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Riley told her to quite fidgeting for about the hundredth time, but she just couldn’t help it. What if someone who knew her walked in? What if someone recognized her name? What if everyone laughed at her?

“Relax Buffy, I’m fairly certain most of these guys could make William MacGonagall sound good.”

She was pretty sure that was supposed to make her feel better. If she had any clue who William MacGonagall was, it might help. However, as each person stepped up to the microphone and recited their poetry, she thought maybe she understood. At least a little. Some of the stuff was pretty ok. She’d dabbled in reading poetry back in high school. Angel had even given her a book of love sonnets after he caught her reading Brontë.

The more people got up and read, the more Buffy began to feel that maybe she could do this. She made another scan of the crowd, just to check for the fortieth time, or so, that she didn’t recognize anyone. Riley had kept pointing out how accepting the crowd was of each poet’s efforts. Even the really bad ones were getting cheers and encouragement. Not as much as the good ones, but it was something. The herd of waiting performers were beginning to get a bit thin. It was now or never.

Oh God, what if she forgot the lines? A little voice inside reminded her that the lines were inside her, and had been for a long time. There was no such thing as forgetting an integral part of yourself.

Riley gave her hand an encouraging squeeze as she slowly stood and made her way toward the stage, as the emcee issued a call for any else that wanted to speak, because they still had a few slots left. Don’t look back. Don’t look around. Don’t look back. Don’t look around. She walked up to the emcee and leaned in to give him her name and information. Her hands had gone as cold as ice, so why were they sweaty? He nodded and took the stage.

“Alright folks, settle down. We’ve got a pleasant surprise for you. Now, this is her first time with us here, so please, everyone give it up for the brave new voice of Annie Winters!”

Buffy slowly crept up the steps, and made her way to the microphone. The lights pointing at the stage were bright and slightly hurt her eyes, that had long adjusted to the dark interior of the bar. She found that slightly comforting, because it kept her from seeing the faces of all the people who were now all probably staring at her.

She took a deep breath. Then another. She closed her eyes, trying to see the words on the page she’d written. Until that little voice crept up again. No, don’t see it… feel it. Feel the words, Buffy. You can do this. One more breath, and she began to speak.

A sea of raw emotion
screaming, boiling, churning, rolling,
beating, pleading, needing to be set free.
Partially hidden behind a wall of opaque glass
Only the smallest hint escapes through tiny cracks,
desperately pounding, rushing, trying to escape.
But the cracks always seal over;
and the glass becomes thicker
emotions harder to express.
Another self stares through these eyes,
beating useless fists against the glass wall,
desiring to touch the outside flame of true existance
not this hidden life that others-
cannot fathom of its greatest depths:
full to exploding,
yet ceaseless void.
It wants to destroy the wall-
the one so tired of holding back the tide-
but, the wall will not crumble
no matter how willing to do so.
The storm rages and beats against it
and yet it only briefly falters;
it was built to last forever,
to withstand the greatest devastation,
and every time the storm tide carves a hole
it is self-repairing
automatic
unstoppable
against its own will.
For I made this wall so perfect,
this prison so complete;
no hope of ever escaping,
My soul shall never be
free.

She exhaled, the words finally having finished flowing from her. She’d done it. And now, the silence was deafening. She turned to leave, when suddenly she heard a roar. It startled her. What was… who… it was the crowd. And they were cheering… for her? For her! Her hand came up to her mouth, to stifle the cry before it could escape. Not knowing what else to do, she gave a little bow and a wave, and left the stage as quickly as her legs would carry her, beating a quick path back to Riley and their little table in the back.

She collapsed into her chair, her knees giving out as she reached it, and flopped her forehead down on the tabletop. She felt Riley’s strong hand between her shoulders, and was grateful for the support. After a few more breaths, she regained her composure and sat up to see Riley’s goofy smile shining brightly at her in all its 100 watt glory.

“So how do you feel?” He asked

“Now that the whole wanting to vomit has subsided?” She asked. “Oddly, I don’t know, is buzzing a feeling?”

He laughed a second before stifling it. “See! I told you, this could be exactly what you need.”

“I don’t know. Once is one thing… more than that….”

“Alright folk, we have one more for you, tonight, unless anyone else wants to take our last spot. He’s a semi-regular folks, so you know the drill... What’s that?... Oh, even better. This is highly unusual, as we don’t get many in our little joint who are willing, but it’s my understanding he going wing it this evening! Give it up for William the Bloody!”

Buffy decided that was probably a good time to leave. She’d done what she came to do and satisfied Riley’s strange request. She gave Riley a nod of her head towards the door, and he seemed to take the hint. They got up and started to make their way towards the exit. They’d only made it steps when the poem started.

The Slayer

No. God please no. Her body froze instantly and her eyes closed of their own volition as the words washed over her.

She walks with heroes, cloaked
in the darkness of the soul.
Her heart wrapped around her, engulfing
her in invisible armor.
Vampires born of blood and relishing violence, are
reduced to so much dust in the wind.
Monsters feasting on the flesh of the young, hands covered in slime,
are left in a heap, broken and bleeding.
Even those who fancy themselves hell gods in the guise of human beings,
will be locked away in prisons, until their rotting hearts cease to beat.
And monsters of the human kind, having fortified themselves with
the first and oldest evil of misogyny and base bragging, of stones
will be cleaved from stem to stern and all points north,
the two halves no longer part of the whole.
Even death itself, having
kissed her countenance more times than I can count,
attempted to make her it’s imperfect lover, lost
its grip, as she forges forward, day by day
She walks with heroes, cloaked
in armor bearing scars that serve to strengthen, and
shine, building the perfect armor, fitting
like a second skin, her heart and soul better and brighter than fire.
To us, she may appear a tiny slip of a woman,
the one girl in all the world, she
alone with the strength to stand, against
the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.
She is the one
The one thing that I’ve ever been sure of.
The Chosen One,
The Slayer.





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