A/N: I'm so happy that I get to continue with this story (I got 7 reviews! My maximum! ROCK ON!) because I have so much planned for it. As with all the stories I start. I wasn't sure how everyone would take that...uh...the Land of the Dead...anyways...

Some things I need to say: At first, this is going to seem like it has no real direction; just a bunch of different stories. It's going to have a plot, throughout the whole thing, but the whole thing is going to seem like a great deal of sidestories...does that make sense? No? Oh...well...um...moving on. I mentioned Diego Rivera in the prologue. He's a famous Mexican muralist (if any of you guys didn't know that...though I don't think that...moving on!) A lot of his work featured Dona Sebastiana, and you can even look his name up at alta vista and finda painting done by him with her in it. Um...also, like many other countries, Mexico views death very differently than Americans. Not gonna get into that story. Uh...but my story, just for the sake of this ff, their middle school is from sixth to ninth grade. Schools like that are rare, especially on the west coast, but it was important that Reggie and Sam be going to the same school as Otto and Twister. AND it's really important to the story that Twister be thirteen. So changing the age was out. I think that's about it.

Thanks to you people that reviewed, so that I could continue this fic:

TheAngelofAnarchy: A review from you is always expected, but don't get in trouble with the parentals! Hehehe...I know, I'm posting another chapter of my RP fics...I'm not making any promises about which cartoon ff's I'm going to update anymore, because I always break those promises. It's just whatever I feel like writing at the moment, and because this story hit me hard, it's going to be...THIS STORY! YAY! And my art teacher said..."discipline", and I said, "is useless?" Me thinks you speak of The Legend of Bandit...yup...the second chapter is next on my agenda...of course, I never follow my schedule accordingly...um...glad you liked the hollow headed gal, I'm going to explain the many different aspects of the Land of the Dead later on in the story, so...

PrinceIzzy1:Yay, you've never reviewed one of my fics before. Glad to scare you witless. Beyond gory, you say? I think I can do better than that...

Spice of Life: Too lazy to write to you...HA! j/k. Anyhoo...if somebody else would continue with their fics...not gonna say any names (-cough,cough-Spice of Life-cough-) I would be overjoyed.

goofymonkeychild: You mentioned this Otto Dix dude and I had to check out his artwork. I found the picture I believe you were talking about, and I could see where you were coming from. been to hell, before, have we?...hehe...yes, I have in fact. Though, some insane people call it work, insaner still call it Pizza Hut. Going to work when it's the end of the world is nothing. I went to work the day after my cat was put to sleep (I apologize if I break down later on for mentioning this), cried the whole shift, but still worked. A few people got tears in their pizza. Oh well.

BlueFirePrincess: I'm glad you loved it. I'm sorry though, that you can't figure out where you've seen the image before. That kind of stuff happens to me all the time. Then, like days later, I'll come up with the answer out of nowhere. It just goes to show, you always find things when you're not looking for them.

Sk8er Chica: I sure hope I don't dissapoint.

peachy15: It had realism to it? Wow, that's the best praise so far, man! I was going for surrealistic, Tim Burton, Edgar Allen Poe, claymation, creep fest, and I'm totally digging that it had a realistic feel to it. Oh, and so you know, you put me at seven reviews. Much love to you. I just feel so elated now!

OKIE DOKIE. So you all know, in the ninth grade I had to write a speech on my idol. Now, some students did theirs on their parents, some on some athlete, some on a older sibling or good friend who overcame some obstacle in life. I did mine on Edgar Allen Poe. So with that said...

ENJOY!


La Voz Sin Una Boca (The Voice Without A Mouth)

Chapter 1: Susurros Extraños (Strange Happenings)

Don't ignore me, don't shut me out! I'm here, I exist…LISTEN TO ME!

Twister jogged his way downstairs, dressed and showered. He paused when he heard the scraping of chairs, shuffle of feet, and clacking of plates and dishware in the kitchen. His parents voices were low, and he heard his name mentioned.

"Él es casi trece, casi hombre ahora (He's almost thirteen, almost a man now.)," Raul, Twister's father, was saying.

"Sé que... es justo... (I know…it's just…)" Sandy, his mother, mumbled.

"Tu se preocupa demasiado, Sandy. Si él desea al campout para su cumpleaños, después déjelo. (You worry too much, Sandy. If he wants to campout for his birthday, then let him.)"

"Tu sabe qué sucede durante esas clases de cosas. Contarán historias del fantasma... (You know what happens during those kinds of things. They'll be telling ghost stories…)"

"Son niños, por supuesto . Déjelos tener su diversión. Él será fino (They're children, of course they will. Let them have their fun. He'll be fine)," Raul insisted.

Twister felt his stomach knot. It had been Otto, Twister's best friend's, idea that he have a campout for his birthday. They would pitch a tent in the mountains and sleep there for the night. Ray, Otto's father, agreed to chaperone, and Twister was more than happy of the idea. He'd forgotten about ghost stories.

Twister had a weakness in ghost stories. Where others would laugh at the thrill of being scared, he didn't find it so funny. It's just a story, people would tell him, there's no such thing as ghosts. He couldn't possibly explain to them, the knowing. Standing in a place, and knowing that someone died there. Pleasantly smiling while the faded afterimage of a car crash with a crushed child on a bicycle trapped between two vehicles was in the corner of his eye. A part of him wondered if those were ghosts. And if they were, didn't that mean that all those ghost stories were possible? So, how could they tell him not to be afraid, when it was more than possible for a ghost to haunt his house and slowly rearrange his insides as he slept, just for a little undead fun?

Or maybe Twister was just insane. He could never look directly at those images. They would always disappear. And he couldn't possibly know someone had died in those places, it was just a feeling. He never asked about it, just assumed that his gut instinct was right. Maybe it was his head playing tricks on him. His friends always did tell him he had a broken brain. Maybe they were right.

Taking a deep breath, Twister entered the kitchen. His parents immediately fell silent. He took his usual chair, a plate already at his setting. There was a pan of half-eaten scrambled eggs, a platter of cold bacon, the grease already starting to solidify, and a bowl of apple slices. Twister felt his stomach jolt in memory of his dream at seeing those slices. He saw flames licking up the sides of them, and his head blared with pounding pain. He grimaced, bringing a hand up to clutch the table. It was blinding. His heart quickened, beating against his chest, and he gasped slightly.

"¿Maurice, está tu bien?" Sandy questioned, looking concernedly to her son.

"I'm fine, mom," he managed to say in a quick breath. He looked away from the apples, tossing some eggs on his plate and knowing he couldn't even stomach the bacon. He poured some salsa over the eggs, stirring it up and spooning some in his mouth.

"Aliste para el día grande, Maurice? (Ready for the big day, Maurice?)" Raul asked, sipping at his coffee while Sandy busied herself clearing plates. Lars had left already, his school starting earlier in the morning than Twister's. He had to catch a bus, as well.

"Tu va a ser trece. Eso es un número grande (You're going to be thirteen. That's a big number)," Sandy put in, pouring a glass of orange juice for her son and setting it by his plate.

"Gracias, mom," he mumbled through a mouth full of eggs. There was a knock at the front door and he grinned, gulping down the glass of juice and leaping to his feet, "Gotta go. I'll be late for school, see 'ya, love 'ya, bye," he cried, racing from the room, grabbing his backpack, board and safety equipment and all but slamming the front door shut behind him. He rammed into a tall purple haired girl.

"Jeez, Twist, what's the rush?" she demanded haughtily and he blushed.

"Sorry, Reg, didn't see you there. Where's Otto?"

Reggie rolled her eyes, pointing to the half-pipe beside the Rocket house. Her younger brother, Otto, was tearing up the ramp with impressive moves. Sam, their other friend, was sitting on the sidewalk watching in awe, and looking slightly peeved. Twister smiled, plopping his helmet on his head and attempting to rush forward and join his good friend. Reggie held him back by his sleeve.

"No time," she moaned, "I've still gotta drag Otto off of there and get you guys to school."

"Reg," Twister pleaded, "Just one ride! Please?"

"You know, Twister," Reggie said authoritatively, "You're a teenager now, which means you need to demonstrate a level of maturity and responsibility." Twister let out a groan.

"My two least favorite words," he cried, then slyly, "In case you forgot, I don't turn thirteen until tomorrow. Until then, I can be as un-mature and un-responsible as I want!" With that said, he attempted to rush forward again, only to be pulled back once more. Reggie gave him a reproachful observatory glance.

"One last time," she clucked, releasing her hold on him and watching him scramble to the top of the ramp, shaking her head. She came to sit beside Sam, who smiled half-heartedly to her, flashing his

wristwatch.

"We're going to be late," he told her, flustered, "They always make us late. Why do we always wait for them?"

"Because," Reggie said sharply, "If someone doesn't drag those knuckleheads to class, they'll spend the entire day skating," then, looking upwards, "Let's go, guys!"

"One more run," Otto pleaded.

"Get off the ramp, now! We gotta go! Sam's getting antsy," Reggie shouted.

"I am not," Sam cried indignantly. Twister grinned, feeling his world spin as he flew into the air. He was suddenly caught with red, covering his eyes, blurring his vision. He beefed the move, tumbling along the ramp, and lying still on his belly. A chill had crept over his spine.

"Somebody…" a thousand voices were crying at once, "Listen to me! See me! Somebody…" He felt a warm hand touch his shoulder and jolted upright, head connecting with Otto's.

"Dude," Otto cried, "What's your malfunction? That hurt!"

"Sorry…"

"Are you okay, Twister?" Reggie asked, and Twister examined himself before nodding, "Good. Get off the ramp, let's go to school."

"Way to kick a guy when he's down, sis," Otto commented, extending a hand to help Twister to his feet. The boys descended from the ramp, plodding their skateboards to the sidewalk and tearing down the street towards their school.

Twister and Otto had hit middle school with a vengeance. Both on the brink of puberty, they were stuck between adolescence and childishness; often times demeaning themselves to underhanded antics, stirring up trouble, and clowning around in their classes. Twister held the record for most consecutive detentions, seventy-six and still going; and Otto had the longest known suspension in the history of OS Middle school; three weeks, two days, four hours, and twenty-three minutes. They were already well known, but they'd slipped into the background easily as nothing more than two lowly skater boys. They were beneath the basketball players and cheerleaders, at the bottom of the popularity scale. Which didn't bother either of them so long as they had their boards and somewhere to skate. They weren't geeks or nerds in the way Sam was classified, and they weren't really messed with by anyone like Sam. They were just, pretty much, left to do their own thing. Which usually involved goofing off.

Reggie was more at the top of the popularity chain. She was in journalism, in charge of the yearbook, a ninth grader, meaning she had seniority above all the underclassmen, and it really helped that she was pretty and athletic. Her good friend Sherry had convinced her to try-out for cheerleading, which she loathed. But she loved the attention she got when dressed in the mini skirt and tank top, dancing in front of a crowd of screaming students, pulling off difficult back flips and splits. She had more motivation to participate in the many clubs at school then her brother, who lost interest when he found out there was no skateboarding club at the middle school, nor was there a school street hockey team, nor a surf club, and while there was an in-line skating club, the members were all lame-o's in his opinion, who had decided they were above doing tricks and shredding the Madtown blader bowl, simply secluding themselves to speed skating. To Twister's delight there was a Street Luge club, but he went to one meeting and discovered, they were losers, most of whom had never even done any luging. They just liked reading the magazines and watching the competitions. Those who had done luge before, weren't very good at it and weren't interested in trying it again. When he'd told them how much he'd loved it and about the many trophies he'd won in competitions they began to idolize him and it got a little too creepy. Sam had joined a few computer clubs, the science club, a sci-fi fan club, and was in journalism with Reggie. Though he never gained the esteemed popularity she had, often times finding himself shoved in his own locker, he did usually hang around the popular crowd.

As for classes, Reggie and Sam were the straight A honor students they'd always been. But Otto and Twister hardly ever did their homework. What's the point, was Twister's reasoning, the teacher will only assign more tomorrow.

Twister settled into his first period class, which he shared with Otto. They watched as Reggie and Sam split down separate directions in the hall.

"I hate English," Twister whispered his dreadlocked friend, who simply nodded. It was tradition that Twister curse aloud every class he had with his best friend before the bell rang, the only classes he didn't have with Otto were Art and Spanish; which also happened to be the only two classes he wasn't failing and his favorite, meaning he didn't feel a need to curse them.

Their teacher, Miss Hackler, strode in with her usual stream of perfume trailing behind, as the final bell rang. She'd had the good reasoning to set Twister and Otto at the front of the class on opposite ends of the room in the beginning of the year. Only to find out that they weren't above shouting conversations across the room to one another at any point during the period. To save time, and distractions, she moved them closer to each other and begged that they attempt writing notes, a perfectly acceptable form of communication in Miss Hackler's class, instead of chatting loudly. They hardly ever took her up on that suggestion as Otto was horrible at putting word together on paper, and Twister's handwriting was illegible

"Alright, class, did you all do your reading assignments last night?" she asked, looking expectantly about the room as though waiting for an answer, "What did you all think of that story?"

"Piece of crap. I've read better prose on the back of a toilet paper package," a voice hissed in Twister's ear. He flinched, glancing around to see who'd spoken. But all eyes were obediently on the teacher.

"Viola, why don't you share your opinion," Miss Hackler said. Twister eyed the bulky, freckle-faced brunette disgustedly as she shoved her glasses up on her nose slightly, and sniffed loudly.

"I thought it was wonderful," she announced, gaining a beam of approval from Miss Hackler, "The story was so intriguing. It was just…thrilling."

"What a suck up!" someone else commented harshly, sounding very much like an older boy shouting from the back of the room, and Twister turned, but found no owner to the mysterious voice.

"Viola, Viola, pretty in pink! Viola, Viola, oink, oink she will speak…Viola, Viola, such a P-I-and-G…," a loud pugnacious voice sang loudly. It sounded like a girl. Twister's eyes bugged out, and he sniggered, but no one else seemed to notice the singing. He even received an indignant stare from Miss Hackler and Viola, and a queried glance from Otto.

"Go on, Viola," Miss Hackler prodded, turning her attention from Twister.

"I especially liked the ending. It all seemed to even out. And the symbolism behind the last apple on the tree," Viola continued.

"Brown noser!" the boy booed from across the room, "Stuff an apple in her mouth and cook her on a spit!"

"I did the pig bit, already," the girl whined, "Come up with your own stuff!"

"You're so insightful, Viola," Miss Hackler praised, shooting Twister a dangerous glower as he shifted restlessly in his chair.

"Miss Hackler is such a hack," the first voice murmured, and Twister distinctly felt the cold of a person's breath against his ear. He shuddered, thinking it sounded very much like an embittered old man.

"Mister Rodriguez," Miss Hackler boomed, and Twister straightened, "Why don't you tell us what you thought of the reading?"

"Oh, this oughta be deep," the old man whispered sarcastically, "Deep as a wading pool, that is!"

"Hey!" Twister snapped, glancing around at his very confused peers for the insulting party. Finding no one, he slumped back in his chair, "Um…what was it we read, again…?"

"He's a goner," the girl clucked.

"STRIKE ONE!" the boy shouted.

"Did you even do the reading assignment, Mister Rodriguez?" Miss Hackler drawled, even as she already knew the answer.

"I forgot…" Twister mumbled, sinking low in his chair and turning bright red as a few people laughed behind his back, jeeringly encouraging the teacher as she wasn't picking on them.

"Oooh…SWING AND A MISS…STRIKE TWO!"

"Ha, ha, ha…if he were cleverer, he'd just repeat what Miss Piggy said," the girl snickered.

"If he were cleverer, he'd of done the reading," the old man commented bitingly.

"You forgot?" Miss Hackler pressed, "You do a lot of forgetting, Mister Rodriguez. Maybe I should call your mother, and ask her to up your ginkgo biloba dosage."

"My what?" Twister scrunched his nose, "Is that a kind of…slug?"

"WHOA! FOUL BALL…outta the park, that one…"

"Wow…I've seen smarter license plates…" Twister sank, lowering his head, feeling the heat of embarrassment flushing his face.

"I almost feel bad, now…mocking the mentally challenged."

"Hey, shut up!" Twister cried, receiving a stern and surprised glance from Miss Hackler and the class broke into awkwardly confused laughter. Was he actually yelling at the teacher?

"Excuse me, young man," Miss Hackler cleared her throat, "I think you better go to the principle's office."

"Not again," Twister moaned, "I'm sorry…it's just…somebody keeps…" he fell silent. How could he explain what he was hearing? No one else seemed to even notice. He stood, sighing heavily, "Where's my hall pass?"

"Let me write one up," Miss Hackler told him, making way to her desk and returning shortly with a white piece of paper. Twister accepted the pass, and walked to the door, he briefly looked back to Otto who watched his retreating form with worry. Twister had done some pretty goofy things in the past, and it's not to say he didn't always deserve to be sent up to the office, but telling a teacher to 'shut up' was a surprise, and a little out of Twister's delinquency league. Otto could already surmise, something was wrong with his friend.

Twister sighed, clutching his hall pass and reading over it. For disrupting class, it said in long spindly blue ink. He wasn't bothered that he had to go to the principle's office, though somewhat disappointed in himself. He hadn't even lasted first period. What bothered him was those voices. Those voices that morning, and the voices in the class. They couldn't be a coincidence, could they? Were they connected with the dream, he wondered.

"Hey, Twister," he heard a familiar voice say. He startled from his thoughts, and smiled broadly to the blonde boy.

"Sam," he greeted, "Where are you going?" Sam flashed his pass.

"Errand for Mr. Stigler," he answered, "You?"

"Office."

"Already?"

Twister shrugged, folding the paper and stuffing it in his pocket. He grinned, walking backwards away from Sam down the hall and waving.

"Where are you going? The office is that way…" Sam stammered.

"Point being…? Miss Hackler's not going to check up on me," Twister retorted, "Later much, Squid."

"You're going to get in trouble," Sam called after him, "Twister…" He glanced over his shoulder, before shoving his own pass in his pocket and scrambling after the taller boy. "Where are we going?" he hissed.

"We?" Twister repeated, narrowing his eyes at the blonde, "I'm going down this hall. You're running errands. Go on, errand boy."

"Twister," Sam cried, "Where are you going?"

"The library."

"Liar."

"The bathroom?"

"Twister, even you can come up with better than that!"

"I don't know, alright. I'll know when I get there," Twister said, pausing. Cold shivers ran up his spine and there seemed a dampening in the air. His stomach turned with nausea, and he could hear his heart pounding. With stiff, concise movements, he walked to the window, gasping and faltering back.

The body of a young boy lay tangled in the bushes outside. The legs were akimbo, the arm jutting at the elbow, pure white poking from dark brown flesh. The head was bent at an unnatural angle and the eyes were wide open, rolled up, looking towards the sky as though he were praying. They were glossed over, dimmed, as if a light inside the boy had diminished in much the same fashion as a jack-a-lantern with the candle blown out. He had a golden angel pendant around his neck, and the chain had caught in a branch of the bush. It was stretched taut against his neck, biting into the skin and splitting it ever so slightly. There was a blackened drop of blood on the angel. The boy's mouth was open, and the swollen tongue lolled out.

"Twist…" Twister startled. He hadn't even realized Sam had been calling his name. He would blink, closing his eyes tightly and willing the image to disappear. But then he would reopen his eyes, and there it would lie.

"Do you…do you…?" Twister stammered, looking to Sam who was peering out the window curiously, wondering what the other boy was gaping at. It was obvious, Sam didn't see it.

"Do I what?" Sam inquired, glancing up concernedly. He received no answer. "Twister, are you okay?"

"Fine…" Twister murmured, still staring at the broken form, "I…I…I have to go to the bathroom." He struggled to peel his eyes from the ghastly image, jogging down the hall. Sam shrugged, watching the retreating boy enter the restrooms, before remembering his own task and hustling away to continue his business.

Twister threw up. It seemed the only rational thing to do at the moment. That and his stomach had been bothering him all morning. He flushed the toilet, before leaning his head against the mirror above a sink. He was covered in a fine layer of sweat again. He rinsed his mouth out, wishing he hadn't eaten those eggs for breakfast, and cleaned his face, finding the ice cold less refreshing then he'd hoped.

"What is wrong with me?" he demanded of the running water. He saw things like that all the time, but never directly. It was always from the corner of his eye, brief, and less vivid; a flash, almost, a post-cognitive vision. He'd ignore them, hocking them up to nothing more than figments of his imagination. But he could make out every detail of that dead boy outside. Every little droplet of blood, every little crinkle in the clothes, every cut in the flesh. And he could feel it. Not a small, intuitive, gut feeling; but rather, an overpowering, overwhelming, gut wrenching feeling. He could almost picture the boy flailing from the top of the school roof to the ground below. Could almost hear the whistle of the wind as it rushed by the boy's face, the blood curdling scream. That boy had died there at some time past. Twister shuddered. Alas, for that knowing.

And those voices. Voices without bodies. Hearing voices, isn't that a sign of insanity, Twister thought in panic. He'd never heard voices before. They couldn't be…not possibly…ghosts? There was a lurching in Twister's stomach, and he cringed, tasting bile in the back of his throat. He needed to lay down, needed to cool off. He felt as though he were in a sauna, the heat was immense. His throat was dry, and he slumped to the tile floor. The bell rang for second period. He wasn't going to make it to his next class. He could tell that much already. He wondered if he was even going to be well enough for the campout that night. But he had to go. He couldn't exactly tell his friends he was seeing and hearing things that nobody else was, could he?


END A/N: What could it all mean? Mysterious voices and dead images? Poor Twister...I love him, I really do...I just love torturing him more. Maybe I have a Lars' complex...maybe I just find vulnerable (and often times bandaged and bloody) guys sexy (and yes, that may just be a hint of things to come). HAHAHAHAHA! Maybe I'm jsut a sadist.

Let's recap what we discovered in this chapter: It's revealed that Twister's always had a little offish perception of the world. He could see things, but only from the corner of his eye (not looking directly at it), that others couldn't. Pretty gruesome things. And he could sometimes tell if, inthe place he was at, somebody hadever died there It's just a foreboding feeling he has. Now, his insight is apparently getting a little stronger. Or is he just going crazy? Also, Sandyseems a little worried about him hearing ghost stories and camping out at night. Is it just her mothering or is there more of a reason behind it?

The world may never know. Until I update, that is.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. But, you know, I'd rest easier at night if you all REVIEWed and told me that you enjoyed it...or not, whichever you decide.

Now, please excuse any grammatical and typing errors. YAY! I don't have to work tomorrow..or...it's today, now. I have three days off in a row! Bet you guys can guess what I'll be spending most of those three days doing! Well, one of those days I have to go deal with my class stuff...but anyhoo...the rest of the time I'll mostly be making your wishes and hopes and lustful dreams come true...er...or just updating my fanfics. That could've gotten weirder if I continued on that same path, huh?

Next on my to-do list: The Legend of Bandit chapter 2; A Dim Light in the Dark chapter 4! And maybe Killing the Daisies, skip ahead to end of chapter 10...I need motivation!

Er...THANKS FOR READING (especially if you read that whole A/N, now that's dedication...)

This story is also slightly inspired by: Yami no Matsuei (Descendants of Darkness for you dubbies...) as of yet, non-shonen ai graphic novel...though I would love a tsuzuki/hisoka pairing...erm...sorry..., The Demon Ororon (non-shonen ai graphic novel, and let's keep it that way), Tithe book by Holly Black, and OH, OH, Lumen Lunae (definite shonen-ai, and hot stuff! You want gruesome...)

Anyways...an ending note: All dressed down and no place to slack. I don't cry when my dog runs away, I don't get angry at the bills I have to pay, I did get angry when my mom smokes pot, hits the bottle and goes right to the rock...fuckin' and fightin', it's all the same...

I have a co-worker who will listen to KISS and listen to Rolling Stones; but won't listen to Sublime because of the drug reference in the song, "I smoke two joints in the morning, I smoke two joints at night...I smoke two joints in the afternoon, it makes me feel alright..." He looked confused when I told him he was an idiot. Just a little tidbit. I'm sorry, I'M GONE! I talk too much, and surprisingly, little at all. I seriously need a blog.