Myka rolled over in her bed, reaching over to hit 'snooze' on her beeping alarm clock for the third time that morn, a mere four hours after her odd dream, that she thought had woke her up. Though, she wasn't completely sure if she had actually awaked that night, or had just dreamed that she had.

She then remembered her play-date that day, which made her skin feel hot in nervous anticipation. She was both scared and excited for it. The girl pried her eyes open; looking at the clock, she judged if she had time to read a diary entry, hoping that it would somehow give her courage for the engagement later that day. She concluded that she would be tight on time, but decided to take up their diary anyway, and deal with the consequence of having to run around like a mad girl that morning as she were to get ready for school.

Opening their book to where the thin ribbon bookmark lay, she began to read:

October 20, 1878

BLOODY BLIMEY BLOW ME BLAST! Darling, my heavens, you'll never believe what has ONLY JUST happened!

Only moments ago I had walked into my room to grab my Martian-Slaying Staff when WOOSH my pillow caught fire! I'll admit this to you, I panicked. But only a little! Our diary was under there, I had reason to be fearful. So I ran to my bed, jumped up upon it, and then kicked the flaming pillow onto the ground. And, I swear to you right now, that when I looked upon our book, it was steaming BUT NOT BURNT. However, my sheets around it were black and scorched. After I speedily dumped my washing-bowl's water onto my pillow: extinguishing the fire, I picked up the book that was COOL on my skin. BUT that is not even the truly disturbing part, darling! What was strictly queer was the burnt imprint of the floral-leather cover into my sheets, directly beneath the book. At risk of sounding mad, I believe that the book is trying to kill me!

all right, maybe it's not, but still! How did that even- I don't understand! It looked as if our book started the fire, but clearly, by both you and I holding it in our hands now, it's not tarnished. Although, maybe it is tarnished in your hands because I do seem to wreck things. My mum says that it's in my nature. Anyway, point being, I apologise for our book's blemishes. I would wager good money on any damages, cuprite from me… I don't think I used that word correctly. I would wager good money on me being the culprit for any damaged done. There, I believe that that is correct now.

Oh dear, I'm rabbit trailing here. Book, not burnt! And, Bloody Hell, I have to try to explain to my mother why my good goose pillow is a charred mess. Blimey is it ever malodorous! Singed feathers, who'd have known they smell like death? Well, I would assume death to smell like this. Though, in a peculiar way, it smells a little comforting, I'm not certain why.

Well, I suppose that I shall inform Lieutenant Mother about the fire (That's the rank I assigned her. If she were in the military, her bossiness would equate to a lieutenant, me thinks). Well, Better conceal our diary first: don't want her snooping.

Wish me luck!

I love you always, my sweet darling.

Ps Sorry for the foul language.

Myka closed the book with a furrowed brow; turning over the book, closely examining its cover. She also didn't see any burn markings on it. She then put it to her nose, smelling it, but again, there was no indication that it had been on or near fire.

Myka then glanced back at the time, hurriedly putting the book under her mattress before she got up and dressed for the day. Grabbing her fencing equipment, she rushed out her bedroom-door towards the kitchen, passing her dad in the living room, to snatch a granola bar and apple for take-away.

After she seized her food, she clumsily back-stepped away from the cupboard; bumping into a chair. "Myka, honey, slow down there," her mother said from the sink as she washed a dish.

"Sorry," she shoved the chair back into its place, "kinda running late," she mumbled through the apple, now held between her teeth.

"Hey," Jeanie motioned to her foil; shoved in-between her back and knapsack, "I thought you didn't have practice today?"

Myka crunched down on her apple, removing it from her mouth's grasp so that she could better talk, "I'm not practicing with the team," she said before crunching on the piece of fruit in her mouth.

"You know, you're already the best girl on the team. You don't need to always be practising." She smiled at her, "Why don't you try something like dance lesions or maybe a cooking class?"

Myka growled in disgust towards those mentioned things, "Moooom," she whined, "Those are boring, and besides, I need to practice until I'm the best in the league, not just best in my school." The teen purposely did not tell her mother about Tara joining her; scared that she may overact in some joyous way towards her loner daughter's peer interaction. Myka knew that she would not be able to deal with the added pressure that her mother would put on her.

Just from outside the room, they heard the annoyingly loud beep from the answering machine. Her dad must have been going through the messages. Myka took that as her cue to vacate the apartment; finding the device to be the most irritating thing in the world. The messages were never for her anyway.

Myka scurried to the stairs but soon stopping dead in her tracks, after hearing a man's voice with a Londoner's accent, emanating from the machine. "Hello, this is Lewis from Peter Herrington's Books just getting back to you on that missing order. We have searched the store here with no luck in finding that child's diary. We were fairly certain that it was in the packet we shipped to you. But, since you claim that you have not received it, and it seemed to not hold that terribly much of a value, with it being just an imaginative journal written back-and-forth between two girls, we will simply reimburse you for the eighty pound you paid on it…."

Myka almost chocked on her apple after hearing him refer to their diary as 'a journal written back-and-forth between two girls'. How could that be? It wasn't a book of dialogue until just recently when Myka began to write in it. The man must have been mistaken. That was the only reasonable explanation.

The man finished off with some banter about money and payment that Myka muted out in her head. The next thing she heard was the beep of the machine before it spoke out in its irritating automated voice, "You have no more messages."

Myka could hear her dad muttering something in grumbled frustration, before she bounded down the stairs, not wanting him to notice her. She didn't wish to chance him asking her further questions about the book.

Still in a state of confusion over the man's description of their diary, the brunette hurried off to school, not wanting to be late. Myka Bering was never late!