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CHAPTER ONE ( paradise on earth )
IT WAS LIKE ANY OTHER DAY IN THE OUTER BANKS. The hot air smelled of dead fish and sea salt from the ocean, seagulls were crying out and circling above to scour for any scraps they could nibble on, and the Pogues were breaking all rules known to mankind.
A gentle breeze tickled at Aurora's senses; the cool zephyr refreshing on the sweltering summer day. Loose strands of her flowy ebony hair that hadn't made it up into the messy bun on top of her head stuck to the back of her neck, mingling with the beads of sweat the blistering sun brought her.
Her lips moved in tiny twitches as she silently re-read what she had just written amongst the slightly weathered pages of her little green notebook; the pocket-sized journal she would never be caught dead without. The one she used to satisfy every deep calling and supernaturally intense longing to write words that made any weights this unbearably heavy world handed her lift off her chest.
If you asked, Aurora wouldn't tell you she was a poet. In fact, she would argue that the words she strings together weren't even poetic-sounding. But her friends would most definitely boast and brag about her undeniable talent and how she was going to be a world renowned poet one day. Except JJ. He would say that her poetry ate shit. But that was just his way of complementing something.
She barely listened to the faint chatter of her boisterous friends surrounding her, her brows furrowed and her eyes glued to the pages. She was simply too invested in what she was doing to pay them one lick of attention. That changed, however, when she heard Pope mention something about a three story fall to the deck.
She lifted her head away from the notebook and squinted her coco-colored eyes to brace the great ball of fire hanging in the sky, the humid air decorated with tinges of amber. Her gaze was greeted with John B recklessly balancing on the peak of the rooftop; ice cold beer in hand. His eyes shifted from Pope to Aurora, who had been sitting with her legs crissed-crossed on the deck, but was now rising to her feet with a soft grunt.
"Whatcha writin' Sleeping Beauty?" he queried cheekily, slowly working on bringing his left foot off the roof again so he could perch one-legged like a flamingo.
"Oh, just your eulogy." she sighed nonchalantly with a shrug.
John B let out a half-laugh half-scoff, a grin spreading across his tanned face at her words. "My eulogy, huh?"
"Yup. You're gonna need one when you lose your balance and die in a few seconds here."
"I give you about a one and three chance of survival." Pope determined confidently, absentmindedly pressing the trigger on and off of the drill he held in his hand; the appliance making it's dull, machinery-styled music when he did.
