intrigued by the golden liquid. She has no idea what it is, but it's delicious. And as it trickles down her swan-like throat, she feels the revelation that was waiting wash over her whole body, coating her insides in armor.

She feels powerful, like some sort of big cat. A tiger perhaps, or a cheetah, considering how slender she is. Every movement she makes is deliberate. Her eyes dart, looking at all the people. Their chattering blends into a dull roar and becomes indistinguishable, voices without words. She looks up, and notices that snow falls from the ceiling, dissipating before it reaches the heads of the guests.

Right now, Amy feels like she could conquer the world. It is a high like nothing she'd ever felt, and it puzzles her, because alcohol doesn't have this effect. Now she feels like a bird flitting over the other attendees. Indeed, she feels like she was superior to everyone else. She is the queen of this nation of beautiful people.

The world's foremost researcher on dragonets goes into the field to study a rare species and learns about the real face of poaching.

Working his way deeper into the forest, he came upon a clearing, where the canopy was thinner and more moonlight streamed through. Mist clung to his sandy hair and the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. There was a great density of nests here, and he could hear the gentle humming noises of the parent dragonets as they prepared their young for hatching. August felt as if he were the only human in the world when he looked upon the dragonet colony.

He listened to the dragonets humming in the moonlight and was startled back to reality by a sudden noise. He checked his watch: it was two in the morning. What sort of creature could be out at this time? Probably a predator, like an owl or ocelot. He didn't like the idea of any sort of animal attacking the dragonets, but he was a scientist, and he was not about to mess with the natural order of things. Most likely, the dragonets' natural defense would work. If not, the endangered population would suffer a minimal loss due to natural causes.

But the rustling grew louder and closer, so he was sure that it wasn't an animal. No animal would be this clumsy, and whatever it was, it sounded big.

A face appeared in the bushes several yards away from August and his eyes widened. He thought that he and his research team were the only ones who knew about the dragonet colony. When he realized that it was a small boy, who peered at him from deep brown eyes, he was shocked. The boy watched him warily, and looked him up and down. After a moment, he went out into the clearing, with a large back pack which was overflowing with small cages. August was horrified: this was a poacher? He wasn't afraid of a child, so he approached the boy, whispering loudly: "What do you think you're doing?"

The child appeared exasperated at his tone. "I am taking some of the little dragons home," he said, exercising the English he had probably learned in school. Unfazed, the boy went towards the closest tree and started searching for hatchlings. The hatchlings cooed gently as the boy picked them up with great care and placed them into the cages, which August noticed were lined with a handmade nest of soft cloth. A smile crept across the boy's face when he looked down upon the little dragonets, which were totally fearless.