"He smiled, not sadly, as her eyes slid slowly and heavily shut. "I love you" he said. The words held a gentle finality. She sighed in release as she was finally freed from her body, soaring upwards towards the clear blue skies, removed at last from the wearying task of life and being human.

At the edge of a field a small girl watched in silence as he buried her, laying down each handful of dirt tenderly, and kissing her final resting spot goodbye as he picked up the small bag and trudged on his way once more. When he was gone and the sun set red and angry in the west she nervously scuttled out to the grave and laid a single acorn on the bare ground, before running back off to the forest to hide. Over the years the plant bloomed, and passers by marvelled at the beauty of the grown tree. The girl, the man and the dead woman were forgotten."

Trilliny sat back and gazed at the cursor on the computer screen, flicking silently to itself, completely unaware that its task for the day was nearly done. As an afterthought, she placed her fingers lightly on the keyboard, and tapped out the words 'By Trilliny Rowan' at the bottom of the page, then paused, hit save, enter, print, enter, and leaned back into the familiar cushioned comfort of her well loved chair.

The printer whirred into life clacking its little ink pads against the clean white of the paper. Trilliny regarded the small black letters on the screen that formed her name. Such a hated name, for so many years. At school the children used to taunt her for her name. They said it sounded like a fairy name, made of bells and trees, and was she too good to be like the rest of them?

She had come to the realisation eventually that they were jealous of it, each little child wanting their name to sound like they belonged to a fantasy world. The taunting had still done the damage it was aimed for at the time though. The young girl Miss Rowan had been had been hurt so many times, it took years to help herself heal.

As the printer deposited the last page Trilliny gathered them up and pushed a paper clip onto the top left hand corner, before rather ungraciously dumping it on the keyboard of the now sleeping computer. She whisked out of the study-come-bedroom determinedly and took a few steps down the dark narrow hall until she came to the bathroom door.

Pushing it open let the light enter and reflect off the cool tiled walls drearily. Her apartment was a sorry affair. Three rooms and carpet mould, at 20 dollars a week. It was all she could afford, a street kid who had received some education simply because the schools around her area would take anybody in the hope that one day they would become somebody and the world would be alerted the their education system. Of course it would never happen, Trilliny concluded to herself, but everyone's allowed to dream and hope a little surely? Even school councils.

She looked at the face in the mirror. The face of a girl who had woken up in the street at the approximate age of 5 with no money, no memory, a name tag pinned to her only clothes (those she was wearing) and the gift of gab. Her thoughts she had never been able to control, they ran wildly through her head, causing destruction wherever they went, but giving her the art of storytelling, on the rare occasions when she could formulate them. Sometimes she thought that it was all that had kept her alive. Earning a meagre dollar or two for telling stories near out door cafes, public parks- the small change of rich folk had bought her just enough food to keep from shriveling away to dust.

Turning on the taps, she wished that the price of hot water would allow her to take her shower scalding, as she liked it. With my income, I can barely afford for it to be tepid. The thought was bitter with broken childhood wishes recently revived by her writing. She scowled, shaking the nonsense away from herself. She had done well, she was alive, with a home of sorts.

The face in the mirror, (which was small and had cracked glass she noticed) scowled back at her. The hair was knotted and greasy, but when brushed well it could be fine and silky as a cobweb, and glow with a warm brightness akin to burnished copper. When brushed well. When brushed well. She never brushed it well. She barely brushed it at all. In fact, she realised with surprise, she hadn't brushed it in months. She didn't even have a hairbrush, she simply had no money for that kind of thing, and her old one had lost all its teeth long ago.

As she stepped into the unpleasantly cold shower, she wondered vaguely if a fork would do the job. Trilliny shook her head. She wondered sometimes if she were going crazy. Certainly the world was crazy enough without her doing so, but one could never tell. She washed her hair (without shampoo) and let the water carry the dust and grease out of it, the soft patter of droplets comforting after a day or writing. Solid writing, and no food. She hadn't any.

The computer had taken years to save for, and even then it was a fairly pathetic one. Old as any computer had a right to be, and she must be at least its sixth owner. Since then, she had had nearly no money, but it was paying off. She was writing more stories now than ever, and each one gave her another few hundred to live on. She would never sell to so many magazines if she was still writing by hand. Tomorrow she would sell a story to some typical tabloid, or maybe if she was lucky a classier womens magazine, and then she would have food again.

She opened her eyes then, after washing her face with the water (but no soap) and looked through the grimy shower glass at her tiny bathroom with a sink, shower and toilet. In front of the sink was a small ragged towel, a pair of worn leather sandals and a loose cotton dress piled messily to take up less space.

As her gaze re-adjusted, focusing on herself in the shower, the world unexpectedly seemed to spin, and to Trilliny, lonely and getting goosebumpy in the shower, it seemed for a frightful moment that it was blood dripping from her now clean hair to run down her arms and legs and belly instead of water. Hastily she turned the water off and jumped out, rubbing herself almost viciously with the little towel as if to scrub off something evil, but she saw that there was nothing there but clean wet skin.

Shaking, she dressed hurriedly and returned to her bedroom-come-study, dropping into bed and closing her eyes, trying earnestly to fall asleep as soon as possible. She had had no dinner, her stomach was growling. She wished she could get up and write some more, but the cost of more electricity than it took to run the computer all day for her writing was more than she could afford. As soon as the sun went down each day, she turned off the printer and computer, took a brief shower and went to sleep. She woke with the sun and worked again until lunch. Trilliny rowan rarely ate more than once a day.

Next day she gathered the papers from yesterdays work and read it through again while she ate her lunch. It was not a particularly interesting lunch, but then, Trilliny's meals rarely were. A small stale bread roll, and a tomato. It was getting a bit soft and overripe, so she had decided to eat the whole thing rather than half as she usually would. It was more than she sometimes had to eat, so she was not unhappy to eat it.

When she finished, she walked to a small shelf on the other side of the room (her kitchen was also her sitting room, it was the third room in her house) and took the lid off a small, dirty terracotta pot with a crack down the side. Inside was her money. 40 dollars in an envelope (that was to pay her next two weeks rent, so she could not spend that) 5 dollars for food, and two 1 dollar coins lay in the bottom, to catch the bus down into the main city so she could sell her new story. She took it all out except for one of the dollar coins.

With the money in her pocket and the papers under her arm, she slipped out her front door, (having to force the door closed because the frame was ill- fit) and locked it. She walked down the hall to the fire escape. This was the only way to leave the building, as the owners of the apartment were too cheap to maintain the lift.

As she stepped out onto the rickety, creaking metal her heart lurched. It was by no means a safe structure, but there was nothing she could do about it. Shrugging away her fears she stepped lightly down the stairs and was soon at the bottom. From here, it was a 5 block walk to the bus stop. Nobody bothered her, she looked too poor, and indeed she was, though 46 dollars would quickly have been snatched up by the thugs that roamed around, had they known she had it.

By the time she reached the bus stop it was about 2 o'clock, though she could not be sure as she had no watch either. She waited 20 minutes for the bus, a rusty, creaky contraption- which was still able to run only by some miracle of god- who's seat cushions were now practically non-existent. The bus driver grubbily snatched her dollar, and gave her in return the thin slip of paper that was her daily ticket.

After an uncomfortable, lurching 15 minute ride the doors wheezed open. The city here looked much more respectable, and such a weary old bus had no place here. Trilliny would therefore have to catch another one to take her into the industrial area of the city. This time, a much shinier bus picked her up and, after a brief look at her ticket, the driver waved her to take a seat. This time they had cushions.

People looked at her, curious as to what such a dirty little girl (though in fact she was now nearly 25) was doing on their middle-class bus. People often looked at Trilliny, when she came down into the city. A young man, probably in university studying for some kind of executive job, tried to make a pass at her, but when she turned her wide grey eyes on him, some inner spark must have warned him to leave her alone. Which was wise for him, because she was certainly well able to defend herself.

She smiled inwardly to herself at the thought that, though she was so dirty and in a near skeletal state, she was still considered attractive. Of course, she knew very well that this could be a problem in her area, but then... She sighed, not necessarily unhappily, she was just tired. Trilliny knew that in her area, those who did not fight did not often live. You had to fight in some way or another. Fight the people, often your neighbours, fight the dogs that came out of the alleys hungry and half mad, fight death itself most likely.

Despite this it was easy to escape being attacked or dragged off. People learned to watch out, to notice who went past, and how they walked. They knew she could fight. So, she almost never got bothered, unless some poor boy somehow found enough money to get drunk. They often ended up with less teeth after that. Trilliny counted herself lucky. The sounds of girls her age and younger sobbing at night were heartbreaking, but she knew it could just as easily have been her.

Shaking her head to clear these thoughts, she stepped off the bus onto the grey, uncaring concrete. She stared up at the massive building in front of her. A publishing company. On the top floor she knew there were budding authors being milked by money hungry agents for more and more stories. How she wished she could publish a novel. Setting her shoulders straight and resigning herself to the unfriendly welcome she knew she would find inside, she pushed open the heavy wooden doors and entered the cool interior of the grey, uncaring building.

Maybe this time they'd give her a chance.

***************

They accepted her magazine fiction, of course. Four hundred fifty, this time. That was pure luck, and a good streak of it too. The cheap romances and mysteries that could be no more than 12 pages long were annoying but easy to write.

She put the money in her shoe. The ladies at the reception recognised a girl from the back streets when they saw one. They gave her cash, not bothering to ask if she wanted a cheque. It was a much smaller payment than the company usually made at any rate. The elevator pinged electronically.

The floors above were for authors, and publishers who dealt with authors. She had made an appointment from a phone booth. As soon as she walked into the office, her heart sank. The man behind the desk had not expected a street girl. Her name was Trilliny. He expected a rich artist. He wore the expression of one who thinks they are irrevocably superior.

"Yes miss?"

"I'd like to have my novel published. I'm interested in how much this company would be willing to pay for it"

Her business voice made him reconsider a few degrees, but nonetheless, he raised one eyebrow as if to say 'we shall see'. He held one hand out to take the manuscript. She put it on the desk and slid it towards him, not bothering to sit down.

"I think not"

He had only flicked through the pages, reading- no, skimming- snippets here and there. Her eyes flashed with rage. He wasn't even going to read it!

"Sir, I'd only request that you take another look at it, it-"

"Thankyou, but no thankyou. This company has very high.. standards"

Her look of disbelief at his insults made the air tangibly bitter. The young Miss Rowan, with her hair attempting to look well kept, couldn't believe her ears.

"But, sir..."

"No, Miss Rowan. Thankyou for your time"

He dropped the manuscript into her open, shock numbed hands, and opened the door for her. She stood up, almost quivering with rage and surprise. Did all people set so much store by looks? As she left, she turned back to him, this awful little business man, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Thankyou, your majesty, for your time. You have no idea how much it means to one to have his grace take notice of a mere peasant. One is most grateful for the great gift you have bestowed on one"

She swept a mocking bow, and turned away, eyes clouding as soon as she was sure he could no longer see her face. Behind her she heard the door closing. She half jogged over to the elevator, and crashed into a man who was right in front of her, but she hadn't seen for the tears. Her gasp was half a sob in face of her recent dismissal.

Two large hands caught her shoulders and she looked up, glaring daggers through her tears into the face of a handsome middle aged man with grey at his temples. His suit was dark blue, and his tie was silver. She almost snarled the words out.

"I would thank you, sir, to let me go. I'd wish to be on my way, if it's all the same with you"

He blinked a moment, and then laughed.

"Calm down tiger. I just want a word"

His voice was patronising, but yet it seemed like that was purposeful. She held her head proudly and twisted backwards out of his grip. Hugging the manuscript tightly to her, she did her best to act superior.

"Yes?"

His accent on the next word was heavy

"One would just like to compliment your grace on her acting skills. One is very impressed"

She reached up and slapped him. She didn't know him, there would be no repercussions. He seemed surprised, but not hurt.

"I don't need that from you. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? I've just had my story knocked back without it even being looked at, simply because I'm poor. I don't need rich trash mocking me"

He only shook his head slowly.

"But my dear, I am not mocking you in the least. I know these publishing types. I was here, in fact, looking for a story that might make a good script. Instead, I think I've found a leading actress"

The look of disgust on her face showed her hurt just as well, and she turned away, ignoring him, walked across the room and pressed the button for the elevator. Presently he came up behind her again.

"Sorry miss? I was not joking. Can I buy you lunch, and perhaps discuss this through a bit more"

"What? Buy me lunch so you can talk me into acting a part that doesn't exist? I think not"

She wanted to accept. She needed a good meal, and couldn't afford one. But she couldn't bare to sit there and be mocked.

"Pardon? I did not say I had no story in mind"

"What story then, pray tell? I might be poor, but the library is free for all public"

"Why, that one just there, under your arm"

She whirled around in disbelief, face twisted in anger.

"Goodbye, sir"

She stepped into the lift and shut the door on him, leaning against the wall and crying softly to herself. The mockery caused too much stress. She'd had all her hopes set on getting this novel published. There was no one in the lift with her, and she intended on keeping it that way, so she repeatedly shut the doors as they opened for passengers on each floor. When she reached the lobby, she ran out, ignoring the stares, and collapsed against a light pole, crying in the middle of the street.

A car drove by and honked its horn, passenger shouting curses and telling her to get back where she belonged as the driver sneered. She didn't care. She rubbed the tear tracks off her cheeks with the hand that was manuscript- free, and fumed at herself for getting so upset. At least she had the money from the short story.

A hand reached forwards and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief corner. She slapped it away, and turned back full of rage to the man who had mocked her outside the publishers office.

"You! Leave me alone! If you want a pretty girl, go look elsewhere! I'm not cheap, I've got my own honour!"

She whirled around, ready to run if necessary, but he already had his hand around her wrist, too strong for her to break. He twisted her arm on an uncomfortable angle until she stopped trying to run, and then let go.

"I don't appreciate your manners or assumptions, but you're only redisplaying for me the spark which I noticed in you before. I was quite serious. Let me buy you lunch, and let me read your story. I'll get it published for you, if its any good. And then I'll make it into a movie, and you'll star in it"

She hesitated. Was he serious? And there was the underlying challenge of whether her story was good enough, which she was sure he was aware of. From here she could go either way. She chose to stand straight, put her hand out and said

"Trilliny Rowan"

He smiled, dipped his head in acknowledgment and shook her hand.

"Arthur Clayton. Delightful to meet you"