I should never have kissed Miranda Adams.

I was...beguiled by her shoulder length mane of silky black curls and her pale white skin that was not so much sickly but radiant.

I was entranced by the way that she moved, always closer to gliding than walking. The way she spoke, lilting, florid and archaic: she didn't 'LOL' she 'tittered'. She was not beautiful, she was fair.

We didn't meet at school. As far as I knew, she didn't go. Nor through other friends. To be honest I don't know who she was acquainted with. We met in the cornfields adjacent to my house and Mr. Curtis's barn.

I was strolling through those innumerable green shoots, making my way home from school, the day I saw her standing there. The wind pulled on her flowing yellow dress and black curly locks. She looked like a siren of the cornfield. It could have been out of a book.

I felt myself pulled toward her as if by invisible force until I stood right behind her. She turned in graceful slow motion and looked upon me. A demure smile spread upon her face. I stood frozen and silent for several seconds until she finally spoke.

"Hello, I'm Miranda Adams," she said looking straight into me with light green verdant eyes.

"Unless you have a name, I suppose I shall just call you boy," she said after more seconds of my awkward frozen silence.

That first day we sat amongst the cornstalks and talked. Well more like I stumbled over words and listened. She talked of books: Vernes, Poe, Carroll. I spoke of King and Crichton, both of whom she had never heard of.

She grabbed my hand to silence me after 25 boring minutes of explaining 'Christine' and together we ran through the endless maize rows like two children at recess.

As the sun set in the middle of our third game of "find me" she disappeared. Distant echoes of laughter were the last trace she left that day. But I found her amongst the corn on the next one, and each day thereafter for three blissful weeks.

I was in love and when she took my hand each day, an unexplainable warmth shot through me. In the second week I made to kiss her, but she turned her cheek.

"You really mustn't do that," she said before collecting the hem of her dress and running off into the fields. I was crestfallen, yet...she was there again the next day, waiting for me.

Thinking back, based on her subsequent actions and disappearance I can only come to one conclusion: Miranda Adams had a genuine and real affection for me. Enough to try to keep me at a distance but not enough to stay away.

On the third week I noticed a change. Her complexion was less radiant and more pallid. Her grace gave way to a stiltedness. And yet she was still beyond fair in my eyes. She began to cough frequently into a handkerchief, and we were no longer running carefree through the fields. Instead we would sit side by side and talk. We would talk about my school which interested her very much. She told me that when she went to school such insolence would not be permitted by the schoolmasters.

Though she had a world of things to talk about in regard to music I've never heard of (she must have been the only girl in Ohio who didn't know the Fab Four), books I've never read and historical events I that I had never paid attention to in class, she spoke very little about herself. All I knew was she came from Massachusetts and that her parents had died 'quite some time ago'.

Friday, July 12 was the last day I saw her. When I ran up to her there was only sadness in her strange black flecked green eyes. I held her for hours, she was cool to the touch. When at last she got up, the sun setting behind us, I was unable to contain myself. I brought my lips to hers. Her eyes flashed wide, black speckles darting across her iris. The kiss was intoxicating, unlike any other kiss I had had before, reminiscent to that warm feeling that runs down your body when you quickly drink a tumbler of high-proof alcohol. What she did next, I didn't see coming. She wrenched herself from my grasp as quickly as she could, keeled over and vomited.

"I told you that you mustn't!" she screamed before she gathered herself. She gave me one last look, a mix of angry reproachment, worry and sadness, then sprinted off into the endless rows of corn and out of my life. I felt empty in that moment staring off into the direction she had run. After a minute or two I turned around ready to make my walk back home.

Before I started, however, my attention was seized by the sound of plopping noises. It came from where she had wretched. What I saw was horrific. A bubbling black mass of goolike tar. It seemed to be moving as the sable bubbles expanded and popped. Inching its way in my direction. I ran home straight away.

But even that was not enough to keep me away the next day. She wasn't there...and neither was the black mass. I have not seen her since that day. She did impart something to me though, a piece of her. I have noticed little black flecks in my eyes and have begun to feel, a bit ill, like there is something inside me...something that I need to expel.

I miss her very much and not a day goes by that I don't think of her. But I'm beginning to feel like I really shouldn't have kissed Miranda Adams.

Written by JamesMoniker
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