Nightmares

This short story was published in FishHook, the University of Southern Indiana's literary and art magazine last fall (2012).

I once had a lover who woke frozen and terrified in the night. The absolute stillness pulled me from troubled toss and turn dreams, waking to the sleep drunk conclusion that she had died next to me. I groped forward almost blindly, heavy hands sliding over her neck and face, searching for the rise and fall of breath or the steady beat of pumping blood under her skin.

She jerked to life at my touch, her whole body trembling. I expected her to flinch back in disgust and demand to know why I had decided to grope her as she slept, a lead in to the yelling that would go on till the grey dawn became painted through with the orange and red stains of sunrise.  Or, in another turn, the argument would end with a last remark and a taunt silence when she stumbled angrily from the bed, dragging the comforter and pillow with her to settle in the bathtub to sleep. I expected those reactions, and a few more with the same taste and feel. Instead she clutched out, grabbing onto me as if someone, or something, was trying to drag her from the bed, or life itself.

She pulled herself against me hard, jarring me into lucidity; I wondered if she was trying to crawl inside my skin.  She entwined her arms and legs with mine and burrowed her mouth into the soft place where my shoulder and neck met. The sheen of cold sweat on her rubbed against me where our skin touched and each inhale of breath brought its musky smell with it.  When I pressed my lips to her temple slowly, with hesitation, the taste of salt lingered. Each exhale of her breath pressed fast and hot, trapped in the space between the pillow and my skin. The proximity and heat, the smell of her, brought forward images and memories of sex. I might have liked this at some other time, the urgency of her need making me want her. But she shook, cowering into me, and I marveled at what strange darkness could so overcome her, enough to forget my petty crimes, my snide remarks, my socks left wet in the bathroom, enough to need me like this. As I tightly held her in my arms, pressing our bodies together, I could feel the gentling of her pulse through her shirt where our chests cemented together, the rise and fall of our breath syncing up. In all the time we had been together we had never allowed ourselves this kind of closeness. Not even when making love.

We fell back asleep that way, melded together as if our lives depended on it. When I woke alone, those hidden moments in the dark were the half remembered bits of a dream, the empty bed like the hollowness in my chest, an echo in a silent room. I left the cold, mussed sheets and found her in the kitchen. When I asked what it was that had scared her so badly she turned to me, her face covered in invisible words. I read no questions sketched around her eyes and how dare you ask? written neatly along her thin lips and down her hard chin. I wished she would have screamed it all. When she turned away I pressed a hand to my chest. Somewhere below my skin, my heart beat on, pushing my blood along predestined paths, but I couldn’t feel it. For that one moment, as she clung to me in terror, I had felt both our hearts race as one. For once I had been needed, for once trusted.  In those blue hours just before sunrise we were not just alive, but we lived. It would not happen again. Though my pulse was a roaring ocean in my ears, the pain deep beneath my fingers said that my heart had stopped once again. Always going through the motions of life but never actually living.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Silence

This poem was published in the University of Southern Indiana's literary and art magazine, FishHook in the fall of 2010. I had just begun writing and this may have been one of my first attempts at poetry, so I'm still slightly surprised it got published to this day :P

I sit here, surrounded by white walls.

They want me to think about how I got

stuck in a rehab clinic.

Rehab clinic is such a cute little

institutionalized phrase, when what they

really mean is loony bin.

Truth is, it all boils down to

one bad game of mini gulf.

I’m there, ready to put that

annoying little ball into the hole

hidden by a revolving windmill,

and suddenly I’m on my knees.

That elusive voice I’ve been ignoring

is gnawing at my inner ear.

That horrible squawk that says

‘You’re not good enough’,

‘You will never make It’.

I have to get rid of

that horrible voice with its

nasty truths slipping into my brain.

So I pop more of those tasty little pills until that

damn voice shuts the hell up.

I don’t remember what happens next

in this story of mine.                                                              

All I know is I’m here, the

voice is back, and there aren’t any pills

to make it go away.

I remember the first time I got a taste

of wonderful release

like it was yesterday.

High school theater class behind thick velvet curtains,

dust motes floating between me

and the twitchy senior who

shoved the baggy into my hands

as soon as he had the wad of bills.

I didn’t even wait for

the curtains to settle before

I had those lovely little

capsules settled under my tongue.

After that, the places

I obtained that blessed silence

were a blur.

Dark seedy bowling alleys,

 the shifty parking lot of the

Wal-Mart on the bad side of town,

grungy alleys behind bars;

anywhere to get it.

The places where no one

looks at you too hard.

Before I landed here

where I am supposed to sweat it out,

I always imagined

landing in jail for it. It seemed like

a certainty waiting at the end

of a long line of unfair.

I never hurt anyone.

I just wanted to be happy…

and get that silence.

Can’t they understand that?

No, apparently not.

All those doctors in white coats,

they will never get it.

Them and all of those people making the rules.

The politicians in the White House,

making laws to keep us in line.

It should make sense that

none of them would understand

the necessity of silence,

since they never

shut the fuck up

By Alissa Tsaparikos

One Hell Of A Trip

This is another short short that I am rather attached to. I do kind of hope that with some editing I could get this one up to snuff and submit it somewhere.

The girl stops and breathes deeply. Even from yards away the sight of the old beaten down Dodge Neon is like coming home after years of being away. She feels the familiarity sending an ache deep down to her core, suddenly aware how the unfamiliar surroundings just couldn’t fill the space she hadn’t even known was there, or maybe didn’t want to know. She starts slowly forward again, step by slow step, until suddenly she is right beside the door, breathing heavily as if she had been running to it all along. Maybe she has been, she doesn’t really know anymore, can’t tell what’s real or fake, made up or dream, because now the familiar is falling over her in waves, rushing her senses, drowning her under the onslaught, her hand cradling the familiar grip of the door handle, glancing at that dent in the side, the scar cementing the back door shut where the deer hit on the way back from that long trip, in the middle of that long talk, and suddenly she is settling into the seat and there is the hole like a missing eye where the air shutter should have been, pushed out and broken, “Goddamnit keep your feet off the dash,” still echoing, always echoing, echoing in time with the radio, the volume knob broken off, who cares because the music was always better loud, and the dome light gives off its solemn glow, the illumination of midnight confessions and secrets told in the almost dark, don’t worry it never leaves the car, and the girl fingers the purple beads hanging from the mirror, a sign of spirit that couldn’t be lost, oh how they swung when the car turned fast, the two of them, two girls on one hell of an adventure the moment the engine turned over, just keep the windows down and the beads swinging and everything would set itself right, just never stop. But now the girl pulls them back, watches them sway once more, then pulls away. Shuts the door. Makes it stop. A thousand more memories are pressed against the glass but the girl turns her back and walks away, the secret whispers of the past left behind with the friend that never got to leave.   

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

Rage

I don’t know why I even try,

Hope, dream, or cry.

Because the whole thing is a fallacy in my mind.

It’s cool and slick but my brain is going numb

And the hatred burns like coals,

Hot on the back of my tongue

Until I want to scream fire.                                                                                                                                                         

And all the while these lines scurry

Through my mind like spiders that crawl into ears;

All the words I could say,

Words that can break, twist, and claw,

They nurture and grow like poison,

Just waiting for me to bite.

I want to destroy and mangle you into the shape of my heart,

Until nothing’s left but a crumpled mass.

Just say one more line, I dare you.

Because right now I’m holding back.

But someday I’ll let it all out,

And God help those in its path.

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

Belonging

A poem inspired by a midnight premier of the last Harry Potter film

Face flushed, warm blood pumping.

The pitter patter of fairy hands and feet run up and down,

up and down my spine and arms,

leaving dozens of little trailing whispers of tingly goose fleshed skin.

Laughter and smiles bubble and babble

out from between red and warm lips that

no longer hide teeth.

Dozens of lips all stretch

into grins akin to those all around.

Everyone is a mirrored image.

Together, a mass of warmth, belonging and excitement.

One lingering thought trails in the back of every mind.

Stamping  out awkward feelings of fear and doubt.

“I am not alone”

These words hang in a giant cloud

above every head,

a figurative speech bubble that no outsider

could see but everyone feels is there nonetheless.

Everyone is running loop de loops

on the same track

and it could not feel anymore fantastic.

This speech bubble thought

never far from these smiling lips

“I am not alone”

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Let It Fly

All I want to do is let it fly.

Feel the words leave my body, like birds spreading damp wings for the first time.

There’s no stopping this, no slowing it down.

The mess pours from me, unstoppable fire,

Burning my lips on its way through,

So hot I can’t believe the paper doesn’t scorch.

Smoke pours from my throat and this story

Takes shape in front of my eyes,

A moving picture scrolling in the air,

Mirages that only I can see.

But I can’t keep it in or hold it back.

It will burst forth like the howling wind,

Screaming to be heard and recognized.

I will not sit down and shut my mouth.

My pen will never cease its frantic scratch.

The pitter patter of my fingers on these keys will play like rain and never die.

The voice bursting from my lungs may turn bitter, horse, and fail,

But I have the words, and they have the power.

I can’t stop it, won’t stop it.

Talk over me, scream, shout, cry.

It will still come rolling forth led on strong winds, with the fury of

Hail, threatening to white out your vision with crisp snowy oblivion.

Lightning may split me in half, but the words will never disappear.

I turn to dust, but this lives forever.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Kill Joy

This is a wicked little bit of character development I was working on that I'm going to refer to as another short story.

Anna did not merely walk up, but bounded. Her smile could blot out the sun. Hey joy radiated. It repulsed me. When all I wanted to do was sulk she was happy. There could be no end to my guilt, but I truly could not let it be, could not let her be happy.  

When she laughed it bubbled up from somewhere deep, her words pouring out fast like water. I couldn’t understand a word of what she said. It made me unbearably angry.

“What?” I asked, not trying to hide the contempt.

I saw her visibly try to calm herself as she noticed my mood. Whatever it was she wanted to communicate was too much to hold in. She tried again, but it was still an incomprehensible jumble. Her intent was clear. All she wanted was to share her joy. I wanted to push her away, push her down. Happiness that strong couldn’t be allowed. It was ungainly. Why couldn’t she just speak like a normal person? It always had to be an event every time she opened her mouth.

“What! What are you trying to say?”

She jerked back as if slapped. Her smile fell, the brightness gone. I watched her fade, subdue, and become quiet and small. It was amazing to see her shrink inside herself like an animal dying, the light in her eyes fading little by little. She stared blankly at me then. Slowly and surely she looked away.

“Nothing. It was nothing,” she breathed, her voice barely registering as a whisper.

I shouldn’t have felt satisfied, but it flowed through me, cool and healing. My mood was already improving. I watched her doodle a meaningless swirl onto her notebook, the lead of the pencil reflecting the light dully as she shaded in layer after layer of graphite, the scribble turning into a small black hole on her page.

For a moment the good feeling fled, curling in my stomach, spoiling. But it began to dissipate as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t even as bad as cramps, not even nearly. Anna would forgive me this, she always did. We’d been friends since high school, and though she didn’t follow me around like a lost puppy anymore, seven years later and I knew that she’d come right back in the end.

“I like your dress.”

I turned to Anna. She’d stopped coloring her paper gray and was looking at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. I looked down at myself, as if just noticing what I was wearing today, not at all like I’d taken special care that it matched my eyes perfectly.

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

Boys and Books

This is more of an inner monologue of a personal moment in my life that I came out on paper rather well. I'm going to formally title it a short short however. Enjoy  ^.^

Today while working at the library on my 12am late shift I was asked out. It was weird, out of the blue and touching. I'm not one of those who gets that kind of attention, and if I do it usually comes in the creep variety with leers and a really bad line. In those moment I usually fake that I have a boyfriend or I'm studying that night, etc. This time was different though. I guess in a shallow way, him being cute could have been a factor, and yet, how he looked had nothing to do with why I'm still thinking about this hours later.

No, it wasn't what he looked like, but how he walked up to the desk hesitantly, a little smile on his lips like he wasn't sure what he was getting himself into. I was sure he had a question, something library related. So when he asked me if I might like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime, 'if I wasn't seeing someone that is?', well I kind of felt like I'd just taken a frying pan to the head. 

Here comes the part where I gush out, 'Of course!' and we run away into the sunset and live happy ever after right? Well, not exactly.

I promptly flushed, probably resulting in my face turning a rather unattractive mottled pink and told him regretfully that I was sorry but I was seeing someone.

And I mean regretfully. Yes, I am seeing someone, that wasn't a lie. And yes it's weird and complicated like most things in my life, but that wasn't the reason. Well...not all of it.

I felt a regret almost painful as he turned bright pink and said okay, have a nice night, a sincere regret coloring his tone. I felt it so harshly, that regret, simply because right there, that guy, was a good one. He didn't get flustered, he wasn't a creep, his eyes didn't roam, and he didn't get surly or pissed the second it was clear I wasn't a marketable object. He simply said have a nice night and I somehow felt sure that I was watching the retreat of a genuinely great person that I wish I could get to know, get to be friends with.

There are a million things in my life that support that the answer I gave was the only one I could. I just finished my last class at this particular university. I will be studying in a different country for the next six months, and ever when I return I'll be living five hours away from where I am now. All these things and more make even what I have now more complicated than I ever wanted it to be. Realistically, there was no way it could ever be sane or fair to add even one more friend to that crazy mix.

And yet. And yet.

I think about his retreating back, and wonder what my life would be like if it could split in two different realities, one where I follow the path I have chosen, one where I go the other way. Could my life be like one of the books I read, where it is that easy to reach out a hand, make a friend, and in turn change your life?

I won't ever know I guess, but somewhere between late shifts, book stacks, and final exams, I'm still thinking about this one guy who asked me out, and how I really  wish I could learn what lights up his life and that one thing that will always make him cry no matter how old he gets.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Choices

This short story is one that feels decidedly unfinished to me. I am also rather attached to this beginning and hope to see it go somewhere. However since it is not exactly finished it can't hurt to see what people think of it. Feel free to comment  ^.^

Annie stared out the window. Hands in her lap, she worried at the frayed edge of her shorts.

“You can’t do this,” her mother said, pacing on the other side of the room.

Annie pursed her lips and still looked stubbornly out onto their small yard, grey and dismal looking in the fog.

“Stop ignoring me, I am not going to let you ruin your life!” her mother stopped in front of her. “Look at me God damn-it!” her voice rose high. Annie rolled her eyes.

“Stop being hysterical mother,” Annie said, her tone measured. She turned and finally looked at her mother, “this is not your choice.”

Her mother began pacing again, wringing her hands. “What would your father think?” she asked her suddenly.

Annie’s hands stopped their nervous movements and suddenly clenched into fists. “I sincerely doubt that the drunk bastard would have cared.”

Her mother stopped her pacing and made the sign of the cross. “Don’t disrespect the dead.”

She stared at her mother unblinkingly until the woman was forced to break the glance. Annie laid a hand on her flat stomach, “Don’t you disrespect the living you fucking hypocrite.”

Her mother shook her head violently but retreated to the next room. For a moment the house was silent. Then the high tones of her mother crying began to filter into the room. Annie jumped to her feet and paused only long enough to grab her sweatshirt off the back of the couch before banging out the door. She didn’t know where she was going. It was Sunday and most everything in Johnson was closed. The town itself wasn’t much more than a cluster of sad little houses and a drug store anyway. Annie stalked down the road at a fast clip, rubbing her eyes as she went. The fury was burning out of her fast, replaced by an emptiness that quaked when she thought about it too hard.

She wasn’t at all surprised by her mother’s reaction. Catholic or no, her mother would take any road that kept her out of the neighbor’s gossip, even if that meant hauling her daughter fifty miles to the first abortion clinic she could find and begging them to scrape her grandchild out. Still, just the thought made Annie want to scream. She rubbed her stomach again and looked out over the fields, corn on one side, soybeans on the other. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. That was always how Annie felt, trapped with no way out. Sure, for the kids who got top marks in school or knew how to pass a football or swing a bat, there were scholarships that gave them tickets out. But for Annie nothing like that had ever been an option. For as long as she could remember she had turned graded tests face down to hide the C or lower that always shown out like a bright red banner for all to see. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like to learn, it just never made sense once the test sat in front of her with all those little bubbles waiting to be filled.

After awhile she just stopped trying. What was the point of studying if the same bad grade always showed up at the end? So she did poorly on tests and let the homework keep her floating through. Annie knew that everyone was surprised that at seventeen she was still in school. Long ago she had been written off as just another Johnson nobody going nowhere, destined to stay put and have babies like her mother, and her mother before her. And wasn’t she just living up to their expectations nicely? She hated it all, which made her question why she was fighting her mother so badly. But, as her best mate Joe liked to say, why not? That was how it had always been with her and her mother.  Annie scuffed the dirt in front of her with her shoe and thought about going back and apologizing. She didn’t notice the sounds of the approaching car until it was nearly on her. At the last moment she looked up to see the front end of a Buick the size of a boat barreling at her at a speed that didn’t seem to be slowing. The surprise froze her muscles and Annie’s arms curled against her chest and her mouth gaped like a corpse giving in to rictus. 

Closer and closer it came until it screeched to a halt less than a foot from her knee caps. Still rooted to the spot, her heart beat thrumming in her ears, Annie watched the car back up some and then slide up next to her. The window was open and she didn’t know what she had expected but it wasn’t this. A girl sat behind the wheel. Her make-up was applied heavily, all dark shadowed eyes and lipstick bright artificial red. A cigarette stained half way up the hilt with pink smears hung from her lips. Despite this, she couldn’t have been much older than Annie, her cheeks rounded and young, the shirt she wore hanging off small narrow shoulders.

“Say, where’s a good place to hide around here?”

With difficulty Annie unstuck her tongue long enough to echo, “Hide?”

“That’s what I said.” She said impatiently, sucking hard on her cigarette.

“Um, there isn’t.” But as the girl let out a thick puff of smoke that just kept coming she realized she had lied. “There’s the old Andler’s place. Mr. Andler died and his kids haven’t come down from Chicago to settle things yet. The house and land should be empty.”

“Sweet.” The girl said and reversed abruptly with a great jerk, only to jerk back to almost the same place and then look Annie up and down. “You’ve been real helpful. You can come along if you like.”

Annie wasn’t sure where she was coming along to, and was half sure the girl was crazy. Yet, somehow she found her legs moving, taking her around the front of the car and to the passenger door which she slowly opened before slowly sliding into the soft leather seat. The car smelled of old person, bleach, and smoke. With another jerk the girl shifted the car into first and they shot forward and back onto the road.

“I’m sure glad I ran into you,” the girl said, not turning her eyes from the road, of which Annie was extremely thankful. “See I robbed a bank and I need a place to lay low until Jimmy catches up.”

Annie stared, her stomach lurching as the girl shifted into second. She hadn’t been sure for a few minutes, but Annie was now positive she was going to be sick.

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

Brushing Insanity

Brushing insanity feels just like touching the

Hot stove, watching my skin bubble,

Only it burns not outside but in.

Am I losing it? Yes, no… already lost?

I have no answer and that is what

Scares me the most.

Is it that easy to fall apart,

Tear the seam and let go?

Yes and yes.

The solid ground is still there,

But the breeze wafts through a fissure,

 Too small to see.

Suddenly I’m falling

Out of darkness and into a light

That’s hot like fear.

Utterly helpless, I watch

The candle gutter, once, twice,

Before extinguishing without a sound.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

An Astroidal Collision

This short short is the product of a writing prompt that came out as more of a character development monologue

            If a flying piece of debris happened to be heading toward this room right now, that could be pretty cool, well, hot, but you know what I mean. It could melt me down to a puddle, bone, muscle, sinew and fat one big eradicated blob.

The way you stare at me, I wish you had never come back. There is nothing but judgment in your eyes, a distance that speaks volumes in the silence. At least this is what I’m reading in the way you refuse to look at me. I only ever wanted to be good enough. But when every other person is pulling you in a different direction, limbs will eventually give up to physics and tear right out of their sockets. How do you think this would equate to someone’s brain?

So if I could have an asteroid fall from the sky and burn me right off this earth, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Someone else could make these decisions that I so obviously fail at. No wonder this thing we have here is dying. I might have saved us from utter destruction, but the incline to heaven stopped long ago, and we have been coasting level ever since, now the only place to go is down.

When you were gone it was so much easier to not think about us. To ignore the signs I didn’t want to see and still carry on with a decent amount of confidence. But who am I kidding.

I tried to be funny about this, but the joke fell flat from my lips. The silence was sickening. I want to be funny now. Tell a story of some witty humor that will gain the approval I most wish for, and hopefully the passing nod from you. But this is not monopoly. Do not pass go, and don’t even think about collecting two hundred dollars.

I should face the facts that even the things that I mean to be funny will never turn out right. So why would this time be any different? Melancholy. The word is too big for this piece, an obstruction of mass proportions messing up the rhythm in my rant. But it describes me well enough, and no matter how I try to escape it, it will hit me hard and explode, like this asteroid heading toward me right now.

I had only a few minutes to contemplate life, and I chose to bitch. Typical. Maybe if I could muster up some excitement, this situation wouldn’t seem so bad or mayb – 

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Life Flying By

A poem I wrote for my grandmother

Seven years old and we are running through tall grass.

Midday Sun beats down and we hold hands laughing.

Little boy, little girl.

I remember the sweet cold water of the pond that summer, and your gap toothed smile.

Twelve years and counting, but we still use the old wooden swing, hung in the great oak.

Higher and higher you push me, my hair streaming.

My toes reach skyward and I want to fly.

But back down I go, to your warm hand pushing me up and away.

Your simple touch now makes me feel a warmth I try to hide.

Do you remember?

Eighteen, and summer is almost gone.

The night sky is pinpricked with stars that we gaze at through firefly sparks.

Waltzing through the tall grass to the whispered night breeze, I look up at you.

When did you get so tall?

Everything is ending, but as we dance it doesn’t matter.

I remember how my heart nearly burst from my chest as your lips touched mine.

I could have spread wings and flown into the sky if you hadn’t held me tight.

Rain falls, and I am glad of it. Our paths have split.

You are far away and I am here.

As I wait to see you time trickles like sand, slowly burying me.

                Each day my heart constricts, wondering if you will lay down your gun and come home,

Or if you will fall to the ground and sleep with it in your arms forever.

Did you see my tears as you walked away?

My heart has laid so still these long months, that when it jumps, my breath is gone.

Rain falls again but as I run I only see your coming, feet flying over the muddy gravel.

Half drowning, our collision is a smack, but my heart is singing in time with my stinging skin.

Your lips find mine and I breathe you in like life itself.

I will never forget your eyes.

 It was like looking into heaven.

We waltz under a night sky once again, but this is different, better.

You hold me and the people sway around us, but there is only us here.

We are together and will never part.

Was this the best day of your life too?

My knees and hands hurt.

Your bones are cracking in time to the wicker chairs we lean back in.

Sleep whispers its persuasive call, the cadence soothing and gentling our ears.

But we stay and smell the night air, listen to tiny frog musicals, and stretch old limbs.

My eyes droop and I feel like I’m swooping.

My whole body is gone, but not my being, there is no fear.

I don’t need to feel you hand in mine to know  

You are with me forever, as we finally fly.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Artemis Fowl: The Last Gaurdian by Eoin Colfer

This is another book I have been very slow on the uptake of reading, so my apologies. This review would be good for any who are interested in finishing the series but have not yet gotten to it. This book is the eighth and final book in the Artemis Fowl series.

3/5 stars

           Overall my initial reaction to this newest and last installment to the Artemis Fowl series is a positive one. A fan of the books since I read the very first at thirteen years old, I was eager to read the eighth book as the end-cap coming to the readers almost ten years later. Keeping with the previous books, this one is filled with the signature excellent wit and moments that get you laughing out loud. The trademark fairy plots, technology overdrive, and almost non-stop action of the series is also present. And true to a good last book, the ending ties up well, the holes are filled. So as stories go, I rate this a good read and worth pursuing if you happen to be a fan of this book series.
         
           However, as an Artemis Fowl fan, I have to admit I was slightly disappointed. Though admittedly, plot in children's books can often feel convenient, I thought that this was especially the case with this book. The magical fixing of all the problems in the book before the ending, in which all is again righted and settled in the world once again, is a reoccurring theme of all the books, and one that fits well with the fairy magic side of the story. This time it gave me pause because it seemed less like the characters getting themselves out of the problems and more like they were being yanked about by the story teller in order to make it to the final cut. This quibble was a small one though, and I was able to look passed it and enjoy the story.

          The major point that did continually push me off kilter this time was Artemis himself. As a reader I have always admired his character. His lightning intellect and monster mind are an integral part of what makes these stories work. They are after all named after him, and start all because of his plots against the fairy race in order to get what he needs. This time around however he felt almost too normal to me...and even a little dull. In the same strain, throughout the story line Artemis is appalled by the surrealism of everything going on, as if he had never fought fairies and seen all kinds of fantastic things in the previous stories. As if he hadn't traveled to a different dimension two books ago and battled warlocks in Artemis Fowl: The Time Paradox. In my opinion, it is a little late in the series to be exclaiming about how insane everything that is happening is. In general, that Artemis was so off might be the problem I have with his personality development. It was as if to have a heart and realize this, he had to lose his intellect to some extent, and I didn't like that.

          Though I enjoyed this one I rather hope this is the actual end of the series. The story seems to be stretched too far, with too many inserted catastrophes to make the story work. If it continued it might be strained too thin and in danger of losing the reader altogether.