The Reality of Myths, Murder and Beginnings

Chapter 1

You know how there's always that one person you look up to no matter what they do? Whether it be your mother or your grandfather. It could even be that crazy lady who lives next door and tells you stories about her life that you're pretty positive never actually happened, but you listen anyhow, aptly paying attention because you've never heard anything so extraordinary in all of your life.

For me, it was my 11th grade English teacher. I never quite got over how easily she could teach, even when you could tell she wasn't having that great of a day. She'd simply slip into the zone she went into before every lesson and talk. She was very personable, and I admired her for it, considering most of my previous English teachers had been old witches who either A) Didn't want to be teaching or B) Wanted to teach a little too much.

In fact, I admired my English teacher so much that she was the inspiration for my 11th grade Art class project.

Every semester for our Art final, we had to do a big project either by ourselves or with a partner. I, being the lonesome artist that I am, chose to work alone that particular final. What was the project? We had to make a statue using common household objects.

Fun, right?

After my Art teacher had told the class about this project, I returned to my family's floor of the townhouse on the corner of Aspen Street, Cassel, Pennsylvania, wondering what I was going to make, and what I was going to make it out of.

It just so happened that on that particular day, my mother had been out in the backyard, harvesting the lemons off of the lemon tree she'd planted when we had first moved into the second floor of the townhouse, explaining that if my father wasn't going to let her work, she would at least have a garden. That garden was nothing more than a few rose bushes and the lemon tree, but she took good care of it.

Whatever, that isn't important. The important part is that when I walked into the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge, I spotted the big crate of ripe yellow fruit sitting on the table. The creative side of my brain started to whir instantly. Glancing around for my mother, I whistled as I picked up the crate in my arms and hopped off to my bedroom.

A statue of lemons! It was perfect! And it was good I had gotten the idea. Once I had a plan, it was hard to get me off course. I guess you could call me stubborn. Sure, it caused plenty of problems in the long-run, but it was certainly helpful for schoolwork, as long as I didn't try to change the plans my teachers gave me.

I set the crate of lemons down on the floor and took a step back, admiring the yellow fruit. I had no idea what I was going to turn them into, but I did know that I was going to use them. With my mother's permission, of course.

"Liam!" And still, I remember exactly what her tone had been. I heard the distinctive heel clipping noise against the wooden floor of the hallway, and then she was knocking on my door and opening it.

"Liam Sterling McGuire, what are you doing with my lemons?" my mother demanded, sticking her head into the bedroom.

Ever since I was six, I had thought my mother was the prettiest woman I ever, and would ever, meet. I still think that now, as a thirty-year-old writer living in a New York apartment. Her black hair was pulled back off of her neck by a plastic clip, and her green eyes were looking me over in curiosity, but also in annoyance.

"I... I'm doing my Art final," I explained lamely. One of my mother's eyebrows rose, and I cleared my throat. "I mean, I have to make a statue out of household items, and I saw the lemons."

"Let me guess," my mother sighed. "Inspiration struck?" That was my excuse for a lot of things I did.

"Yeah," I answered with a grin.